32. Sam

Sam

“Sam?”

My heart stops the moment I hear her voice. I know it’s Finn, but that doesn’t track. She exists in one world, and my dad in another.

I’ve just walked into his hospital room. His flowers are still in my hand. I’m looking at my father’s face, and I can almost hear him asking, You really didn’t think this woman was going to find out?

“Excuse me!” I hear someone say, and I finally do turn around. Finn has been crying—that much is evident from the tear tracks on her face. But she doesn’t look upset. I stare at her for a moment, until a nurse arrives, putting his hand on her arm.

“Sorry,” he says to me, and then to her, “Miss? You can’t me in here.”

“It’s okay,” I hear myself say, though it feels like it comes from another universe. “She’s…with me.”

She is, but not. Finn shouldn’t be here. She takes another step into the room, her eyes skipping from the white board, which clearly reads out my father’s name, including that damning Braun at the end, then to him in the hospital bed.

“Sam, what…?” she asks, frowning and stopping a few feet from me.

“Hey,” I say, swallowing and setting the flowers on the table. It’s hard for me to focus. “Are you crying?”

“Who is this?” Finn asks, sharp as ever. I’m pretty sure she’s already figured out who this is.

“My…dad,” I force out.

“I thought…”

We stand in silence for a moment while Finn stares at me. It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth. I know that the space in-between isn’t good though—it’s the space in which I told her I wanted her, then kept this from her. I’ve been purposefully avoiding the topic of my dad for the past six months so I wouldn’t have to lie to her about this. About one of the biggest things in my life.

The worst thing that ever happened to me. The worst thing that keeps happening to me, every day I come back here, and Dad is still like this.

“I get it,” she says, her eyes suddenly alight. I’m surprised—of everything I thought she might say, that was not one of them. I expected anger, or hurt. That I’d kept this from her.

“What?” I ask, blinking.

“This is it,” she breathes, stepping into the room, her eyes fixing on my father. “He looks so much like you, Sam.”

I swallow. “What’s it? ”

Her eyes shift to mine, slowly, as though it’s hard for her to look away from him. If I saw him through her eyes, I know he’d look worn, thin. As good as they take care of him, years in a coma doesn’t look good on anyone.

“ This is your block,” she says.

I stiffen. “What?”

“I wish I’d known about this,” Finn whispers, as though she’s in her own little world. When she takes another step toward the hospital bed, I move on instinct, blocking her, but it doesn’t seem to pull her from her thoughts. “Your father—the accident. I thought it was in the past, but it’s clearly not. This is what’s been holding you back, Sam!”

That last bit comes out with too much enthusiasm, but her eyes are a bit clouded. In any other situation, I’d sit her down, figure out why she was at the hospital in the first place.

But all I feel is panic—anger, an itchy sort of anxiety that Finn shouldn’t be in this room. That her being here changes the dynamic between my father and me.

“Stop. You don't know what you're talking about.”

“What?” she almost laughs. “Of course I do. It’s like—everything is coming into focus. You’re trapped in your grief!”

“I am not grieving,” I say, throat feeling like a boulder. “My father is right here.”

“ Sam.” Finns eyes dart between the bed and me. There’s a voice in the back of my head that says to abort this entire thing, that it would be better to leave now and talk to her later, but it’s drowned out by the pounding waves in my ears.

Finn says, “I know this is hard—”

“You don’t know anything about this.”

“And why is that?”

“No—I just…” I realize my hands are shaking. I’m desperately trying to keep my voice down. “You don’t understand.”

She takes a step toward me. “Then tell me. Help me understand.”

For a moment, I almost do. I almost tell her about how Dad would wake up early to flood our backyard rink in winter. How he learned everything about hockey just because I loved it. How he never missed a game, even when it meant driving through snowstorms.

How much he wanted me to be great. How every time we went to a game or sports museum together, he’d gesture to the jerseys up on the wall and say, “You’re gonna be up there, bud. First Braun in history to really do something with his life.”

