The Words We Keep

“Lily.”

A light.

“Lily, can you hear me?”

I surface slowly. Little flutter kicks propelling me up, up, up. Dad leans over me. His face fills my vision.

“Dad,” I say. “What happened?”

He tells me I’m in the hospital. I’m hooked up to antibiotics. The doctors are helping me now. I’m going to be okay.

My family sits around my bed. Dad. Staci. Alice. Margot.

They tell me they love me.

I tell them I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.

“Why didn’t you te—” Dad starts, but cuts himself off. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re here. And we’re here. And we’re going to get you help.”

I nod. I’m in a hospital gown. Dad has probably seen all my scabs. Probably knows how deep my wounds run.

“I might be beyond help,” I whisper.

Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. The weight of it grounds me.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “We’re a family. That’s what we do.”

Alice touches my foot at the bottom of the bed as Margot squishes her way next to me through the maze of tubes pumping into my arm. She wraps her arms around me. Dad keeps one hand on me at all times, like he’s reassuring himself I’m real. I’m here.

And I am.

I’m here, breathing in and out.

Listening to the rhythm of the heart monitor beeping through the room.

Even though my brain is mushy and my body aches and I have no idea what will happen next, I’m here.

And so are they.

And their light chases away the darkness.