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She doesn’t.
But for some reason the thought that she might believe that Damien loves me like I love him, well, it feels good. I’m willing to hold onto anything that feels like something other than misery at the moment. Anything. Even if she is just being nice to me.
“It’s complicated,” I answer before glancing down at my phone.
I pause in the middle of an empty hallway. Missed calls and text messages light up my phone already, but I can’t deal with any of it right now. I just can’t.
I see Sylvia’s name on the screen and swipe to open the message. That’s my only other priority.
Sylvia: We were watching the game. I turned it off before, you know, but I needed to check on you. Carter says you’re at the hospital. Are you okay? Is Damien, okay? The coach isn’t telling them anything.
Sylvia: I know you’re probably busy. Astria is fine. She’s asleep right now. I just want you to know that I have her and that she’s comfortable and taken care of.
I begin to cry again as I read her text messages. I miss my baby. I miss our family.
What have I done?
Gia: At the hospital. I don’t have an update yet. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please hold her tight and give her all my love. I promise I will call when I can, but for now, know that I’m doing the best I can to get us both home quickly.
I type out the text and hit send. I hide the truth of our circumstances down deep in my heart because I need to know what we’re up against before I can make a plan of action. Damien is our solutions guy. He’s the one that always has the plan. I don’t want to do this without him. I’m thankful for Sylvia tonight. I’m grateful for our hockey family.
I set my phone to do not disturb for now and look up from the screen as my new friend begins speaking again and we continue our walk, to where I’m not sure.
“Complicated or not. You’re his wife. You’re the mother of his daughter. He loves you.” She says it so easily, like it must be true. Who is this woman?
We continue together down a long white corridor until we reach a small room with a vending machine. There are ten plastic chairs inside. It’s completely vacant.
“How about I sit with you for a little while?” She motions to one of the chairs in the room.
“You don’t have somewhere you need to be?” I ask, still not sure where we are or why we’re in here. Where have they taken Damien?
“Right here. Right here is where I need to be.” She sits down when I don’t move and pats the seat of the chair next to her.
With no other choice at the moment, I take a seat. “Thank you…what did you say your name was?” My hands shake as I place them on my lap.
“It’s Lyla, but that’s not important. Tell me a little bit more about Astria and how much she loves her daddy.” She nods for me to continue, and her voice is so soft, so reassuring.
I don’t know what comes over me. I sit in the hard plastic chair in the waiting room of a hospital I’m completely unfamiliar with and tell a total stranger all about Damien’s fairytale bedtime story and the way he loves to sing to Astria, but that he sings completely off-key.
I tell her that we grew up together. That he was my brother’s best friend. Until I kissed him, and that’s how we ended up here. Maybe I skipped a few years, or maybe I didn’t. I can’t be sure.
Time ceased to exist in our little bubble of waiting, and for that I’m thankful.
It’s not until I notice the sun shining through the hard plastic blinds on the window of the waiting room that I realize it’s morning. It’s a different day.
Lyla’s tired eyes catch movement over my shoulder, and I turn my attention to where her eyes remain locked.
A man in what I have to assume were once crisp blue scrubs, like Lyla’s, and a white coat stands at the entrance to the waiting room.
He’s covered in dried blood. His shoes have covers on them. They’re coated in blood too.
Damien.
“Are you Gia Henderson?” He asks and I wonder for just a second how this man knows my name. Did Damien wake up and ask for me? Is he okay? A brief moment of hope fills my heart, but it’s short-lived.
Lyla places her hand on my thigh in a silent show of support. The moment feels somber, but I also don’t feel like it’s me living it. It feels like I’m watching a movie. This can’t be my life.
“I, uh, I am,” I answer reluctantly. I’m scared. The last time I was this scared I had Damien with me. He promised me that we would be okay. He promised me that we would do this together. I can’t do any of this alone. I don’t want to.
