Later in the evening, once we’re back at our apartment, both thoroughly bathed and in pajamas, I throw together a quick dinner of chicken and rice casserole and join her on the living room floor amidst her favorite toys while it bakes. Startling me from our playtime, Jasmine Thompson begins to sing Sweet Child of Mine from the side pocket of my purse. I crawl on my knees over to the kitchen table and grab my phone, assuming it’s either my sister or my mom, who between the two of them comprise ninety-five percent of my phone calls, the other five percent being wrong numbers.
Needless to say, I’m more than surprised to see it’s Noah, one of my fellow graduate students, who’s calling. I remember the day several of us programmed each other’s numbers into our phones in case of an emergency, but this is the first time he, or anyone else for that matter, has called.
“Hello?” I answer hesitantly.
“Ummm, hello, is this Trystan?” an equally tentative male voice replies.
“Yes, this is she.”
“Hey, it’s Noah from the psych program. I hope this isn’t too late to call; I know you’ve got a little one.”
As if she heard him mention her, Aurora begins to let loose a high-pitched shrill while she bangs two toys together. She’s staring right at me, sees me talking on the phone, and does her best to make as much noise as possible, with a mischievous grin on her face the entire time.
“Yeah…no…it’s a fine time,” I finally blurt out. “Sorry about the background noise though.”
He laughs softly, and I can almost hear his shoulders relax over the phone. “No worries. Hey, uh, I was calling to ask you a favor. This weekend, I’m scheduled to do clinicals on Sunday from noon to midnight, but I just found out my brother is coming home from Afghanistan that afternoon and my mom is throwing a big party for him. I was wondering if you would be willing to trade shifts with me. I’d take your Tuesday day shift in return.”
My initial thought is, No way, Sunday nights are for Aurora,” but before I can even explain to him why I can’t, he continues talking. “I know this is last minute, and I promise I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. I can help you find a babysitter if you need me to. I just haven’t seen my brother in over two years, and this party is really important to my mom.”
The sincerity in his voice pulls at my heart strings, and I find myself saying, “Sure thing. I should be able to make arrangements for the baby.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” he shouts into the phone. “I owe you one…anything…anytime.”
“It’s really no problem, Noah. I hope you guys have a great time.”
After we hang up, I overlook the tiny twinge of guilt I feel over not spending a Sunday evening with Aurora, knowing I’ll make it up to her on Tuesday, and I’m doing a great thing for Noah and his family. I call Madison to make sure she can watch her Sunday evening instead of Tuesday morning, which of course, she has no problem with. Much to my surprise, she even tells me to leave her to spend the night Sunday, since I’d just be bringing her right back Monday morning for my nine o’clock class, claiming her girls will be over the moon to have their little cousin stay for a slumber party. I agree nervously, as I’ve never spent a night away from my baby girl—even on nights I bartend, I always pick her up—but I guess it’s bound to happen sometime. Plus, I’m pretty certain I’ll be exhausted after my shift anyway.
It’s not until the smoke alarm goes off that I remember the casserole in the oven…the now extremely burnt casserole. Carefully extracting the blackened dish and placing it on the stove top, I take one glance and whiff of what was supposed to be our healthy dinner and sigh with exasperation. The baby is crying, hungry, tired, and scared from the loud noise, so I leave the mess to cool down and do what every good mom does…
“Come on, baby girl; let’s go get some Happy Meals from McDonald’s.”
SEVEN HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE LONG DAYS.
Seven hundred and seventy-one lonely nights.
Seven hundred and seventy-one sunrises to remind me of the one who changed everything.
A little after five o’ clock, I awake from yet another night of restless sleep, no longer needing an alarm, my body now a well-trained machine. Shuffling my feet to the compact kitchen in my apartment, I throw frozen bananas, strawberries, and pineapple chunks into the blender with some orange juice and a scoop of yogurt, and flip the switch to ‘high’. Thirty seconds later, my frothy fruit shake is ready, the healthy alternative to what used to be a couple cups of black coffee. My stomach thanks me daily.
