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A few hours later, a nurse retrieved Riley from Ben’s bedside and took her to the intensive care unit. The ICU was similar to where Ben was resting, but the care was reserved for the hospital’s most fragile patients. Visiting hours and patient monitoring were more controlled, and the row of small, private rooms were eerily quiet apart from the soft beeps of medical devices.
Relief and hope swirled in Riley’s chest. I can’t wait to see her! A few days here and then she moves to the transplant recovery floor. Then, she’ll start to feel better—hopefully, cancer-free.
Holding her breath, Riley peeked into Maggie’s small, dimly lit ICU room.
Mom…?
All the questions in Riley’s head, the hunger in her belly—everything hit pause.
Her mother looked so tiny and pale.
The jolt drew tears to Riley’s eyes.
Tethered to several glowing monitors, Maggie slept in the middle of a web of cords, tubes, and cables that crisscrossed the bed. The trail of wiry, tangled spaghetti leading from her hands, arms, and chest constantly fed information back to the nurses’ station. A plastic tube similar to Ben’s was inserted in one nostril, whisking away fluids from her stomach. More cords—a catheter and three drainage tubes in her abdomen—snaked away from the blankets, but it was the ventilator that had Riley reeling. Despite being warned by the nurse, the image of her strong-willed, vibrant mom with lips parted by a large breathing tube, and her chest inflating and falling like clockwork—was a shock. “It’s normal, only for a few days,” the nurse had said, but the reality of seeing her mom breathing with the help of a machine was frightening, no matter the nurse’s explanation.
The windowless space gave no hint at the time or weather outside. Life elsewhere didn’t exist. Riley’s uneasy fingers played with her puffin charm. She didn’t know what else to do.
“Your mom will be asleep for a while,” said the ICU nurse, jotting down new readings on Maggie’s chart. “But she’s doing well. You can stay as long as you like.”
“Thank you.” Riley grinned softly as the nurse left them alone.
She pulled a well-worn chair to the bedside and covered Maggie’s cold hand with her own. “Mom, I’m here.” Seeing her mother lying motionless brought goose bumps to her skin. Maggie didn’t do still—ever.
“Ben’s okay and they said you’re doing great…no complications,” Riley whispered, laying her head on the blanket. “Third time lucky, Mom…you did it.”
Fifty-Six
The next six weeks were a rollercoaster of pain, appointments, and boredom for Ben and Maggie, and a blur of worry, long commutes, and skipped meals for Riley. Life in the post-transplant bubble was hard and tiring with plenty of tears and a few short (pain-induced) fuses. Still, Riley wouldn’t have traded the rocky path for anything. Each day was a gift, and every night before she curled up beside Ben in Maggie’s foldout couch, she said a silent thank you for her mom’s third chance at life and the extraordinary British boy who’d given it to her.
Putting away groceries while Maggie finished her shower, Riley giggled. Ben’s favorites shared shelf space with hers: Frosties and Reese’s Puffs, smooth and crunchy peanut butter, grapes and apples, all side-by-side. In a way, it felt like they were playing house, especially before Maggie’s discharge from hospital, when it was just the two of them.
Released six days after his operation, Ben had moved into her mom’s Staten Island apartment. Maggie wouldn’t be discharged for another eight days due to a wound infection and a reaction to her anti-rejection drugs. Riley suspected that without supervision, Ben would get in all sorts of trouble. He had already been caught twice trying to lift his backpack at the hospital (lifting anything heavy could open his incision and jeopardize healing), and he regularly forgot to use the handheld incentive spirometer, a plastic gadget for breathing exercises. Abdominal surgery patients found coughing, sneezing, and deep breathing painful post-op, and this toy-like ‘game’ helped clear lungs of mucus and hopefully kept pneumonia away. To keep Ben in check, Riley left Piper and St. Mark’s Place, temporarily moving back in. When she wasn’t at her BBC internship or working shifts at Sephora, she cooked healthy meals, took Ben for slow walks around the neighborhood, and challenged him to board game tournaments. It almost felt idyllic apart from the pain meds, the ban on sex, and the absence of greasy foods from their diet—chicken dinosaurs and smiley face potatoes had been temporarily axed, doctor’s orders. But, this latest grocery shop was the last of its kind. Maggie was doing well enough to be on her own, and Ben was itching for more privacy. He’d be moving back to Hunter’s, and Riley would be returning to her East Village shoebox by the end of the week.
A text landed on her phone from Ben. Back soon x
Daily walks were part of both Ben and Maggie’s recovery regime, but today, Ben’s stroll was productive, picking up goodbye tiger lilies for Piper.
Riley’s heart sank. I can’t believe the day’s come. Piper’s really leaving.
It seemed like yesterday, Piper bursting into their narrative television production workshop squealing, “They want my puppets on their show! October in LA, baby!” Back in April, it felt like a distant promise, something at the far end of summer, but tonight, her best friend was flying home to Chicago for a quick pit stop before heading west to follow her TV dream. Riley had no doubts—Piper would eventually rule children’s television production, one adorable puppet at a time.
She watered the orchid Erika and Scott had sent over before they rushed north to Winnipeg, replaced the water in the weekly Gerbera delivery from Alex and Mark, and opened up the ‘Good Luck’ card waiting to be signed on the counter. I’m so proud of Pip, but that won’t fill the hole in my heart from missing her.
She cleared her throat and picked up a pen. Once Maggie was ready and Ben was back with the bouquet, they would be meeting her for lunch one last time.
A key clicked the lock. Ben’s back. Riley kept writing.
“Riles?” He sounded distressed.
She dropped the pen and turned around. “What’s wrong?”
“Gimme a hand?” Ben’s face was hidden by an enormous vase of pink lilies, Gerberas, and roses.
“Uh, you went a little overboard!” She took the vase from his arms. “And it weighs a ton! Ben, you still can’t lift heavy stuff.”
“It’s not from me. I met a delivery bloke outside.” Wincing, Ben reached over his shoulder and rubbed his aching upper back, a lingering side effect of slouched posture. For the first three weeks post-surgery, Ben’s abs had hurt when he stood or sat up straight, the nerves and muscles unhappy to be stretched. To avoid that pain, he’d hunch over, but now he was paying the price. “They’re for you, I think?” A small wrapped bundle of tiger lilies for Piper dangled in a shopping bag from Ben’s forearm.
