Broken Promises

75 | noah

"I'm terribly sorry," the doctor I met when my mother was being rushed into surgery says softly, sounding like he means the words. "This was a horrible shock for everyone. None of us saw this coming."

I swallow hard as I try to absorb the doctor's words. Only, they simply refuse to sink in. I sit numbly, unsure of what to feel. Numb. I feel numb.

"Can you . . ." My father stumbles over his sentence, trailing off. "Can you explain what happened one more time?"

The doctor nods, carefully taking off his silver wire-rimmed glasses and folding them, setting them down on his desk. His gaze is full of pity and remorse as he regards me and my father. I wonder how many times he's given a speech just like the one he's about to go into.

"As you're aware, Ms. Underwood was prepped for surgery soon after being admitted. We had her stabilized though she was unconscious, then sent directly to the surgery ward. A few procedures took place, mostly to take care of her more serious injuries, such as the internal bleeding in her lower abdomen and the broken bone repair of a few ribs." The doctor pauses, his expression turning grim. "About half an hour after surgery Ms. Underwood gained consciousness and was settled into a recovery room. Visitors were permitted, and afterward Ms. Underwood fell asleep."

Dad stiffens in his seat next to me. Next to my father, Caroline cries silently. I sit numbly, unable to believe what I'm hearing.

"Ms. Underwood never woke up," the doctor says softly. "A nurse came in to check on her routinely every half hour. She left once, then came back to check on her only to find that the heart monitor had flat lined. We tried everything in our power to revive her. I believe Ms. Underwood passed away somewhere between the first check-in and the next, though I'm not certain for how long. The cause of death is believed to be undetected internal bleeding to the brain. Once again, I'm terribly sorry this happened. I mourn your loss."

It's impossible to believe this has happened after everything. I feel physically pained. My head is woozy as I lean back in my chair, my body feeling heavier than normal. Time seems to move in slow motion before speeding up, making me feel as if I'm drifting through dimensions. My breathing is erratic and my heart pounds in my chest.

It's not true. Mom can't be dead. When I went to sleep last night, she was alive. She was breathing. Warm and safe and alive. I'd spoken to her only hours ago, light and grateful that I was going to get to spend more time with her after the fear of almost losing her.

Through all of my sporadic thinking, one thought remains clear and at the front of my mind. The last time I told Mom I loved her wasn't supposed to be the last.

That's when I lose it.

I'm not aware of my actions as I lean forward, holding my head between my hands as I murmur, "She's not dead. Mom's not dead. She can't be dead."

"Noah," Dad says, "son, please, let's just—"

"Let's just what?" I snap. I don't care that my father looks worn in ways a man of his age shouldn't, don't care that his eyes shine unnaturally bright with unshed tears. Like he has the right to be upset over the loss of a woman he didn't love enough to stay with, even after he put a ring on her finger and promised her forever. She was my mother, the first woman I ever loved, the only person on this earth to ever truly love me. Even at my worst, I always had Mom. Now I don't even have that.

"Let's go home and pretend like this didn't happen?" I question, a nasty tone to my voice as I release all of the negative pent-up emotions brewing within me on my father. "Try to get through our day as if it's just another afternoon? Act like we're fine? Like it's okay?"

"Noah," Dad says softly, "you know that's—"

"No, I don't know, Dad!" I blurt out of anger. "You want to know what I know? I know that my mother is gone. That I will never see her or hug her or tell her I love her again. She will never see me grow into a man or get married or have my first kid. All of that was stolen from her. She's dead." My voice cracks, yet I continue. I know that if I don't hold on to this anger I'm feeling, the sadness will creep in. And if I allow myself to feel the pain of this moment, I know that a part of me will never recover. I'm going to break in ways I didn't know were possible, and I don't think I could survive that.

So instead, I scream. A lot.

"All of this happened when I was at home sleeping, because you told me to go. You said Mom would be okay. Now look what happened. I spent the past six months living with you and pretending like I have a home here, while Mom was alone at my real home. All the time I wasted pretending to be your son, I will never get to spend with Mom. Do you know what I promised her before she died?"

Dad doesn't respond. Tears silently stream down his cheeks. This only spikes my anger.

"I promised her that I was going to go home with her. That when she could leave the hospital, we'd go home. Because the only real home I ever had was with Mom. Pretending otherwise was a joke."

"You know you have a home with me, Noah," Dad croaks. "You know you'll always have a home here."

"No, I don't," I spit angrily, rising from my chair. "Now, I'm homeless."

I don't look back as I head for the door. I simply turn my back on the man who will never be a father to me, exiting the room and letting the door fall closed behind me. I walk through the hospital in a furious daze, hardly aware of what I'm doing. I'm just going through motions, my anger slowly fading and giving way to the sadness I knew would come all too soon.

Heart-wrenching thoughts pass through my mind with every step I take. Mom is gone. She's not coming back. I'll never get to tell her I love her again. I'm not going to be able to make it up to her for being such an awful son. The promise I made her is nothing now. Mom's gone. Mom's dead. She's dead. She's dead. She's dead.

I reach my truck just as the last sliver of my heart cracks in two, falling into oblivion. I climb into the driver's seat, eyes burning with unshed tears. Closing my door, I lose it all over again.

A cry somewhere between a scream and sob escapes me as I slam my hand against the steering wheel, punching it over and over again. I don't know how to put what I'm feeling into words, except to say this is the worst I've ever felt. I don't think there is a pain in this world that can compare to losing someone so important.

I slam my hands against the steering wheel one last time before the fight drains out of me, leaving me feeling worn and tired and broken. Broken. I'm simply broken.

I lower my head to my arms, releasing my emotions through my tears.

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a/n: I SEE MY GIRL TOMORROW OMFG