I pace the floor as I wait to be connected to the right person. The woman who left the message was from the emergency department, but she was in with a patient and no one could tell me anything about my mother, other than she’d been transferred. She put me on hold for another person in the Cath Lab, but when the call was picked up, it was by the unit secretary who came on the line, asked the name of the patient I wanted to speak with, and promptly told me Momma was no longer down there.

After she made some noises as she searched for my mother’s location, she finally said, “Hold please. I’ll transfer you to cardiac intensive care.”

The line went quiet as the words exploded in my head.

Cardiac intensive care?

My pulse was racing by the time I heard another voice. “CICU. This is Pam.”

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Brinkley Sommers and I received a call earlier about my mother, Katherine Peterson.”

“Peterson, Peterson. Let me check her chart. Hold on for me just a second.” I could hear papers rustling, so at least she didn’t put me on real hold. I might’ve climbed through the phone and strangled someone. I wouldn’t even be making calls if I had any idea where to find Momma at the hospital. I’d just have driven straight there. “Can you confirm her date of birth please?”

I do.

“And can you give me your full name and relationship to the patient?”

I do that as well, even though I’ve already established both of those things. I try not to be snappish, reminding myself that she’s just doing her job.

“Thank you. I’m your mother’s nurse, Pam. Her emergency contact was listed as Alton Peterson, but since he’s passed, she gave your name and number as her next of kin.”

Next of kin? Oh, God!

My breath sticks in my throat. “Y-yes. I’m her daughter.”

“Ms. Sommers, your mother called emergency services when she started having chest pain this afternoon. She was brought by ambulance to the emergency room and they did a cardiac work-up. It showed signs of some damage to the heart muscle, so she was taken in for a cardiac catheterization this evening. She has a very serious left main blockage, and she’ll be going in for coronary bypass surgery first thing in the morning. I’m calling so that if you or another relative would like to come and stay with her, you have that opportunity before she goes in.”

I’m so stunned, my mind already so overwhelmed, that only bits and pieces of what she said register. They stick out like tall weeds in a field of yellow poppies.

Mother.

Cardiac.

Surgery.

Opportunity.

Although I can’t repeat much of what the nurse said, the gist of it hits home. And it’ll never be forgotten.

My mother is in trouble. And there’s a chance she won’t make it out alive.

I let the phone fall away from my ear for a second as I struggle to process this.

My mouth is dry and my brain slow to fire. “Is she…is she conscious? Is she awake?”

“Yes, she’s awake now. She’s in the Cardiac ICU if you want to come see her. Just buzz the door and check in at the nurses’ station.”

I look back at my daughter, sitting on the couch, watching me with great interest. She’s my child. Her health and wellbeing are my number one priority, even above my own. But somewhere close to her is my mother.

My mother.

I’ve loved her my whole life, even though at times I wondered if I also secretly hated her. She had crazy ideals, lived a life I could never get on board with, and she did things I would never do to my child.

But.

She’s my mother.

At the end of the day, no matter what, she’s the woman who gave me life, who raised me, who sacrificed for me. She’s the woman who, in her own way, tried to do what was best for me. Mostly. She’s my momma, and she could be dying.

I know enough about heart surgery to know it’s dangerous, even if necessary. There’s a laundry list of possible complications, not the least of which is that there’s a chance the heart won’t start back up. As with anything major like that, there are risks. Big ones.

Momma’s young and healthy, as far as I know, but there’s still a chance, no matter how great or small, that she won’t make it, that this could be my last opportunity to talk to her. And there are things I want to say.

“Ms. Sommers?”

It’s Pam, checking to see if I’m still on the line.

“I…I’m on my way.”

It’s almost the middle of the night and my child is here alone, but I have to go. I know that I can’t let my mother die not knowing for sure that I love her. That after everything, no matter what, I love her.

I hang up the phone as I walk on shaking legs to the sofa.

