Free Surface by Stacy Robinson Page A

accidental insulin overdose. “We’ll deal with the rest of this mess after we get a handle on Nicholas’s situation.”
    “I’m so sorry Michael. You know you and Nicky are the most important things in my life. Please, can we—”
    A formation of jets roared overhead. They both glanced skyward. Claire placed her hands over her face and concentrated on her breathing, trying hard to silence her sobs. When she looked out, she saw Michael walking toward the hospital entrance, head bowed, shoulders slumped.
    She returned to the ICU alone and found Michael already in conversation with Dr. Marks in the lounge. Claire listened as the doctor recommended a craniotomy and clip ligation of the aneurysm, whereby he would open a hole in Nick’s skull and secure the damaged vessel. The other option was to wait and see if he would emerge from the coma on his own before reducing the pressure on his brain, which might put Nicholas at risk for further hemorrhaging. Dr. Marks left them to make a decision.
    Back in Nick’s room, Claire sat next to her son and stroked his arm as she considered the doctor’s words. She touched his lips and eyelids with her fingertips. His mouth twitched, just a reflex—the nurses had explained this to Claire the first time she’d witnessed it. But she took it as a sign, as the response she’d been waiting for. And in that instant she knew that the surgery would work. She felt it as a mother senses the sex of a baby still in her womb, felt it etched in the grout beneath her feet and the soft hum in the air around them. Nicholas would wake up after his surgery.
    “If he comes out of that surgery a vegetable, or if he . . .”
    “Shut up,” she hissed, seizing Michael’s hand and yanking him through the curtain to the hallway. “Don’t you ever speak like that in front of him again. Ever.” She hit his chest with her fists, thud after thud like low drumbeats, and Michael grabbed her, pulling her to him as she began to shout. She felt his arms grow tighter around her, felt her anger peak and then tick slowly down like a blood pressure monitor with one final, muted scream into his chest.
    “Calm down,” he whispered, guiding her to the lounge and away from the eyes and ears in the corridor. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
    Claire yanked herself free and wiped her eyes, putting as much distance between them as the room would allow. “I think Nicky should have the surgery as soon as possible,” she said.
    “Why?” His tears were flowing freely now.
    “Because I know it’s going to work.”
    Michael moved into her line of sight. “And you think you can trust your instincts? They’ve served you well up until now?”
    “Damn it, Michael,” she said, the ticker soaring again, “I know I made a terrible choice, but don’t ever question the choices I make about Nicky’s health. Just remember who’s been there for every doctor’s appointment, and who’s done all the middle-of-the-night blood tests. I know our son.” She rested her arm on the wall. “Nicky’s going to wake up.”
    “I want Bruce to get us a consult with one of his colleagues at Mayo. I could fly someone out tomorrow,” he said, stiffening his body.
    “The doctors here are excellent, Michael. Bruce has total confidence in them, and it’s not like you can just snap your fingers and have someone here immediately. There’s no time for that.”
    Michael cradled his face in his hands. A buzzer sounded in the distance. “I know,” he finally said, his voice stained with grief. “I know.”
     
    Claire returned to Nicholas’s room and took out the blood-glucose monitor she kept in her purse. Another test between the nurses’ checks to give her some peace of mind. As she pricked the pad of his middle finger with the lancet and squeezed a droplet of blood onto the meter, she thought of Nick’s diabetes diagnosis years earlier, of how traumatic and overwhelming it had been. And how manageable, in light of