Chapter 4
Lily slept through most of the afternoon.
The neurologist had adjusted her medication, hoping the extra rest would give her brain more time to recover. Every few hours, a nurse checked her pupils, her reflexes, and the strength in her tiny fingers before quietly recording another page of numbers that none of us could change.
Andrew stayed.
For the first time since the accident, he didn't leave the floor.
He answered calls outside the room. He signed charts on his tablet. Two residents came looking for him with questions about another patient, and he handled everything from the hallway instead of disappearing into the operating wing.
Whenever he came back, he pulled a chair beside Lily's bed.
He read stories.
He helped her drink water.
He even laughed when she insisted the stuffed rabbit needed its own hospital bracelet.
Watching him like this hurt in a different way.
This was the father Lily had always wanted.
The one who could make her smile without checking his phone every five minutes.
The one who should have been here years ago.
Late that afternoon, Dr. Harris came in carrying Lily's latest scans.
"I'd like to speak with both of you."
Andrew stood immediately.
"How bad is it?"
Dr. Harris laid the films across the light board.
"The swelling is beginning to stabilize. That's encouraging."
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
He continued before relief could settle.
"Her rehabilitation needs to start as soon as she's medically stable."
Andrew nodded.
"I've already contacted Boston Children's."
Dr. Harris looked from him to me.
"They have an excellent program."
"They do," I said.
"But she doesn't only need specialists."
Andrew frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means she'll spend months relearning things other children take for granted."
I looked at Lily sleeping peacefully beneath the blanket.
"Walking without losing her balance. Holding a pencil. Remembering instructions. Managing fear every time she hears an ambulance."
Dr. Harris gave a small nod.
"Recovery won't happen during surgery."
"It happens every day afterward."
The room fell quiet.
Then he turned to me.
"Mrs. Stone, given your background in child psychology, you'll probably become the most important person in her rehabilitation."
Andrew looked surprised.
"You never told me rehabilitation would depend that much on—"
"I've worked with children recovering from trauma for eleven years."
The words came out before I could soften them.
"Before I stopped."
Andrew stared at me.
"I didn't realize..."
"No."
I met his eyes.
"You didn't."
A knock interrupted us.
One of the cardiac nurses stood outside the door, slightly out of breath.
"Dr. Stone?"
Andrew stepped into the hallway.
The nurse lowered her voice, but the corridor was too quiet for her words to disappear completely.
"Ms. Sophia Bennett is asking if you can come upstairs."
"Emily refuses her medication unless you're with her."
Andrew didn't answer immediately.
His shoulders tightened.
Inside the room, Lily was still asleep.
Outside the room, Sophia was waiting.
And I already knew which door my husband would walk toward next.
Andrew stood in the hallway for several seconds.
"The nurse can give her the medication," he finally said.
"She's refusing everyone else," the nurse replied. "She's asking for you."
I watched his hand tighten around his phone.
He looked back into Lily's room.
She was asleep.
One small hand rested outside the blanket, still wrapped in hospital tape from the IV.
He stepped toward her bed and gently adjusted the blanket around her shoulders.
"I'll be back before she wakes up."
He said it to me.
Or maybe to himself.
Then he followed the nurse down the hallway.
I didn't stop him.
I had stopped believing words could change a decision long before tonight.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Harris returned carrying a thick folder.
"I've prepared Lily's rehabilitation plan."
He placed it in front of me.
The first page listed specialists.
The second listed physical therapy.
The third was cognitive rehabilitation.
Then came family counseling.
Home exercises.
School reintegration.
The schedule stretched across six months.
Minimum.
I turned another page.
Then another.
There was no surgery that could erase what had happened.
Recovery would be built one morning, one afternoon, one exhausted evening at a time.
Dr. Harris sat beside me.
"Mrs. Stone, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Are you planning to return to work?"
The question caught me off guard.
"I haven't practiced for years."
"I know."
He nodded.
"I read your file after Andrew mentioned your background."
He slid another brochure across the table.
It wasn't from the hospital.
It was from a pediatric rehabilitation center.
"They're expanding."
"They're looking for child trauma psychologists."
"I know the director."
I looked down at the brochure without touching it.
"I can't leave Lily."
"I'm not asking you to."
His voice remained calm.
"I'm asking you to remember that you're still qualified."
After he left, I kept staring at the paper.
The last time someone had spoken to me as a professional instead of Andrew Stone's wife was six years ago.
I had almost forgotten what that felt like.
The elevator doors opened at the end of the corridor.
Andrew walked back carrying a paper bag.
He smiled as he entered the room.
"I brought your favorite soup."
He stopped when he saw the brochure on my lap.
"What's that?"
"A rehabilitation center."
He relaxed.
"Oh."
"They're excellent."
"I can make a donation if Lily needs anything."
"It's not for Lily."
He looked confused.
"They're hiring."
His expression shifted.
"You want to go back to work?"
"I don't know."
It was the first honest answer I'd given anyone in days.
"I only know Lily's recovery won't end when we leave this hospital."
Andrew pulled a chair closer.
"We'll hire the best therapists."
"We'll hire nurses if we have to."
"You don't need to carry this alone."
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I asked quietly,
"Will you be there?"
He frowned.
"Of course."
"My question wasn't about money."
"It wasn't about therapists."
"It wasn't about Boston."
I closed the rehabilitation folder.
"It was about the next time Sophia calls."
Andrew didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
His silence had answered every version of that question for years.
I reached into my handbag, took out my phone, and scrolled to a number I had saved that morning.
Margaret Lawson. Family Law Attorney.
My thumb hovered above the call button.
Then I pressed it.
"Ms. Lawson?" I said when the line connected.
"My name is Grace Stone."
"I'd like to schedule a consultation for a divorce."