“What is it, Momma?” Celina’s eyes are wide. She knows it’s bad. But I don’t want to stress her any more than what she already is, so I make a point to be very calm as I tell her.

“Your grandmother has had a heart attack. She has to have surgery. In the morning. And I…I need to go see her. Just to…just to see her. Just in case.” I resist the urge to press a finger to my throbbing temple.

“Then we need to go.”

“No, honey, we don’t. The last thing you need is to pick up a bug at the hospital.”

“Momma, I’m in and out of the hospital all the time.”

“But that’s different. We don’t have a choice.”

“We don’t now either. This is my grandmother. I want to see her, too, especially if…if…”

She’s smart and perceptive. She knows what this could mean. And I can’t overlook what it could mean for Celina if I deprive her of this. She hasn’t known her grandmother very long, but I know she loves her already, and I don’t want to take this away from her, just in case the worst happens.

I sigh. Part of my brain is asking furiously if things can get any worse, but the other part is hushing it, because I know they can.

Things can always get worse.

“All right, but just to talk to her and then we’re coming straight back home. I’ll…I’ll go back in the morning, before they take her into surgery.”

“Just call my dad. I bet he’d let me stay with him.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not? He’s an adult, too.”

“I know he’s an adult, but…but…”

“But he’s not you.”

I want to deny it, but I can’t. “Is it so wrong that I’m protective of you?”

“No, but he’s my father, Momma. This is different.”

I close my eyes. I know she’s right. “I know. Yes, I’ll call him. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have you stay with him.”

It makes me feel a little better to see how excited Celina is about this. To her, it probably feels like a slumber party with her brand new best friend. And, even though I’m uneasy in some ways (mainly because I’m a control freak), I’m ecstatic to see her so happy. She needed some happy in her life.

I think we all do.

“Come on then. Help me find his number.”

We start toward Alton’s office. I feel sure my mother keeps a list of phone numbers, and surely Dane’s is among them since he owns the fields now.

“It’s probably in here,” Celina says, going straight to the Rolodex. And she’s right. It is.

Dane answers on the first ring.

“Were you asleep?”

That’s my first question. I don’t even think to tell him who’s calling. Luckily, I don’t need to.

“No. Is everything all right, Brinkley?”

I can hear that thread of unease in his voice. A phone call, late at night…that rarely ever means something good.

“Well, I’ve been better.”

Suddenly, I’m close to tears, but I keep a tight leash on my emotions. Celina doesn’t need to see me fall apart. She needs to see me strong and calm, so that’s what I’ll be. For her.

I fill him in, giving him the short version.

“Jesus,” Dane whispers. I know what he’s thinking. His own father died of a heart attack. I haven’t forgotten that, or forgotten to be terrified by that. Quickly, he adds, “What can I do?”

“Celina wants to see her, too, but she shouldn’t be staying the night up there. She needs her rest, and hospitals aren’t the cleanest places for her to be. Would you mind picking her up and keeping her for the night?”

It feels so strange to be asking Dane James, the boy I fell in love with at age twelve, to take care of our sick daughter while I stay with my sick mother. Whose life is this?

“Done. Whatever you need.”

“Give us, like, thirty minutes?”

“I’ll be there. What room is she in?”

“I don’t know. She’s in CICU. Just come there. We’ll figure out the rest.”

“Meet you there.”

I feel my chin start to wobble. “Thank you, Dane. I…I…”

“Brinkley, you don’t have to thank me. She’s my kid, too.”

“I know, but…”

I don’t know how to tell him how much his love of Celina means to me, how much his help means to me. There just doesn’t seem to be words.

After a few seconds of me floundering, Dane cuts me loose, for which I’m grateful. “Go. I’ll see you soon.”

Celina and I are on our way out the door almost as soon as the phone is back in its cradle.

* * *

Just a few minutes later, we’re racing down a long hallway lined with walls the color of pale, old mustard. My eyes flick up to the signs that hang from the ceiling, spaced at each intersection and boasting blue letters and arrows. I turn right, following the arrow that points to CICU.

