“When Hannah arrived, she was in respiratory distress,” Dr. Foster said. “She had gone into cardiac arrest twice en route, and significant measures were taken to restart her heart rhythms.”
He paused. “Unfortunately, after six months on a ventilator, Hannah’s lungs and diaphragm were not strong enough for this, even with the breathing assistance in place. One lung had already collapsed, and by the time our team arrived to assess her, the other one had collapsed also. We administered several measures to inflate her lungs and restore oxygen to her body, but those measures did not succeed.”
His expression was grim. “Hannah died about thirty minutes ago. I am very sorry for your loss.”
Silence blanketed the room. I stared at this man who had delivered these words. It didn’t quite sink in. Then I heard a keening cry from the end of the room. My mother had her hands over her mouth and shook from her sobs.
Jenny nudged me, and I got up and walked over to her, standing behind her with my hands on her shoulders.
“I’m very sorry,” the female doctor said. “Let us know if you have any questions.”
“Thank you for what you did for Hannah,” I said.
The two doctors left the room.
Regina passed a box of tissues to Jenny, who took one and sent the box down to my mother. Then Regina said, “They have moved Hannah to a private room. You can go see her now.”
My mom made no move to get up, so I bent and helped her to her feet. She leaned on me, heavy, stumbling, as if she carried too much weight for her to bear.
We followed Regina down the hall, past the waiting area, and to a small room. Hannah lay on a hospital bed just slightly inclined. The tubes were out of her mouth now and her hair splayed all across the pillow.
“My baby!” Mom said, and left me to rush to her side. She clasped Hannah’s hands between her own. “My sweet, sweet baby.”
I stood at the foot of the bed. My head buzzed with so many things. My sister as a little girl, riding her scooter down the street. The way she hero-worshipped me, even though I was no role model for anybody.
We’d failed her, all of us. And now here we were.
My mom rocked and held her hand, crying softly. “You were the most beautiful girl in the world,” she said. “My most beautiful perfect angel.”
She smoothed back Hannah’s hair. “Your father will never know what he missed.”
Anger surged through me at that. Where was that asshole anyway? I knew Mom had tried to contact him yet again after the accident, finding some social media account that looked like him. But he never responded. Maybe I’d hire that lawyer anyway, track him down, make him suffer for deserting Hannah.
My mind went a million angry directions, wanting to blame everybody for all of this. Most of all me. I never should have been out there, mud running. Never should have lost my temper over a good-for-nothing woman who was screwing one of my friends.
I wanted out of Tennessee. I never wanted to come back.
Just like my father.
Shit.
My mother held out her hand. “Come here, my boy,” she said.
I stepped around the bed and took her wet fingers in mine. I didn’t have anything to say. Hannah seemed lit up from above from this angle. I looked up at the recessed lamp in the ceiling. I resented everything, even the damn light.
We sat there a while, Mom connecting us with her hands. “We’ll have her favorite music at the funeral,” she said. “‘Amazing Grace,’ for sure. Maybe ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.’”
She talked on about Bible verses and the color of the liner of the casket. I couldn’t look at Hannah anymore, preferring to picture her as I knew her before, young and happy.
“He answered our prayer, you know,” she said.
I let go of her hand. “What do you mean?”
She fingered Hannah’s hair. “We didn’t have to be the ones to do it. It isn’t on our shoulders.”
I turned to look at Jenny, who was wiping tears from her eyes. She watched me with quiet pain.
My mother reached down for her purse and handed it to me. “There’s a piece of paper in there, in the side pocket. Can you get it for me?”
I rooted around and found a weathered sheet of lined paper, so old and worn as to be feathery soft. I unfolded it, taking care not to rip it.
I glanced at the words. They were arranged in short lines and seemed vaguely familiar. A couple simple chord strums were written in here and there.
It was a song.
“Will you sing this at her funeral?” Mom asked.
I looked up. “I don’t think I know it.”
“But you do,” she said. She turned back to Hannah.
I read through the lines again. The melody started to come to me. Yes, I did know this song. It was about fathers and faith and love. A Christian song. “Did we used to sing it in church?”
“No,” she said. “As far as I know, nobody’s ever heard it but me and Hannah.”
I didn’t remember them having any friends who played guitar. “Who wrote it?”