“What about Alex?” I asked.
“Your son is alive, but he’s in critical condition. He suffered multiple injuries, including severe head trauma. He’s been taken to St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital and is currently in surgery,” Bradley said.
The next few hours exist in my memory like fragments of a broken mirror. Officer Parker drove me to the hospital while Bradley followed in my car. Waiting rooms with fluorescent lights that hurt my eyes, doctors in scrubs using words I didn’t want to understand: traumatic brain injury, induced coma, touch-and-go. When I finally got to see Alex, he looked so small in that hospital bed, surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed like they were having conversations I couldn’t join. His head was bandaged, his face swollen and bruised beyond recognition. Dr. Murphy, a kind woman with tired eyes, explained that they’d relieved the pressure on his brain, but there was no way to know if or when he’d wake up.
I called my parents from the hospital that night. Mom answered on the third ring, her voice thick with sleep.
“Rachel, it’s almost midnight. What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Mom,” I said, and then I couldn’t say anything else because I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe.
“Honey, what happened?” she asked.
“Sean’s dead. There was an accident. Alex is in a coma,” I managed to say.
Silence, then, “Oh my God. Oh, Rachel, we’ll be right there,” she said.
But they didn’t come right away. They came the next morning, looking uncomfortable and tired. Dad hugged me awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure how much pressure to apply. Mom patted my shoulder the way you might comfort a distant acquaintance. They stayed for exactly one hour, asked a few questions about what happened, then said they needed to get home to make phone calls.
“We’ll help you with the funeral arrangements,” Mom said. “Don’t worry about anything.”
But when I called them the next day to talk about planning Sean’s service, Mom’s voice had changed—distant, distracted. “Actually, honey, we can’t really help with the arrangements. Vanessa and Kevin are moving into Sean’s apartment this week, and we promised we’d help them get settled.”
I was confused. “But Mom, Sean just died. The funeral is more important than helping them move.”
“Of course it is, but we already committed to this, and you know how Vanessa gets when plans change. We’ll be at the funeral, of course. We just can’t help with the planning,” she said.
I hung up, feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in my life. My husband was dead, my son was fighting for his life, and my family was worried about moving furniture. So, I planned Sean’s funeral completely alone. Every single decision—the funeral home, the flowers, the casket, the music, the readings—I made them all by myself while my family was busy helping Vanessa and Kevin settle into Sean’s apartment like it was some kind of celebration.
The service was simple but beautiful. People came: Sean’s co-workers, our neighbors, friends from Alex’s school. They said wonderful things about Sean, shared memories that made me smile even through my tears. My parents, Vanessa, and Kevin showed up at the last minute, sat through the ceremony looking like they’d rather be anywhere else, and left quickly afterward.
After Sean died, I inherited everything he owned: the house, the downtown apartment, and his bank account with $800,000. Sean had been smart with money and had excellent life insurance. For the first time in my life, money wasn’t a concern, which was the only good thing in my world at that point. I cut back to part-time at my accounting job—money wasn’t an issue anymore, and I wanted to spend every possible moment with Alex. The doctors said coma patients could sometimes hear voices, so I read to him every day: Harry Potter, his favorite adventure books, even his homework assignments from school.
“Your teacher says you’re doing great in math,” I’d tell him, holding his small hand. “She’s saving all your assignments for when you wake up.”
I talked to him about everything: baseball scores, what was happening at school, funny things I saw on TV. I told him about his father, about how proud Sean would be that Alex was fighting so hard. But Alex never responded. His breathing was steady, his heart rate stable, but he never squeezed my hand back or showed any sign that he could hear me.
Six months passed in a blur of routine: work in the mornings, hospital visits in the afternoons, lonely evenings at home. Vanessa and Kevin settled into the apartment nicely. They called occasionally to thank me for letting them stay there, but they never asked how Alex was doing or if I needed anything. My parents visited Alex exactly three times in those six months. Each visit lasted maybe 20 minutes before they found an excuse to leave.
“Hospitals make me nervous,” Mom would say. “Your father’s arthritis is acting up.”
It was a Tuesday morning in July when Dr. Murphy called me at work. I was reviewing quarterly reports when my phone rang, and something in her voice made my blood turn cold.
“Mrs. Clark, I need you to come in right away,” she said.
I dropped everything and drove to the hospital, my heart hammering against my ribs. Dr. Murphy met me in the hallway outside Alex’s room, and I knew immediately from her face that the news was bad.
“Mrs. Clark, I’m very sorry. Alex passed away about an hour ago. His body just couldn’t fight anymore,” she said.
The words hit me like another accident, another collision that shattered what was left of my world. I stumbled backward and had to grab the wall to stay upright.
“But he was stable yesterday. He looked the same as always,” I said.
“Sometimes, with brain injuries this severe, the body just gives up. There was nothing more we could do. I’m so sorry,” she said.
I went into Alex’s room and held him for the last time. He looked peaceful, like he was just sleeping. I kept expecting him to open his eyes and ask what was wrong, but he never did. My baby boy was gone.
I drove home in a daze and sat in my empty house for hours, crying until I had no tears left. Then I picked up the phone and called my parents.
“Mom, Alex died today,” I said.
There was a pause. “Oh, Rachel, I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, her voice flat, almost businesslike—not the voice of a grandmother who just lost her grandson.