The hall empties out into a large, brightly-lit waiting room. It has low couches and matching chairs, set into groupings around the space. There are plants in giant clay pots and a bar with four coffee urns lined up like ducks in a row. Against one wall, there is a reception desk. It’s empty at this time of night. The only people here are those with weary faces and bleary eyes and more stress than they can handle. Otherwise they wouldn’t be here. Especially here.

I see a set of double doors across the room with a blue and white sign on the left one that reads EMPLOYEES ONLY. VISITORS MUST CHECK IN. There’s an arrow pointing to an intercom. Celina and I head that way, and I press the button.

A disembodied female voice comes on and asks how she can help me. I give her Momma’s name and my own, and she buzzes me in.

Going forward is like stepping from one world into another. The walls are a sterile white, the floors are a gleaming gray, and the voices are hushed to better hear the beeps and alarms that sound seemingly from every direction.

We stop at the nurses’ station, in front of a woman about my age with dark hair piled up on top of her head. She smiles at me and tucks her pen behind her ear.

“May I help you?” she asks.

“My name is Brinkley Sommers. I’m Katherine Peterson’s daughter. Are you Pam?”

“I am.” The woman stretches forth her hand and I take it. It’s cool and the grip is firm, inspiring confidence for some reason. “It’s nice to meet you, Brinkley. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Her expression shows sympathy, and it doesn’t appear feigned.

“Thank you. How’s she doing?”

“Well, she’s stable right now.” Then Pam starts to rattle off all kinds of medical stuff, something about her oxygen and her EKG and a sheath in her leg. She tells me about Momma’s blockages and mentions something about a widowmaker and how lucky we are that my mother has such great collateral circulation. “She’s a strong one, that’s for sure.”

I know she’s trying to be encouraging, but my mind just can’t take in any of what she’s saying, so I nod and I smile, and I ask, “Can we see her?”

“It’s after visiting hours, and only one of you can stay, but I’ll let you both go back, just for a few minutes.” She winks like she’s doing me a solid, which she probably is, and then points to a place behind me. “Room four.”

I turn to see my mother’s pale face, bathed in light from the window and nestled in among a mountain of pillows. Her eyes are closed, but I don’t need to see them to see that she looks nothing like the vital woman I’m used to seeing.

I walk toward her on a surreal wave, my feet gliding over the floor independently of my instruction. I step through the door and it’s considerably quieter, which seems odd since the room is glass on two sides. It does a great job of keeping out sound, though, and giving the patient some degree of peace.

I edge over to the bed and reach for her hand. My mother has never been a particularly touchy-feely person. Not a big hugger or hair petter, but I am. In fact, maybe that’s why I am all of those things—because she isn’t.

I stroke the back of her hand. It’s silky and doesn’t feel as old as it looks right now. I can’t feel the lines and cracks that I can see in her skin. I can’t feel her age, but I can see it. Now more than ever.

“Momma?” I keep my voice soft and calm as I shift my eyes to her face. It, too, is pale. Her mouth is drawn and the brackets around it are deeper than I’ve ever seen them. She’s a beautiful woman who takes great care of herself, but her body is fighting for life and it shows.

When she doesn’t respond, I say a bit louder, “Momma?”

Her lids flicker and she opens her eyes, rolling them toward the ceiling before looking right to where I am. When the usually cool green lights on me, it softens and I’m transported back to age six at my McDonald’s birthday party, and age nine when I had mono and she sat on the couch with me for an entire day. This is the woman I’ve loved since I was a baby.

“Brinkley.”

She isn’t questioning that I’m here. She’s relieved that I am. It paints her voice like the sun paints the sky at sunrise.

“I’m here, Momma. How are you feeling?”

Her lips curve as she attempts a smile. “I’m okay.”

“Doesn’t look like you are.”

