desertion

76

EDDIE

I sat stiffly in the chair by the window, my elbows resting on my knees, hands clasped together. I hadn't slept much, not with Lydia like this. She hadn't moved from her spot in the bed in nearly 24 hours. Her body was curled into itself, her back to the room, her gaze fixed on the railing of her hospital bed.

The untouched plate of chicken and fries sat on the small table by her bed, pushed aside hours ago. She had refused to eat, snapping at anyone who tried to convince her otherwise.

"I'm not hungry," she had said earlier, her tone sharp and final.

Buck sighed heavily from where he leaned against the wall. "She needs to eat, Eddie. She hasn't had anything in nearly a day."

I ran a hand through my hair, exhausted and helpless. "I know," I muttered. "But what am I supposed to do? Force her?"

Miles was seated on the chair closest to Lydia's bed, his gaze fixed on her. He hasn't left her side since this started. I was grateful for his presence, as it clearly seemed to help Lydia when she'd actually acknowledge he was there.

"I agree," Miles said quietly, his voice laced with worry. "She needs to eat something. But how are we supposed to convince her when she won't even look at us? She can't hear us, Buck."

That hit me hard, though I didn't let it show. I felt the weight of those words pressing down on me. Lydia's silence wasn't just emotional—it was physical, imposed by her hearing loss. And it was killing her spirit.

Buck suddenly pushed off the wall, a determined look on his face. "Then we don't talk," he said simply.

I frowned. "What are you—"

But Buck was already moving, grabbing the pen and notepad we'd used the day before. He scribbled something quickly before walking over to Lydia's bed.

I watched as Buck gently tapped the notepad against Lydia's arm. She groaned in irritation, her body shifting slightly before she finally rolled on her back to look at him.

"What?" She muttered, her voice hoarse.

Buck held up the notepad, his expression calm but firm. Lydia squinted at the writing, her eyes narrowing as she read it. When she finished, she glared at Buck with a fiery defiance that I recognized all too well.

"I told you, I don't feel like eating," she snapped, sitting up.

Buck didn't flinch. Instead, he sat at the edge of her bed and began writing again. Lydia's frustration mounted.

"Is this how it's going to be now?" She demanded, turning to me. "Are people going to have to write everything just so I can understand them?"

My heart clenched at her words. The raw emotion in her voice—anger, fear, frustration—was almost too much to bear. I met her gaze, my eyes wide with concern.

"Lydia..." I started, my voice trailing off. I hesitated, then nodded slowly, a deep frown pulling at my lips.

Lydia crossed her arms, her jaw tightening. "I'm so tired of this," she said bitterly, her voice cracking.

Buck, unfazed by her outburst, lightly tapped her arm again with the notepad. She snapped her head back toward him, her glare icy. He showed her the new note he'd written, his expression patient.

Lydia rolled her eyes dramatically. "Fine," she muttered.

She grabbed the small tray table beside her bed and slid it closer. Picking up a piece of chicken, she took a few bites, her movements slow and reluctant. When she was done, she set the food down with exaggerated care.

She turned to Buck, raising her hands in mock jazz hands. "There. Happy now?"

Buck nodded, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He stood and walked back to his seat, sitting beside me.

I leaned over, whispering, "Thank you."

Buck just nodded, his eyes still on Lydia.

Lydia huffed, sinking back into the bed. She didn't look at anyone, her arms crossed over her chest as she stared at the ceiling. I felt the silence settle over the room again, heavy and suffocating.

I hated seeing her like this. Lydia, my daughter who was normally so full of joy and laughter, was slipping away, and I didn't know how to pull her back.

The door opened, and I glanced up to see the doctor walk in, holding a clipboard. He greeted them with a polite nod, but I could see the concern in his eyes.

"How is she?" The doctor asked, addressing me.

"She ate a little," I said, my voice low. "But she... she's not herself."

The doctor nodded solemnly, glancing at Lydia. "We'll keep monitoring her. The concussion and hearing loss are difficult to adjust to, but she's strong. She'll get through this."

I wanted to believe that, but the sight of my daughter curled up and defeated made it hard.

After the doctor left, I moved to sit beside Lydia's bed. I reached out, brushing a hand gently over her hair. She didn't react, her gaze fixed on some point far beyond me.

She didn't look at me, but I stayed. I wasn't going to leave her side.