With Paige’s hand in mine, we follow my dad into the hospital and into the critical care unit. Grandma, Little B, and I sit in the waiting room while he checks in at the front desk. I could probably go with him, but I don’t want to leave my sister out here by herself.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but when my dad comes back I can tell he’s been crying and he motions for me to follow him. He takes me away from the waiting room.
“Go in and say goodbye,” he says, choking up.
“Excuse me?”
He shakes his head and tears fall down his cheeks. I’ve seen my dad cry before, but not since Paige was born. “It’s not good, Noah.” He pats me on the shoulder and sidesteps me and heads toward the waiting room.
I turn and head toward the automatic doors that will take me to Peyton. I don’t bother asking what room she’s in because it’s easy to tell with the half a dozen people cramming into the small room.
Quinn and Harrison smile gravely at me as I step into the room. I don’t have a clear shot of Peyton because her mom and mine, along with her sister and a nurse are hovering over her. It takes me a few more steps until I can fully see the little girl turned woman, who used to follow me around carrying a football—the same one I took to her senior prom, taught how to drive, and used to picture myself with—lying on a bed connected to wires that are keeping her alive.
5
Peyton
I suppose there comes a time in everyone’s life when they die. For me, I’ve died and come back; at least that’s what the doctor has told my parents. I was so excited to see them, but they can’t see or hear me. Even now I’m trying to hold my mom’s hand, but she doesn’t feel me squeezing her back, even though she’s begging me to. In fact, she’s asking me to do all sorts of things like open my eyes or wiggle my toes. I am doing everything she asks. She just can’t see me. It’s like I’m in another realm where I can see and hear them, but everything I do, every question I respond to or comment I make lingers in the air.
Everyone is crying, and that’s saying a lot because I have never seen my dad cry until today. Sure, he’s had misty eyes like when Quinn left for college or when he came home and showed us the Oscar that 4225 West had won for best song in a movie, but never have I been witness to seeing him cry like he is now. I tried to comfort him, to put my arms around him like I used to when I was little, but it didn’t do anything to help ease his pain.
The same can be said about Quinn. He’s always been the big brother to us, our protector. We had Noah for that as well, but the age difference made it so we were rarely in school together. Quinn fell right in the middle of our group. Friends with Noah and brother to Elle and me, and until today I have never seen him cry. Not even when he was in trouble or when he was given his first drum set. But now he is. He’s sobbing and holding onto Elle as if I’ve died already.
Maybe I have died and this is me as a ghost, standing on the outside and watching as my family falls apart. We’ve always been a strong unit, supporting each other’s goals and aspirations. Growing up, our parents encouraged us to find ourselves and to follow what we love. It’s how I ended up in Chicago while the rest of my family lived in Los Angeles. Elle wanted the sun, the sand, and surfers. Quinn wanted the music scene. My parents wanted solitude and quiet. I wanted the crazy, hectic life of a sports reporter.
There’s no doubt in my mind that my time to shine was about to happen. Being on the sideline, even for one game, was going to be enough to catapult me into something amazing. I had big plans for that article even if my professor was the only one to see it. I would’ve used it as a reference when I applied at ESPN or Fox Sports. I suppose meeting Kyle changed all that.
Speaking of, I still don’t know where he is. In my current state, it seems that I can roam the halls freely. I’ve tried to converse with the nurses and other staff members, but it’s as if they can see right through me.
The hall is quiet, except for the annoying beeping sound coming from every room on this floor. I peek in each one, most patients are sleeping and only a few have people in them. My room by far is the most packed with bodies, all here to say goodbye according to the doctor that stuck those odd drumsticks into my chest.