Finn’s eyes skip to his bed again, and I bristle.

“No.” My voice is hard. “I’m not going to tell you about this so you can analyze it and quantify it and run it through some program to tell me I should let him go. You don't get to optimize my relationship with my father.”

When I pause, I realize I’m breathing hard, the next words come out strange, “Some things aren’t about performance metrics and breakthrough moments. Some things are just about…love.”

“Love can be complicated,” Finn says, studying me. “If you had a child, would you want them to spend their time like this? Waiting in your hospital room?”

I open my mouth, then close it. When I open it again, I wish I hadn’t. “You don’t know anything about this. My dad wanted me. It’s not the same.”

Her mouth opens into an “O”, but words don’t come out. Like the breath has been knocked out of her.

“Shit.” I hang my head. What good does it to do hurt her feelings? “Shit, Finn, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“No,” she says, voice tight, “You’re right. It’s different. I just—I thought I could help.”

“Not everything needs your help,” I say, suddenly exhausted. “Not everything needs to be fixed.”

“He’s not going to wake up, is he?”

The question hits me like a body check, knocking the air from my lungs. I know the answer—the doctors have shown me the scans. According to them, it’s not possible.

“You don't know that.”

“But they've told you. Haven't they?”

“There are cases…” I trail off, knowing how it sounds. There are miracle cases—documented times when the doctors don’t think it could happen, and yet it does.

“Sam.” Her tone is impossibly gentle. “Is this what he would want? To be kept here like this?”

My voice breaks. “Stop. Please, just stop.”

She moves closer, and I feel her hand on my shoulder. Warm. Real. “I know you love him. Maybe you’re not ready to say goodbye. But maybe that’s exactly what’s holding you back—not just in hockey, but in life. You’re waiting for something that…might never happen.”

No, no, no. I can’t stand the thought of making that decision. The thought always comes back to haunt me: What if I take him off the life support today, and tomorrow was the day he’d wake up?

“I can’t—I’m not doing this right now.”

“Doing what?”

It’s just two words, but I can hear it in her tone— I thought you wanted me. I thought you wanted this.

“You think you know what’s best for my dad?” It almost comes out as a laugh. Incredulous, and when I say it, it doesn’t sound like my own voice.

“That’s not what I—”

“I know what you're implying,” I cut her off, squeezing my hands into fists. “That I should let him go. That I’m being selfish keeping him here. But you don’t understand.”

“Believe it or not, I do understand. Being stuck, unable to fully commit to the future because you’re so fixated on this one thing, trapped in the moment.” When Finn’s eyes meet mine, they’re shining with tears. “Sometimes the moment you let go is when you gain clarity. When you allow some space for things to go your way.”

The moment you let go. It’s not just some adage from a motivational book. She’s talking about letting my father go.

Doctors and nurses have been telling me for years that his brain activity is low. That he doesn’t have much of a chance at coming back. They’ve shown me the scans and given me the statistics. And every time I look at him, I can’t even fathom the possibility of pulling him off the machine keeping him alive. It feels like if I make that choice, it’d be the next day that he finally woke up.

“Get out.” My voice is low, dangerous. I don’t feel in control of my body or my facial expressions.

Finn takes a step back, hurt flashing across her face. “I just thought—”

“Well, don't.”

The silence stretches between us, and I can't bring myself to look at her.

If I do, I might see that clinical gaze she uses when she’s trying to figure out which of my stats to focus on. When she’s determining I should test out muscle recovery gels, or start a new vitamin regimen.

The look she uses when she’s trying to figure out how to fix something.

My dad isn't broken. He's just...waiting. And I'll wait with him as long as it takes.

Turning away from her, I grab the bouquet of flowers with shaking hands. I focus on the crinkling of the cellophane to keep from turning around and chasing after her. My brain feels like a tornado has gone through it, and I already have the sinking feeling of regret. A wish to go back and do something differently.

But I can’t. So, instead, I do what I’m here to.

I sit down next to Dad’s bed and grab the remote, turning the TV to Sports Center.