“Well, I’ve seen better days.” Absent is the usual superiority that seems to constantly surround my mother. Life, age has stripped her down to the woman she used to be. The woman I loved with all my heart.

“And you’ll see even more.” I hope my words are accurate. Suddenly, the thought of losing her is overwhelmingly painful. This is all too real, too raw.

“I hope so.” She spots my daughter behind me and brightens considerably. “Celina! What are you doing here? You should be in bed.”

Smiling that smile that people smile when they want to be pleasant, but know it’s not quite right to be too cheerful, Celina steps around to the other side of the bed and takes my mother’s other hand. “I wanted to come and see you, Grandma.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you. How was your day?”

Celina launches into an animated recount of the day she spent with her father. She tells her grandmother all about the house and Frisbee, and how he cooked pizza on the grill and it was the best thing ever. To her credit, my mother doesn’t scowl one time. She just nods and smiles and gives her granddaughter her full attention. She, too, must be thinking this might be her last conversation with Celina.

Fifteen minutes later, Pam sticks her head in the door. “There’s someone here to see you. Out in the waiting room.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

It’s Dane, I’m sure.

I look to my mother. “Dane’s taking Celina home, but I’ll be right back, okay?”

She nods and Celina bends to kiss her cheek and tell her goodnight. I note that, and wonder if my mother does as well. She says goodnight, not goodbye.

I walk Celina back the way we came. As soon as we pass through the double doors that divide the two worlds, I see Dane standing in the center of the room. He’s so tall and seeing him somehow makes me feel better. Even though he isn’t here for me, the fact that he’s here at all is comforting. The one time we put everything else aside—fear, anger, societal rules, threats, life—was when one of us was in pain. And although his face isn’t filled with the love that it used to be, it’s not filled with the anger of late either. That’s progress. And he’s here.

I’ll take it.

“How’s she doing?” he asks when Celina and I make our way to him.

“She’s okay right now.”

He nods several times as I fight the urge to cry. Almost as though he can sense it, Dane grabs both my upper arms and bends enough to look me right in the eye. “Are you?”

I muster my most courageous, unaffected smile. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but I know he won’t argue in front of Celina.

“If anything happens, call me.”

“I will.”

No, I won’t. I won’t worry him or Celina unless it’s absolutely dire.

Like death kind of dire.

“I’ll take good care of her.”

I inhale slowly so that I don’t release the sob that’s lurking in my chest like a toad, hunkered down and ready to jump.

“I know.”

I hope it goes without saying that if I didn’t trust him to take care of her, I wouldn’t have asked. I wouldn’t let him take her to the elevators if I didn’t trust him, much less let him keep her overnight.

“Did you bring a bag or anything?” He directs his question to Celina.

She looks to me and I let my head drop back on my shoulders. “Shit.”

Celina answers, “No, we forgot to pack one.”

“It’s fine. Give me the key and I’ll run her by there first.”

I reach into my pocket for my keys, which thankfully aren’t in my purse back in Momma’s room. I slide the house key off the ring and hand it to Dane. When he takes it, he leaves his fingers pressed to mine until I look up.

“You worry about your mom. I’ve got this.”

I nod and stand to watch them go as Dane James leaves with my daughter.

With our daughter, I correct myself.

The thing is, she feels like she’s just mine. I know she’s not, and I’m thrilled he’s in her life now, but I birthed her. I raised her. I rocked her when she teethed, I held her when she was cried, I bandaged her up when she got hurt. She feels like mine and only mine, and it’s hard to watch her walk away knowing that she’s in someone else’s hands now.

But I do.

I make myself, because I know I have to.

Before they turn the corner, Celina turns back to me and blows me a kiss, calling just loudly enough for me to hear, “Love you, Momma.”

I catch her kiss, which is a rare gift from her. “Love you, too, honey.”

I wait until they’re out of sight before I burst into tears.