I grab my glass and stroll through the living room to the patio area—my morning sanctuary. Settling in my chair, I take a few minutes to drink in the view. The beach is still empty, as are the neighboring patios, and only the sound of waves crashing against the shore can be heard. The sliver of a moon still hangs high in the sky, but very soon, its faint light will be overpowered and concealed by the intense brightness of the sun.
As if she heard my thoughts, the fiery temptress lifts her head up over the horizon, a burst of bright colors shooting up announcing her arrival. I slowly sip my refreshing breakfast, my stare glued to the impressive vista as the memories come rolling in with the surf. Every day, without fail, I torture myself for these few minutes, allowing my mind to reminisce about the time I spent with Trystan, the time when I realized I wanted more from life than the one I was living. I wanted to love and to be loved unconditionally. I wanted someone—the same someone—to wake up with every morning, and to go to bed with each night. And I wanted a family to protect, support, and experience life with, but then I came home and remembered all the reasons why I couldn’t have those things.
I am a murderer.
I killed a man in cold blood.
And though my intentions for the act were honorable—at least in my mind—my life in exile is my punishment, devoid of any of the things she made me realize I truly want.
Going back for her has never been an option. I can’t live in the States, and I can’t ask someone I knew for two days to move to the other side of the world, especially now that she has a child. I’d give damn near anything for a chance to make it work, but with both of our situations, it just isn’t feasible, even though I still try to help from afar.
I’m left with visions of long blonde hair whipping in the breeze, the faint scent of coconut and lime swirling in my nose, the branding of bright emerald eyes onto my soul, and...sunrises. Inevitably, the dawn breaks each and every day, and inescapably, so does my heart.
The last of my drink slides down the back of my throat and I stand up, ready to face yet another day. Alone. Counting the hours until the next sunrise.
Seven hundred and seventy-two.
My love for photography has taken over my everyday life. At first it began as a hobby, simply an interest in the different techniques, how lighting could affect a picture, different aperture settings worked, etcetera. I now work free-lance for several travel magazines, shooting different resort areas in Europe, primarily tropical destinations nestled on the Adriatic, Mediterranean, and Aegean Seas, and I thoroughly enjoy every single minute of it.
Many of the editors appreciate my no-fuss work style. Being single, and without another form of employment, I’m almost always available at a moment’s notice. When they call, I hop on a plane, take some photos, and stay in a nice hotel all on their dime; not to mention, they pay me for the pictures. I almost feel guilty sometimes, taking the money for doing something I’d be doing anyway, but I push the feeling aside and invest all of my earnings for a ‘maybe someday’.
Today, I’m wrapping up edits from last week’s shoot in Tropea, which may be my favorite place I’ve traveled to thus far. Cozily nestled amongst high cliffs and majestic architecture, the powdery beaches offer the perfect warmth and texture for sun-bathers as the rather calm, teal water invites swimmers of all ages. Sifting through the set, I come across a heartrending image of a pregnant woman deep in thought as she sits cross-legged in the sand, staring out at the expan
sive sea. The fact I find myself shooting more expectant mothers and small children isn’t lost on me. Not a conscious act in the moment, I always end up with several of these sprinkled throughout.
I finish touching up the last couple of photos I’ve selected, save them, and then open my email to send them off. Once the task is complete, I do a quick sweep of messages in my inbox, deleting the vast majority of them; however, an email from Sarah Ellis last night, subject title: Please reply quickly, catches my eye. Clicking to open it, the distinct taste of panic develops rapidly in my mouth as I scan the contents. Several words leap off the screen and hammer straight into my chest, holding me hostage in the chair.
Boating accident...
Katrina and Lucca...
Critical condition...
I don’t move for nearly five minutes, allowing the information to fully sink in, but the minute it does, my mind and body kick into high gear. After a quick response to the email letting her know I’m on my way, booking airline tickets, and throwing clothes into a suitcase, I’m out the door within an hour.
