Get Out Of Here

The problem with determining my baby's injuries was that I couldn't quite get the right words to come out. I tried to communicate but wasn't doing a very good job. The doctors and Nicholas kept telling me it would take a little more time and to not get discouraged, but to me, it was another form of being trapped. When talking didn't work, I tried writing down my questions, but I couldn't even draw a straight line, let alone form words on the paper.

It was more frustrating than anything I'd ever experienced.

Aside from all the regular doctors and nurses, it seemed like I had different therapists coming in at all hours, working with me on my movement and speech recovery. It was like I had to learn how to do the most basic things all over again.

I was told the fact my memory seemed mostly intact was a great sign, but it didn't help me in figuring out how to express my need to know about our child. After a few minutes of one of the therapists coercing me through a puzzle, I pushed it away in anger.

Nicholas was at my side immediately, brushing away my tears. "What's wrong?"

I took his hand and placed it on my belly and pleaded with my eyes. Understanding crossed his face, and he leaned down to kiss me. "You want to know about the baby?"

I nodded and he smiled.

"Of course. He's okay, Willow." He reached across the bed and pointed at the screen of a machine. "This is the fetal monitor. Dr. Whitney has been here to see you many times, but you've usually been asleep... or maybe just out of it." Grief flashed in his eyes before he brought my hand to his lips. "There were a few scary moments when they thought they'd have to take him out early, but you both pulled through. In fact, Dr. Whitney seems to think he was spared almost completely. I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I was stupid to assume you heard her at some point. You must have been so worried."

I took in everything he said but clung to the most important part. Our baby was okay.

The tears which fell from my eyes now were entirely due to relief. Nicholas' assurance that he was healthy was all I needed. I could breathe again. From that point on, I pushed myself as hard as I could to recover, heeding every word of medical advice, every suggestion, and every therapeutic exercise with renewed vigor.

.

Within a few days, I was speaking almost normally, and able to hold full conversations with the doctors and Nicholas. In fact, I had progressed so much I was moved out of the ICU into a regular room. Well regular in the sense that I was no longer deemed critical or hooked up to a thousand machines, and I was allowed to have more than one visitor at a time.

The room itself was massive, comfortable, almost hotel-like. Large flat-screen TV, wide windows, a couch and chairs, a more comfortable bed, along with vases of flowers stashed everywhere. I wondered if Nicholas promised them he'd build a new hospital wing or something to net me this room.

Once I was talking again, I wanted all the details of my injuries. Every time I tried to get Nicholas to talk about it all, he got evasive and tried to distract me and urge me to focus on getting better. The doctors were more helpful, telling me I had been out for almost three weeks. My concussion had been so severe they had to put me into a medically-induced coma to reduce the swelling of my brain.

Bottom line was that I had been lucky. And my baby was even luckier.

The physical part of my recovery took a bit longer. The first time I was helped to stand on my feet, I would have fallen on my butt if they hadn't been holding me up. It was somewhat disheartening to feel helpless and so unsteady, especially when I had been doing so well with my leg exercises while lying down. It was as if I'd never walked before. Like there was a disconnect between my brain and my legs.

But I worked as hard as I could, eager to get out of the hospital. I wanted my things around me. The familiar sights, smells, just the feeling of being home. I especially missed being able to sleep next to Nicholas.

He never left my side, helping me through every single moment of my recovery. They brought in a makeshift bed to put alongside mine every night, where he slept close enough to hold my hand.

If he slept at all.

At some point, my worry changed from my recovery to his. As much damage as my body had incurred, the injuries he sustained emotionally may have been even worse. He never let up, never took a break, never left at all. He even showered in the private bath connected to my room with the door open... just in case I needed something.

His parents, Virgil, Laura, Francis, and Geoffrey all had whispering conversations with him, trying to get him to at least go outside for a breath of fresh air. He took the items they brought him from home and ignored their suggestions. There came a point when I couldn't stand it any longer. It hurt to watch him wearing himself down.

"Nicholas?"

His face was a mask of concentration as he massaged my legs, lifting them and bending my knee over and over. "Hmm?"

"You need to get out of here for a couple of hours. Go on a drive. Go to the gym. Anything."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "I'm not leaving you."

"It wouldn't be leaving me. It would just be taking a little break. You need a break."

"I'm fine. We'll be out of here soon."

"Nicholas!" I said sharply, waiting for him to look at me. "You're acting crazy and it isn't healthy." I sighed at the hurt on his face and softened my tone. "Please, would you do this for me? Go do something for yourself for a little bit. I'm not going to magically run a marathon tomorrow, so we have a long way to go, and I'm going to need you. You won't be doing either of us any good if you keep this up. You're exhausted and worn down."

He placed my leg back on the bed, moved a chair, and sat down next to me. The pained expression on his face when he lifted his head again made my stomach twist. "I don't want to leave you."

Normally those words would have made me deliriously happy. But not like this. Not when they were partially driven by something other than needing me and loving me. It was suddenly clear to me what was happening. He felt guilty.

I reached over, stroking his scruffy cheek with my palm. "What happened wasn't your fault."

He didn't answer, instead closing his eyes and leaning into my touch. "Look at me."

I waited until his pretty green was focused on me again. "It wasn't your fault. It was Rosemary's. It's not possible for you to control everything or everyone, so stop blaming yourself for this. You can't be attached to my side every second. We can't live like that."

He was already protective of me before, I couldn't even imagine what was going to happen now.

"I shouldn't have let go of your hand."

I shook my head. "Then she would have found a different way. It's her fault. She did this, not you."

He stood and leaned over me, his fingers brushing my face before he gave me a kiss. I knew he was avoiding the topic, but perhaps he just needed more time. I let myself enjoy having him close, and ignored the big, fat elephant in the room.

This close I could see his eyes. Smell his skin. Taste his lips.

"Knock, knock." Nicholas and I both turned our heads toward the door, finding Virgil there with an apologetic grin on his face. "Sorry to interrupt."

Nicholas groaned and sat back down, but I smiled and waved for him to come in, a brilliant idea forming in my head.

"It's great that you stopped by. You can hang out with me while Nicholas runs some errands. I need to talk to you anyway."

Virgil nodded. "Sure, no problem."

Nicholas glared at him before turning his gaze my way. "I thought we just talked about this?"

"We did. We agreed you were going to get out of here for a couple of hours. For me."

Our stare-off lasted a couple of minutes, and it was fascinating to watch the emotions cross his face. Anger, hurt, guilt, love, worry, and maybe a bit of relief. He was keeping so much bottled up again.