* * *

My mother notices my red eyes when I walk back into her room. I splashed cold water onto my face hoping to conceal it, but… If there is anyone who will notice your appearance immediately, it’s Katherine Peterson.

“You shouldn’t stay. You should go home and be with her. I told them not to bother you.”

“Momma, why would you do that?”

“She’s your little girl. She comes first.”

I can’t argue that, but it seems odd for my mother to be telling me that.

“She’s fine. I want to spend some time with you.”

“In case you don’t get another chance?”

Her question lands in my throat like a water buffalo, obstructing something as basic as swallowing and, for a second, even breathing.

I angle my head away and clear my throat as though there’s something in it before I turn back to my mother. “You’re gonna come through this just fine, Momma. Even the nurse said so. She said you’re lucky it happened this way, and that you’re strong. She even said you’re too stubborn to go like this.” I add a smile to the last.

“I am stubborn. You get that from me.”

I sigh. I don’t want to argue with her. Not now. Not like this. “There are worse things.”

Her eyes fill with tears and her bottom lip begins to quiver. “I wish I could’ve given you only good things, none of the bad. I hope you know that.”

“Momma, I—”

“Listen to me, Brinkley.” She raises her hand and clamps onto mine with a grip that’s surprisingly strong. Almost desperate. “I know I made mistakes with you. I know I did. Seeing you with Celina… I see it. I see how wrong I was. But I thought I loved him. I thought he was a good man and you were just being difficult. I didn’t really think you’d leave. Or that you’d stay gone. If I’d known, I…I never would’ve let you go. You’re my baby. Do you know that? Still, after all this time, you’re my baby.”

I’m stunned into silence as she begins to weep. My heart is breaking and I’m not sure why. This feels so…final. And I’m not ready to lose her yet. I thought there would be time. Time to make up, time to get to know each other again. Just time.

“Momma, I love you. I always have. That’s never changed. I know we didn’t always get along or see eye to eye, but I never stopped loving you. Not for one day in all my life.”

“I was so hurt when year after year went by and I didn’t hear from you. But I should’ve tried to find you. I should’ve protected you. I shouldn’t have let him run you off, Brinkley. I should’ve listened to you. You tried to tell me about him and I…I… Oh, God, I was so selfish!”

“It’s okay, Momma.”

“No, it’s not. I thought he was just drunk, but I should never have let that pass. It’s unforgivable.”

“It’s not, Momma. I won’t say that you didn’t make the wrong choice, and I won’t say that I wasn’t upset with you for a while, but it’s all in the past. He’s gone. There’s no reason to hold onto what he did.”

“But what about what I did?”

“It’s over. Let’s just—”

She’s determined not to let it go, though. She’s determined to say her piece and to make peace. Because in some corner of her mind, she thinks this might be it, too.

“Please forgive me. Please tell me we can be a family again. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. For us to be a family, and for you to be taken care of. When you came back, you gave me a reason to live. You and Celina. I hadn’t cooked in months until the day you showed up at my door. You always were my world; I was just terrible at showing you.”

She lays her head back and tears pour steadily down her ghostly cheeks. I feel a spike of panic. “I don’t need to forgive you, Momma. It’s already done. I did it a long time ago.”

And I did. Even though I still have moments of bitterness that creep up and wash through me, I’ve never stopped loving her. I forgave her the instant she chose him over me. Or at least within a few months. Because she’s my mother. I love her. And love is worth everything. Every risk. Every sacrifice. Every uncomfortable day that might lie ahead as she struggles to accept Dane in our life. I’d do it all for her. So that she can have the family she’s always wanted, and so that my daughter can have one, too.

“You don’t blame me?”

“The only thing I blame you for is making me strong.”

She sobs delicately, her fingers still gripping mine, and I bow my head to rest on our joined hands. I pray for God to heal her, to give her—give us all—another chance to do things right. For her. For Celina. For me, too. Maybe for us all.