My Katie-bug is going to be okay. She just has to be.
My flight touches down at Miami International Airport at half-past-seven in the morning, and after the slowest moving customs line in the world, I’m finally able to retrieve my bag and find a taxi. At nine-fifteen, I stride purposefully into Mount Sinai Medical Center—bag in tow—and follow the signs to ICU. My heart is beating so hard I may be admitted myself for cardiac arrest. The not-knowing is killing me.
Luckily, Christian and Sarah Ellis are both pacing the floor outside the closed entrance, a frenzied mixture of fear and hope evident across their faces. She sees me approaching first and comes running to me, as if we’ve known each other forever, throwing her arms around me in a tight hug as the tears flow freely down her face.
“Oh, Leo,” her body shudders with trepidation as she pulls back slowly, “I’m so glad you got here so fast. I didn’t know how else to get ahold of you.”
Mr. Ellis joins us, also greeting me with an emotional embrace, and even without knowing the full details, my heart aches for them.
“Thank you for letting me know so quickly. I dropped everything and got on the first flight I could,” I reply. “Tell me what’s going on. What happened, and how are they both now?”
Sarah wipes off her cheek with the tissue crumpled up in her hand as she begins to explain, “They went out on the boat Thursday morning, and from what we understand, there was a near collision. Lucca swerved to miss the other boat and they were both thrown from the vessel.” Her husband tenderly places his hands on her shoulders, pulling her back to lean against his chest. “Both were Life-Flighted here and admitted in critical but stable condition.”
“Have you been allowed to see them?” I interrupt.
They nod in unison. “Yes, but visiting hours in the ICU are very limited, so we’ve spent most of our time out here waiting for updates,” she explains.
“How are they now? Any improvements?”
“Both have regained consciousness for brief moments of time, but they’re keeping them sedated for now to help relieve the swelling on the brain they’re both suffering from. Lucca broke his clavicle, left arm, and left hip, but has no internal bleeding that they can tell. Katrina somehow didn’t have any bone fractures, with the exception of a hairline crack in her right foot. However, her spleen ruptured, causing a good amount of blood loss in her abdomen.”
I gasp audibly, my own body tensing with pain. She continues in a low voice, “They did immediate surgery to remove the spleen and clean her up; they’re still monitoring for additional hemorrhaging. Now, it’s just a waiting game—for both of them, as well as for all of us.”
“When can I see her?” I croak, the disbelief fading as reality settles in.
“Visiting hours are six-to-seven in the morning, noon-to-one in the afternoon, and nine-to-ten at night,” Christian answers as he consoles his distraught wife. “They try to set them up for family members to visit around their regular work schedules.”
I check my watch; it’s almost 10am. I still have two hours before I can see her with my own eyes…before I can do my own assessment of her condition. My stomach tightens into a firm knot, anxiety, dread, and hunger all fighting for my attention. “I’m going to go find a hotel, drop my bag off, shower, and grab a bite to eat,” I announce. “I’ll be back here in plenty of time for the next visitation.”
“You don’t need to get a hotel.” Sarah shakes her head in disagreement. “Stay with us, Leo; we’ve got more than enough room in our home.”
“Absolutely,” her husband confirms.
“I appreciate the offer, truly,” I say with a thin smile; their genuine kindheartedness has been apparent since the day I met them a little over two years ago, “but I want to stay close to the hospital, so I can travel back and forth at will. I’ll grab one of those just down the road I passed when arriving.”
She nods understandingly. “Before you go, let’s exchange numbers so we can keep in touch in case something happens here.”
Once that is taken care of, I leave the hospital in search of a place to call home for who knows how long. Jumping into a waiting taxi, I tell him to take me to a close but nice hotel, and he delivers. Twenty minutes later, I’m checked in at the Fountainebleau and stepping into a nice hot shower. Resting my head against the cool marble wall, I finally allow myself to break down. Infuriated tears bleed into the spray pummeling down on top of me, and I pray for the first time in over four years.
