Ride and Die (Ridgemore #1)

4 It Seems Impossible, But There You Have It

4

It Seems Impossible, But There You Have It

D awn was breaking outside the large windows lining the ICU waiting room. Layla, Griffin, Hunt, and I were bleary-eyed, staring blankly ahead or into the depths of our terrible vending machine coffees. The adrenaline had fled my body an hour into Brady’s surgery; now every part of me felt as loose as overcooked spaghetti, though I knew there was no chance sleep would come, not until we received news.

The group of our combined parents, however, couldn’t seem to sit still. Celia was surprisingly resilient, and once she got past the original shock of the news, she mobilized the rest of the adults. They almost beat us to the hospital, even though they’d been in bed already. Layla and Hunt had ridden in the ambulance with Brady, while Griffin and I followed in his Mustang.

Though I’d tried not to give anyone false hope with my description of Brady’s twitching, their faces were animated with it, and every time the doors to the ICU unit swung open, all sets of eyes trained on whoever was exiting. So far, no one had come looking for us, and our parents seemed ready to jump out of their skins.

Griffin’s dad, Orson, and Hunt’s mom, Alexis, took turns playing musical chairs. None of the adults remained seated for long. My dad, Reece, was pacing the length of the small waiting room, back and forth, again and again. If I’d had any oomph left in me, I would have told him to sit down before he drove us all crazy.

When the double doors next opened, a surgeon in scrubs exited, his sneakers squeaking on the shiny tile floor. His eyes were haunted, the skin beneath them shadowed. He pinned them on us before he even walked through the open door to the waiting room.

My breath lodged in my lungs as those of us who’d been sitting leaped to our feet.

He removed the cloth cap that was probably meant to keep stray hairs from landing inside open body cavities, fiddling with it in his hands as Porter rushed to ask, “Is my son okay?”

“If your son’s Brady Rafferty, then he’s the luckiest kid I’ve ever seen.”

A cold tingle swept through my body, leaving me lightheaded. “He’s going to live, then?” I eked out, sensing everyone holding their breath as we waited for the surgeon to say it again, to make it real.

“Yes, he is.”

I groaned in relief and slumped backward, leaning into Griffin’s arms. I was as far from a fainting belle as I could be, but hell if Brady hadn’t given us the fright of our entire lives. He was dead. And then … he wasn’t. A smile fought to rush forth, but I was still too traumatized to trust the relief spreading through me.

Griffin held my back to his chest as Layla tumbled into her mom’s open arms, sobbing already. Even Hunt let Alexis pull him against her side, though he was a head taller than his mom.

At our collective relief, the surgeon allowed himself an easy, albeit tired, smile. “Brady’s going to win the hospital’s yearly luckiest survivor award. I’ve never seen anything like this before and I’ve been an ER doc for going on twenty years. I’ve seen a lot of crazy cases over that time, some that would blow your minds, but nothing like this, not even close. His injuries were so bad that he should’ve died. But somehow … he didn’t.”

Our parents exchanged a heavy look with each other.

“Doctor,” Porter asked, “are there any”—he stopped to gulp back his fear—“lasting effects? Will he be … okay? Like his usual self?”

The surgeon nodded, but slowly, as if he were formulating some caveat to his response. Finally he just said, “Though his spinal column is bruised from the impact, there are no fractures. Not even a vertebra popped out of place, which seems impossible, but there you have it.”

“And the puncture? His heart, lungs?” Celia asked, her eyes big as she waited for a response.

“The rebar pierced Brady’s torso, leaving a hole the size of a grapefruit. It crushed or snapped several of his ribs, but it’s possible they’ll heal well enough if he abides by the indicated bed rest. His lungs weren’t harmed.”

“And his heart?” Celia pressed.

The surgeon made eye contact with every one of us there before proceeding. “The rebar sheared the mitral valve, leaving it all but irreparable.”

Celia gasped softly, and Layla whimpered in her arms.

The surgeon held up a hand, silently asking us to wait before reacting. “His heart was tilted out of position, and it did stop beating. We had to piece together the torn valve, along with other tissue of the heart organ. And, well, I did a bunch of other things too that I can go over with you after I finish up in there. I just wanted to give you the good news first.”