Through the night, I sit holding Momma’s hand as she rests or chatting about light, happy things when she’s awake. It seems to soothe her, and it certainly soothes me. I fill her in on Celina’s life, which she gobbles up eagerly, and we reminisce about fun moments in our life before Shepherd’s Mill.

In our own way, we’re all preparing for the morning, for the moment when they’ll wheel her to the O.R. and we may or may not see her alive again.

When the sun breaks through the curtains and her appointed time approaches, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

It’s as I’m coming out of the waiting room bathroom that I see Dane and Celina speaking to the little old lady that has arrived in her red smock and crisp white shirt to man the waiting room reception desk. I didn’t expect them to come back, but I can’t deny the relief I feel at seeing them.

I start toward them, very much aware that I look like crap and feel even worse. I tried to clean up the best I could, but there’s not much I can do at this point. My hair is tangled, my eyes are red, and I’m pale as a ghost. I plaster on a bright smile, however, when Dane turns and spots me making my way to them. His eyes remain on mine as I approach.

“How you holding up?”

“I’m okay. What are you two doing back here?”

“She wanted to see her grandmother again. And I wanted to check on you.”

My heart flops over at that. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

Dane, still watching me, sighs. “Brinkley, I…” There’s a long pause and his eyes search mine. I know he wants to say something, but I’m not sure even he knows what that something is. After a few more seconds, I realize we’ll never know. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

I smile and nod and turn my attention to Celina, reaching out to tug one end of her hair. “Why can’t you wake up ugly like the rest of us?”

“Good genes, I guess.”

“Good answer.”

She holds up her hand for a fist bump and we grin at each other.

“How’s Grandma?”

“She’s doing okay. They’re supposed to be taking her back soon. Let’s hurry back so we don’t miss her.”

Since her scheduled time is nearing, the nurse lets all three of us go into Momma’s room. I’m a little concerned about Dane, but he seems to want to go, so I figure I should let him.

Momma is sitting up in bed, looking oddly fresh, which is crazy.

“You look good, Grandma,” Celina says as she approaches the bed.

“Thank you, Celina. You’re looking quite beautiful yourself this morning.” She sends a look in my direction and adds, “We have to give your mother a break. She hasn’t slept. She did the best she could.”

I roll my eyes, but I don’t take near the offense that I might have at one time. It seems that my mother and I have finally found a peaceful way forward. She’s who she is. I’m who I am. We’ll meet somewhere in the middle and try not to argue constantly. But there’s love between us. That much is clear.

I see Momma’s eyes flicker toward the door. To Dane.

“Come here,” she says to him, a bit of her imperious verve resurfacing.

I see the muscle along Dane’s jaw flex, but his expression doesn’t change as he steps into the small room and stops at the foot of my mother’s bed.

“Closer.”

I back away, leaving Celina closest to Momma and making room for Dane to approach her, which he does. His footsteps don’t falter and he doesn’t show the first bit of pause.

“I’m sorry,” she says hoarsely, her eyes filling up with tears again. “I know you love her, and I hope one day you can forgive me for my part in all this.”

I feel like I’m holding my breath, and like my heart is doing a tap dance on the head of a pin as I watch the scene unfold and I await Dane’s response.

I know the bitterness he carries. I know it because I’ve carried it, too. But he’s never been able to escape it. He’s lived his whole life under the unjust blanket of Shepherd’s Mill’s oppression. He probably has a reservoir of anger and resentment that’s years deep.

And yet, with a kindness that turns my stomach inside out, I watch Dane James, The One Who Stayed, bend close to my mother, smile down into her face, and tell her with as much sincerity as I’ve ever known him to display, “I have Celina. And I have Brinkley. There’s no room for hate. Not anymore.”

She starts to cry around her smile of gratitude and Dane steps away, leaving Celina to reach in and hug her grandmother, to give her comfort as though she isn’t equally sick. I think again that she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. But maybe my mother is just as strong. I’ve never seen her this way before. And maybe I can be as strong as the other two women in my life. Whatever the future holds, I know I’ll have to try.

