Chapter 514
Mia’s POV
“That’s okay,” Ethan says. His voice is steady. Certain. “We’re ready p>
“Yeah.” Alexander straightens his shoulders. Lifts his chin. “We’re ready p>
I crouch down.
“I love you,” I say. “You know that, right? I love you so much it hurts sometimes p>
“I know, Mom.” He rolls his eyes, but his voice is soft. “You tell me like a hundred times a day p>
“And I’m going to keep telling you. Until you’re old and gray and so tired of hearing it that you want to scream p>
“That’s a lot of telling p>
“Get used to it p>
I kiss his forehead. Let my lips linger there for just a moment. Feel the soft skin, the slight warmth of fever that isn’t fever but just the natural heat of a child’s body. The heat of life.
Then I turn to Ethan.
He’s watching me with those calm, assessing eyes. The eyes that see everything and process it all and file it away for later analysis. But underneath the calm, I see something else. Something that looks almost like uncertainty.
“Come here,” I say.
He comes. Steps into my arms. Lets me hold him–really hold him, not the quick hugs he usually tolerates–and for a moment, just a moment, I feel him relax against me.
“The anesthesia,” I murmur against his hair. “It’s like sleeping. One second you’re awake, counting backwards, and the next second you’re waking up and it’s over. Like blinking p>
“That’s not scientifically accurate,” he says. But his voice is muffled against my shoulder. “Anesthesia affects consciousness in ways that are fundamentally different from natural sleep p>
“I know. But that’s what it feels like. That’s all that matters right now p>
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I’m not scared,” he says. Almost like he’s trying to convince himself.
“I know you’re not p>
“But if I was… if I was scared… that would be okay too. Right p>
My heart cracks. Just a little. Just along the seams.
“It would be more than okay,” I say. “It would be completely, perfectly, absolutely normal p>
He pulls back. Looks at me. His glasses have slipped down again, and I reach up to push them back into place.
“I think I might be a little scared,” he admits. “Just a little p>
“That’s because you’re smart. Smart people know there are things to be scared of p>
“But I’m doing it anyway p>
“Yes. You are p>
“Does that make me brave p>
I think about this. Think about all the times I’ve been scared and done things anyway. Think about all the things that felt impossible until they weren’t.
“The bravest people I know,” I say, “are the ones who are scared and do it anyway p>
He nods. A small, serious nod. Then he steps back, adjusts his gown, straightens his glasses.
“I’m ready,” he says.
Madison appears beside me.
I didn’t hear her move–she’s like that, sometimes, quiet as a shadow–but suddenly she’s there, Eleanor clutched against her chest, her dark eyes moving between her brothers.
“Can I hug them?” she asks.
It’s not a question she would have asked six months ago. Six months ago, she didn’t ask for hugs. Didn’t seek them out. Hugs were things that happened to her, not things she initiated.
“Of course, sweetheart p>
She goes to Alexander first.
The hug is brief–Alexander isn’t a hugger, never has been–but it’s real. His arms wrap around her for just a second, squeeze, release. Then he’s ruffling her hair, grinning that gap–toothed grin.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be back before you know it. And I’ll have a cool scar. Probably. Maybe. Do bone marrow things leave scars p>
“I don’t think so,” Ethan says.
“That’s disappointing p>
Madison turns to Ethan.
This hug is longer. Ethan doesn’t usually hug–physical affection makes him uncomfortable, always has–but he stands still and lets Madison wrap her arms around him. Lets her press her face against his chest. Lets her hold on.
She steps back. Her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t cry. She’s learned to hold in. I wish she hadn’t had to learn that.
The nurses are waiting.
Dr. Emerson is holding the door open, patient, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world. As if this isn’t a schedule, a timetable, a carefully choreographed sequence of events that will determine whether my children come back whole.
Alexander takes one step. Then another.
At the doorway, he pauses. Turns back.
“Daddy p>
Kyle is still by the window. His hands have stopped shaking–or maybe he’s just learned to hide it better–but his face is pale. Too pale. The color of old paper, of forgotten things.
“Yes p>
“After this. After I wake up and they put my stuff in you and you get better.” Alexander’s voice is steady. Matter–of–fact. Like he’s discussing the weather, or homework, or what he wants for breakfast. “After all that. Can we go to the amusement park again p>
Kyle’s eyes close:
Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the tears gathering at the corners, threatening to spill.
“Yes,” he says. The word comes out rough: Broken. “Yes. We can go to the amusement park p>
“Promise p>
“I promise p>
Alexander nods. Satisfied. Then he turns and walks through the door, his too–big gown trailing behind him like a cape.
Ethan follows.
At the threshold, he pauses too. But he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t look back. Just stands there for a moment, his hand on the doorframe, his back straight and still.
“The statistical success rate for matched sibling donor transplants is approximately 75%,” he says. To no one in particular. To everyone. “Those are good odds. Better than most things p>
Then he’s gone.
The door swings shut behind them.
And Kyle’s eyes finally spill over.
“Save them for later p>
Kyle looks at me. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are red. He looks nothing like the man I married–nothing like the CEO in the three–piece suit, the cold businessman, the person who used to make decisions that affected thousands of people without blinking.
He looks like a father watching his children walk away.
“What?” His voice is hoarse.
“The tears.” I cross to him. Take his hand. Feel the tremor that’s still there, hidden beneath the surface. “Save them for later. When they wake up. When they’re okay. When this is over p>