Chapter Six: Room 14
Three days later, Maya opened her eyes.
It was early morning, just past six, the sky outside still gray. Carol was in the chair beside the bed — she had not left the hospital, sleeping in two-hour increments with her head tilted back against the wall — and she was the only one in the room when it happened.
Maya blinked. Once. Twice.
She turned her head slowly on the pillow, as though it weighed a great deal, and looked at her mother.
“Mom,” she said. Her voice was a dry croak, barely audible.
Carol stood up so fast the chair scraped back. She crossed to the bed in two steps and took Maya’s face in both hands, the way she used to when Maya was small and running a fever, pressing her forehead to her daughter’s.
“Hi, baby,” she whispered. “Hi. I’m here. I’m right here.”
“What happened?” Maya’s brow furrowed faintly. “I feel — strange. Where am I?”
“You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.” Carol pulled back just enough to look at her. “You’ve been — you were very sick. But you’re better now. You’re going to be fine.”
Maya looked around the room, confused and slow, taking in the monitors and the IV line and the pale morning light. “How long have I been here?”
“A few days.” Carol smoothed her daughter’s hair back from her forehead. “Don’t worry about that yet.”
Maya looked at her. “You’ve been crying.”
“Oh, a little.” Carol laughed — an unsteady, watery sound. “You know me.”
“Mom.” Maya reached up and took her mother’s wrist loosely in her fingers. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I’ve slept plenty.” She hadn’t. “You just rest.”
Maya’s eyes drifted closed again, then opened with visible effort. “Stay?” she murmured.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Carol said. “I have never been going anywhere.”
When Thomas and Danny arrived an hour later, they found Carol still seated at the bedside, holding Maya’s hand, watching her breathe with the concentrated, grateful attention of someone who has learned, suddenly and completely, never to take that particular miracle for granted.
