He talks to the nurse at the station, and she points over at us. "Oh my God," my mother says, slipping her hand into mine. Her nervousness is felt all the way to my bones. Her hand trembles in mine as she squeezes it tightly.
"Are you with Jane Doe?" the doctor asks us. I can’t even say anything because my mouth is so dry. I watch him, wondering if he is going to tell us the worst-case news. Will he tell us that the woman I held in my arms died? Just the thought sends my heart into overdrive.
"She’s alive." He cuts right to it. “Barely." My legs shake. “She coded three times." I release my mother’s hand as I put my hand to my stomach. The pressure feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.
"What is wrong with her?" my mother asks.
"What isn’t wrong with her?" He shakes his head. “She had a massive head injury. I’ve never seen anything so bad. I stopped the bleeding there, but that is just the beginning. To be honest, I don’t know how she’s still alive." I open my mouth in shock. “The next forty-eight hours are going to be crucial for her. Even if she survives this, we still don’t know the extent of her brain injuries."
"When can I see her?" I ask, and he looks down.
"It’s supposed to be family only,” he says, but he must see that no matter what he says, I’m not leaving here.
"Considering we are calling her Jane Doe and the fact no one else is here," my father says, “I’m going to go out on a limb and say we’re the only family she has right now."
He nods his head. “Only one of you can go in."
"Thank you,” I say, watching him turn around and walk away.
"Jesus," my mother says, walking to one of the chairs with shaky hands. “Quinn." She looks at me. “This is …" She blinks away tears, putting her hand on the top of her head. Her own blue eyes are becoming a shade darker. "You can’t do this." She looks at me and then at my father. “Cowboy,” she says his nickname softly, and he just looks down.
"Mom," I say, and she holds up her trembling hand.
"You are going to sit by her bedside, and you don’t even know her name. You don’t even know her story,” she says.
“I don’t know what to say,” I tell my mother honestly. “There is just something in me that can’t just leave her here alone.” Even if I tried to explain it, I don’t think I would be able to. How do you explain that something inside me can’t leave her? How do you explain that everything in your body yells at you to stay?
“She might die in there, and God knows how this will affect you.” She uses the back of her hand to dab away her tears. “You always have this need to save things.” She comes to me, putting her hand on my cheek. “Sometimes, you just need to watch instead of jumping all in.”
“If you guys want to help.” I look at her, then at my father. “Find out who she is."
"We’re working on it," my father says. “But there was nothing in that cabin."
"What about the black bag?" I ask him about the bag I had in my hand when I first spotted her under the bed.
"Nothing in there but clothes and a locket," he says. “No wallet, no nothing."
"How can one person be so off the radar?" My mother looks at my father. “There has to be something in the system."
"Did we get her fingerprints?" I ask my father, and he shakes his head.
"There are so many prints in that cabin," he says, and I close my eyes. “It’ll be a while before we get anything concrete.”
"Well, then get me something, and I’ll get them, and we can run them through the system." I point at where the blue doors are.
"What are you talking about?" My mother rises. “This woman is going to be fighting for her life. I will not let you go in there and do that."
"How else are we going to find out?" My father puts his hands on his hips.
"We’ll find out when she wakes up and you ask her," my mother says. “You need to go home and shower." She looks at me, and I shake my head.
"I’m not leaving,” I say.
"You have her blood on your hands,” she says, and I look down at my hands. I hadn’t even noticed.
"I’ll wash up." I look at her.
"You can’t go in there right now, and I promise I will stay here the whole time,” she says, and she holds her hand up to my cheek. “My sweet boy. She’s going to wake up alone and afraid and probably in a lot of pain. The last thing she’ll want to see is you dressed all in black with her blood on you."
I look over at my father. “Give me your keys." I hold out my hand, and he’s about to hand me the keys when the nurse enters.
"Mr. Barnes," she calls my name and smiles at me. “You can come with me." She turns on her white hospital shoes and doesn’t even look back to see if I’m following her.
I look over at my mother, who has tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to leave you here,” she says.
"I’ll text you if I need you,” I say and hug her. I slip my arms around her waist, and she looks up and kisses my cheek.
"You always were the one to help the wounded,” she says, and then I look at my father.
"I’ll let you know when she wakes up,” I say, not thinking about the alternative.
I turn, following the nurse down the beige hallway right past the nurses’ station that I went to earlier.
She presses the silver button on the wall, and the two blue doors open. Walking in, I feel it’s a whole different space. All I hear is the beeping from the machines. Even the overhead light is dim on this side of the hospital.
A nurses’ station sits in the middle of the huge room with a whiteboard behind them. Each room has a name except for one that has Jane on it. Her column is empty like a blank canvas.
Each room has a window that looks out to the nurses’ station. She pushes open the door to the room, and I think I’m ready for what is to greet me.
But.
I. Was. Wrong.
I stop in the middle of the entrance as I look at her in the bed. The sound of the machine beeping beside her echoes in the room.
She lies in the middle of the bed, wearing a white and blue hospital gown. One hand rests at her side with a gray button on her finger, while the other arm is in a cast up to her elbow. "She’s stable," the nurse tells me, and I don’t even turn my head away from the woman in the bed. Her face is as white as before but cleaned. One of her eyes is still swollen shut.
I take a step forward and stand next to her bed, a white bandage is around her head. A tube down her throat helps her breathe, and the only thing I can watch is her chest rising and falling. “Is she in pain?" I ask the nurse.
"No,” she says, and I see the IV in her arm. “We are giving her morphine every four hours." I sit in the chair beside her bed. My eyes go to one of the machines with green lines on it. “I’ll leave you alone. If you need me." I look over at her. “My name is Deborah."
I don’t say anything to her because I don’t trust my voice not to break. Instead, I nod at her, and she walks out of the room. I have never had to sit by someone’s bed and watch them fight to live. I have never had the pull that I have to this woman who I know nothing about.