“We need to clear the room. They’re here to transport Mrs. Peterson,” the nurse says from the doorway.

Dane and Momma nod at each other as he walks away, like they’ve reached a place of understanding. A truce. Then Celina leans in to give her a quick hug before it’s my turn.

I approach the bed, reaching down to brush a stray strand of blonde hair away from my mother’s youthfully beautiful if pale face. “So, we’ve missed a lot of years, but we’ll make up for them after you get out, k?”

My eyes fill with tears that I blink away. She smiles up at me and I know she knows what I’m saying. “We need to find you a better car, too.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. I bend to kiss my mother’s cheek, memorizing the way she smells and the way her hair tickles my nose. “Whatever you say, Momma.”

She takes my hand and gives my fingers a squeeze. That’s the only way I know how nervous, how afraid she is. Her hand is trembling.

And that breaks my heart.

Suddenly, I feel more afraid, and more determined to convince us both that she’s going to be fine. “Momma, come back to me. Promise?”

“I’ll do my best, honey.”

Honey.

She hasn’t called me many endearments in the last couple of decades. I miss them terribly.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Brinkley.”

And with that, they shoo me out and wheel my mother away to cut her chest open and repair her heart. If they can.

* * *

The hours pass slowly. So slowly. The volunteer brings us messages periodically to let us know what’s going on. They’ve begun the procedure. They’ve gotten her on the bypass machine. The surgery is going well. They’ve completed the procedure.

I pace. And between pacing I sit with Dane and my daughter until Celina starts to show her fatigue and I make Dane take her home. Then it’s just me, taking laps through the waiting room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Thoughts tumble through my head. Regrets. Things I wish I’d done differently, things I wish I’d said before I let them wheel her away. I hope she knew them all. I pray she did. But that doesn’t bring me any comfort. Only seeing her again, alive and well, will do that.

I get another message from the volunteer. They’re going to restart her heart. I would sigh in relief, but I know from my research that this step is crucial, and it’s the step where so many things can go wrong. I pray as I walk the circuit I’ve developed. In my mind, there’s a worn spot in the rug now, the trail I’ve carved in the name of Katherine Peterson.

Fifteen minutes go by. Then thirty. I go to the volunteer. “Any other word about Katherine Peterson?”

She flips through her messages and shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

I smile as best I can and hope that no news is good news.

Then an hour passes. Then an hour and a half. My heart rate is edging up and I feel constantly on the verge of tears. Something is wrong. She should be out by now.

I cover my trembling mouth with my hands and I pace, harder, faster, more furiously. I can’t lose her now, not when I’ve just gotten her back. We were supposed to have more time after this. Good years. Together. As a family. With Celina. And Dane. God, please don’t take her now. Not yet.

“Ms. Sommers?” the volunteer calls my name. I walk over to the desk, waiting with lungs full of air I can’t quite release.

“The doctor would like to speak with the family in conference room number three. Go through the main doors and it’s the third door on the left.”

“Is…is something wrong?” I can hardly get the words out.

The older woman smiles a sad smile. “I don’t know. That’s just what he wanted me to tell you. I’m sorry.”

I can’t swallow. Not at all. My mouth is dry and a sadness so big I can’t move past it is stuck in my throat.

I proceed to the conference room and there I wait. I wait for what seems like an age before a man in green surgical scrubs, the man I know to be the cardiothoracic surgeon, comes walking into the room. He closes the door behind him and I have to turn away. I can feel my face crumbling.

“So, she’s out. In her room. She did really well.”

I spin to face him. The surgeon goes on to talk about how he was able to use her mammary artery for the graft, but I don’t hear much of it. All I heard was the first part. She’s out. In her room. Did well.

I still burst into tears, but for a completely different reason. These are tears of joy, of relief, of a second chance, one I don’t intend to waste.