“We’re running tests,” she said gently. “Andrew is unresponsive, and his heart did stop briefly, but we revived him. He’s in a coma, but we’re still working to find out why. Every hour matters right now.”
“You have his files? You have his history?” I asked.
She nodded gently.
I stood there, gripping the bed rail, listening to the endless beep of the monitors. The world shrank to the rise and fall of my son’s chest.
Brendon wept, loud and raw, but something about it didn’t fit. It felt too practiced, like he was building an alibi out of tears.
I knelt by Andrew, brushing his forehead.
“Early signs point to cardiac arrest.”
“I’m right here, baby,” I whispered. “You don’t have to be brave alone — not anymore.”
In that silence, I remembered his last text to me:
“Love you, Mom. I’ll see you at dinner.”
Brendon stepped to my side.
“He was fine, Olivia. We just walked around the block. He didn’t say anything was wrong.”
“Love you, Mom. I’ll see you at dinner.”
I kept my voice low. “Brendon, did he mention feeling dizzy or chest pain before he collapsed?”
He shook his head, too quickly. “No, nothing like that. He was happy, I swear. We talked about baseball, he wanted to practice pitching after dinner. He tripped, that’s all. It’s not my fault.”
I watched him. When he finally met my eyes, something darted across his face — fear, guilt, or both.
“You know that if there’s anything else, I have to tell the doctors, right?”
Brendon opened his mouth, then closed it, jaw working. “Liv, I swear. He didn’t say anything.”
“He was happy, I swear.”
The nurse came in quietly. “I’m sorry, but visiting hours are over. You both need rest.”
Brendon sighed, pulling his jacket tight. “I’ll head home. Call me if anything changes.”
When I turned back to Andrew, the room was so quiet I could hear the clock ticking. I sat by his side, stroking his arm, searching for any sign of warmth beneath all those tubes and wires.
“I’m here, baby,” I kept saying. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That’s when I noticed his fist, curled tight against the sheet. At first, I thought it was just muscle tension, but then I realized he was clutching something. A small piece of paper, crumpled and damp.
The nurse came in quietly.
I coaxed his fingers open, heart pounding.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
“Mom, open my closet for the answers. BUT DON’T TELL DAD!”
The words read like a warning.
