What's Going to Happen?
What's Going to Happen?
What I am seeing with my own eyes is both relieving and utterly heartbreaking.
She has a heartbeat.
It's faint, barely there, but it's there. Every few seconds, the monitor beside her bed beeps, a quiet but steady reminder that life still clings to her fragile body. I force myself to look at the screen, to watch the thin, wavering line of her heart rhythm. It's weak. Unstable. But it's beating.
My baby is alive.
Just barely.
But she's hanging on.
I can't move. I just stand there, frozen, my hands trembling at my sides as I take in the sight of her. Tubes and wires snake across her small frame, attached to machines that are keeping her alive. She looks so still, so unnaturally still. This isn't how it's supposed to be.
I had never seen anything like this before. And I never wanted to.
But here we are. And I am certain— I never want to see this again.
The weight in my chest is suffocating as I force myself forward. My steps feel slow, heavy, like I'm walking through water. When I finally reach her bedside, I lower myself into the chair, dragging it close, so close that my knees are pressed against the side of the bed.
I reach for her hand.
The moment my fingers touch her skin, I flinch.
She's so cold.
Her hand is limp in mine, lifeless, as if she's already gone. A fresh wave of pain crashes over me, and I grip her hand tighter, as if that alone could anchor her here, could stop her from slipping away.
The doctor clears his throat, breaking the silence.
"So, Addison had her stomach pumped and flushed," he explains, his voice calm but firm, like he's used to delivering news like this. "By the time we figured out what was happening, she had been poisoned for about an hour. Her body had already started shutting down. Her kidneys, liver, and other less vital organs stopped functioning. She was slipping into total organ failure. If we hadn't intervened when we did..."
He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to.
They were losing her.
She was dying.
The doctor continues, his words tight. "Just because she's showing signs of improvement doesn't mean she's out of danger yet. Her body is still incredibly weak. If anything else goes wrong, if she crashes again..." He pauses. "We're doing everything we can. If all goes well, she should start waking up in a few days."
Then he leaves.
Silence settles over the room again, thick and unbearable. My mom and Sadie stand at the foot of the bed, their faces pale, their eyes red-rimmed and exhausted.
I don't look away from Addy. I can't.
"She's going to make it." My voice is hoarse, but there is no hesitation in it. No doubt. I tighten my grip on her small hand. "I'm going to make sure of it."
But the helplessness gnaws at me.
She looks so fragile, so utterly breakable.
And I can't do anything.
It's a mother's worst fear—to see your child in danger and not be able to make it better. To sit here, useless, powerless, while machines breathe for her, while tubes feed her, while doctors fight to keep her alive.
I want it to be me.
I would trade places with her in a heartbeat. Let it be me. Not her.
She's only thirteen. She's already endured too much, felt too much pain, carried too many burdens. She shouldn't have to fight like this. Not at her age.
I drag my gaze away from her and look at Sadie.
She's crying.
My chest tightens, and I open my arms. "Sade, come here," I whisper.
Without hesitation, she rushes into my lap, curling into me like she did when she was little. Her body trembles against mine, and I wrap my arms around her, holding her as tightly as I dare.
She looks up at me, her face streaked with tears, her eyes full of fear.
"What's going to happen to her?" she asks, her voice breaking.
I don't know how to answer.
Because I don't know.