Chapter 5 - The Road to Mercy General
By late afternoon, Dr. Evans, Sophie’s attending pediatrician, cleared the children for discharge under Diego’s strict care, provided they returned for a follow-up checkup in three days.
Diego loaded Mateo and Sophie into the back seat of his car, making sure they were strapped in securely with fresh blankets and snacks he had bought at the hospital cafeteria. Sophie fell asleep almost immediately, exhausted from the ordeal, while Mateo rested his head against the window, watching the Chicago skyline blur past.
"Dad?" Mateo asked quietly from the back seat.
"Yeah, buddy?" Diego answered, looking through the rearview mirror.
"Is Mom going to be okay?"
Diego gripped the steering wheel, his heart aching. How do you explain a brain aneurysm to a six-year-old? How do you explain that their mother—whom they hadn't seen in days—was fighting for her life in another building across the city?
"Mom got very sick, Mateo," Diego chose his words carefully, keeping his voice calm and soothing. "She's at another hospital right now, and doctors are taking care of her. Grandma and Grandpa are with her, and we're going to go see her now."
Mateo was quiet for a moment, absorbing the information. "Is it my fault she got sick?"
Diego immediately pulled the car over to the side of a quiet street, put it in park, and turned around to look directly at his son.
"Look at me, Mateo," Diego said fiercely, taking his son's small hands in his own. "Listen to me very carefully. None of this was your fault. You did not do anything wrong. In fact, you were so brave, and you took such good care of Sophie. You are a hero, Mateo. Do you understand me? A hero."
Mateo blinked back a tear and nodded slowly. "Okay, Dad. I'm glad I called you."
"Me too, buddy," Diego whispered, leaning over to hug his son tightly. "Me too."
They resumed the drive, arriving at Mercy General Hospital forty minutes later. The Chicago autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of impending winter off Lake Michigan. Diego parked the car, carefully carried a sleeping Sophie in his arms, and held Mateo's hand as they walked through the grand glass doors of the medical center.
The lobby was bustling with visitors, but Diego walked straight to the information desk, where a nurse directed them to the fourth-floor Intensive Care Unit.
When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, the atmosphere changed instantly. It was quieter, the lighting dimmer, the air heavy with a sterile, solemn weight.
Down the hall, standing outside a large glass-walled ICU room, were Robert and Elena.
When Elena saw Diego, Mateo, and Sophie walking down the corridor, her hands flew to her mouth, and a fresh wave of tears welled in her eyes. She practically ran down the hallway, dropping to her knees in front of Mateo.
"My sweet boy," Elena sobbed softly, wrapping her arms around Mateo and pulling him close. "My brave, brave boy."
Robert walked over to Diego, his face etched with a mix of profound exhaustion and cautious hope. He looked at Sophie, who was sleepily rubbing her eyes in Diego’s arms, and then up at Diego.
"How are they?" Robert asked quietly.
"They're recovering," Diego replied, his voice low. "Sophie’s fever is gone, and Mateo is holding up like a champ. What about Laura? How is she?"
Robert took a deep, shuddering breath, a small, trembling smile finally breaking through his grief. "About an hour ago... right after we finished talking to the neurologist... Laura opened her eyes."
Diego felt the breath catch in his throat. "She woke up?"
"She's still very weak," Robert explained, gesturing toward the glass wall of Room 402. "She can't speak yet because of the trauma to her throat from the breathing tube, and she's confused. But the doctors said she recognized us. She looked right at her mother and me... and then she started crying."
May you like
Diego looked through the glass window.
Inside the dim room, surrounded by monitors and wires, Laura lay propped up slightly on the hospital bed. Her face was pale, her dark hair splayed across the white pillow, looking fragile and small.