Please, God, don’t let her die. Take me instead.
BACK AT THE HOSPITAL, nearly an hour before I can see Katrina, I’m clean, changed, and fed, and I can’t stop moving. Nervous energy buzzes through me with a frantic madness. I pace up and down the hall outside where she lies battered, bruised, and broken, my eyes snapping up each and every time the door opens to the ICU. I need to see her.
The Ellis’ arrive about twenty minutes after me, their tormented expressions mimicking mine. Greeted once again with a hug, as if we didn’t leave each other only a couple of hours ago, Sarah is obviously struggling with the situation, and understandably so.
We attempt to make small talk about what’s happened since I was here for the wedding. I briefly tell them about the photography gig, they tell me about Katrina and Lucca’s new house, and the success they’ve found in their jobs. However, the minute a middle-aged doctor in pale blue scrubs walks out and says, “Mr. and Mrs. Ellis?” we all give him our full, undivided attention, the previous conversation a distant memory.
“You’ll be allowed in to see both of the patients in just a minute, but first, I want to update you on the morning’s progress,” he states with a serious tone. “Lucca is doing quite well. We brought him to this morning, as the swelling of the brain had reduced substantially, and we’re going to leave him conscious. His broken arm has been casted, and there’s not much we can do with his clavicle and hip bone except keep him stationary and relieve the pain. He was able to eat a soft lunch a bit ago and remains alert. He’ll remain in the hospital at least another four or five days, and assuming he continues to improve and the concussion symptoms disappear, he’ll be released for outpatient physical therapy.”
He stops to run his hands through his graying hair, contemplating his next words. “Katrina isn’t doing nearly as well. We did another scan this morning, and there’s still quite a bit of blood in the abdomen, meaning: there’s another source for the hemorrhaging. We’re doing everything we can to pinpoint the source, but we’re keeping her sedated for now. As soon as you are finished visiting her, we’ll be taking her back into exploratory surgery, and should have more answers afterwards.”
Turning his attention to me, he says, “And I assume you’re the brother Mr. and Mrs. Ellis told me would be coming from overseas, seeing as only family is permitted.” He lifts his brow, indicating he knows damn well I’m not anyone’s brother, but is allowing me to go in.
Not skipp
ing a beat, I nod with a grim smile. “Yes, Doctor. I just got in town this morning; I came as soon as I heard. Thank you for the update.”
He spins around and moves towards the large doors, pressing his fingertip on a pad to open the doors; we all follow close behind.
“Leo, you go ahead and go in to see Katrina. We’ll visit with Lucca a while and let him know you’re here,” Christian suggests. “Take as much time as you need, even if it’s the whole hour. We understand.”
They show me which room is hers, and with overwhelming trepidation, my heartbeat echoing loudly in my ears, I enter.
Sterile white. Everything.
Lots of machines. Even more tubes and wires.
Constant loud beeping. Dripping and clicking.
My Katie-bug.
Barely recognizable with all of the breathing machines and other shit strapped to her face, arms, and chest, she looks tiny and more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen her, but through all of the chaos, I see her. Instantaneously, a wave of relief washes over me. I’m not sure how I know, but I do. Without a doubt, she’s going to be okay.
I tread lightly over to the side of her bed, afraid I may bother her if I make too much noise, which I know is ridiculous. Taking a seat in the chair up by her head, I wait silently for several minutes, hoping somehow she’ll sense my presence and wake right up. But of course, that doesn’t happen, and I soon find myself telling her stories about when she was a little girl, and how I’d promised to take care of her when she was but two years old...the first day she said my name.
The hour is up before I know it—by far the fastest sixty minutes in the history of mankind. I kiss her forehead lightly and vow to be back tonight, tomorrow, and every day after until she’s recovered. I say another quick prayer asking God to watch over her during surgery, and I leave reluctantly, rejoining the Ellis’ in the waiting area.