He met Celia’s and Porter’s gazes as he said, “I’m not exaggerating when I say that your son is truly the luckiest young man I’ve ever known—even heard about. Not only will he live and possibly have no long-lasting damage”—he held up another hand in warning—“so long as he follows all my recommendations for recovery and his follow-ups, but his survival alone is truly unheard of. The entire hospital staff is shocked—and delighted, of course—to learn that he’s pulled through. His body experienced extreme trauma, and he’ll need to take it really slowly as his heart heals and his ribs mend.”

The doctor shifted his weight with a soft squeak of a sneaker. “And though his spine reveals no damage, he’s going to feel like a freight train slammed into him for a long time. But, Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty, that your son is alive at all is a true miracle. If you were busy praying, then you should probably give thanks to that higher power, because it came through. Your son will have scars, and he’ll be creaky for a long while, but I’m cautiously optimistic that a year from now he won’t show many signs of this incident, beyond the scarring of course. Not even a miracle can stitch together a hole that size without leaving a trace.”

He shook his head, ruffling his shiny short hair. “I still can scarcely believe he made it. No one’s ever come back from anything even close to this. The damage to his body is so severe as to be lethal, and yet his body’s still managing to function on its own. Even his heart is pumping without assistance, and I literally just finished piecing it together.” Another incredulous shake of his head before he slid the cap back on.

“Thank you, Doctor,” my dad said. “We appreciate everything you did to save Brady, so very much.”

The surgeon nodded again. “I’m very skilled at what I do, but not even I would have been able to bring him back from that without a hand from above. Brady’s as fortunate as it gets. You might want to have him pick some lottery numbers for you.” He chuckled at his own joke. “If you think of any other questions, I’ll pop back out in a while.”

“Thank you again, Doctor. We are so grateful to you,” Celia gushed, reaching to squeeze his hands before pulling away quickly when he froze at her touch. “When will we be able to see him?”

“He’s still under anesthesia as he’s being closed up. It’ll be a good while before he wakes up. And even then, we need to monitor him extremely closely. He’s out of the woods, but I plan on watching him like a hawk just in case something surprises us. Visits will be short and for immediate family only.”

“We’re all his family,” Griffin said right away, his determination vibrating through his chest against my back.

Porter glanced at him, then told the surgeon, “That’s right. All of us here are a family unit.”

“Fine,” the doctor said. “But visits will be limited to one at a time, and for a max of fifteen minutes. Nothing stressful or disruptive. He needs to rest to finish pulling out of this as well as possible.” Again, he met all of our waiting gazes as if to impress us with the gravity of the situation—like we could have missed it. “He died tonight.”

At that, my chest tightened painfully again until my mom, Monica, asked, “Have you already run brain scans?”

“We have. Brain activity is normal. Like I said, luck was on your side tonight.”

He offered a grim smile at odds with the totality of his news, turned, and walked away, back through the double doors.

I spun in Griffin’s arms to face him. “Brady’s alive.” I tested out the words, unsure they’d reach past my numb shock. “He’s gonna be fine.” My voice rose as the news sank in. “Oh my God, Griff, Brady’s gonna be fine.”

His smile started in his eyes before spreading across his cheeks, until I was soon staring at his bright, straight teeth—thanks to a year of braces when we were in the fourth grade.

“He’s gonna be fine,” I repeated on a rushed squeal that sounded nothing like me, and then I jumped at him, wrapping my legs around his waist while he twirled me around like we were in some stupid rom-com.

But all around us, the others were celebrating too. I heard them but didn’t see. All I felt at that moment was Griffin, the way he held me tightly, how his touch was so natural that my body wanted to melt into him.

He laughed, and I threw my head back, indulging in the lightness of heart that hit me as hard as the earlier devastation.

When Griffin stopped spinning me, I suddenly realized I was wrapped around him like a monkey and eyes were on us. I untangled from him to stand on my own feet but didn’t waste a second overthinking.

I looked at the others, their expressions a copy of mine: ecstatic, relieved, overwhelmed, still frightened and overcome.

“Brady’s fucking alive.” I grinned until my cheeks ached, and my mom didn’t even correct my language for once.

And when the sun burst above the buildings spread across our view, coloring the sky like an artist’s canvas, I finally allowed myself to accept that the night hadn’t broken us after all.

Brady was alive.