Chapter Six – Holding On [Narrated]
Welcome back to Holding On.
Last time, Rachel returned home bearing the weight of hard news. The kitchen was full of laughter. Bolognese on the stove. A game of Jenga mid-collapse. In that ordinary room, the extraordinary broke through: Nana is in a coma. The end is near.
What followed wasn’t melodrama—but rupture in miniature. A boy’s tears. A girl’s retreat. A mother holding together the pieces, even as she splintered inside. Chris made dinner. Made space. Made it bearable. And Rachel, for a moment, let herself be held.
Now, she’s back at the hospice.
This chapter doesn’t leap forward. It leans in. Time slows. Words thin. The waiting room of grief—its quiet, its questions—takes center stage.
Thank you for sitting in that stillness with her. With them. With this.
Chapter Six
Rachel was less than a mile from the hospice when the car’s display lit up: a text from David.
She tapped the hands-free. The robotic voice read aloud: “Mum’s vitals are dropping fast. The doctors don’t think she has much time left. Please hurry back.”
Her breath caught. “No, no, no,” she whispered, jabbing the call button. One ring. Two. No answer.
“Pick up, David,” she snapped. “Just pick up.”
The assistant’s voice cut in: “No answer. Would you like to leave a message?”
She barely registered it. Her mind spun—fear, fury, what-ifs crashing into each other. She redialed. Straight to voicemail.
“Why a text?” she muttered. “Why not just call?”
The road twisted ahead—narrow, shadowed, flanked by hedges that loomed like walls. Her foot pressed harder on the accelerator. The engine groaned.
What if I’m too late?
The thought landed like a blow. Her mother’s face surfaced—still, gone. Rachel blinked hard, but the edges stayed wet, the road smeared and unsteady.
Her breath turned shallow, erratic. David always overreacted, but this?
“Why couldn’t you just call?” she cried. “Why make me read that?”
The hospice came into view—sudden, stark. She swerved into a space, car angled across the lines. Door flung open. Running.
Cold air slashed her cheeks. Her boots pounded the pavement—too loud, too fast. Each step repeated the same desperate command: Not yet. Not yet.
The automatic doors hissed open. She didn’t pause—just a blur, a nod, legs on instinct.
At the end of the hallway, she skidded to a stop.
Hand to the doorframe. Chest heaving.
One breath.
Then she pushed the door open.
Inside, everything was still.
Her father lay asleep, chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. The worry lines on his face had softened, as if the weight he carried had finally let go—if only for a while. Her mother lay motionless beneath the blanket, hands folded neatly, stillness almost regal.
No nurses. No beeping machines. No urgency. Just quiet.
Relief hit. Sharp. Staggering.
Then came the fury. It surged fast, burning through adrenaline, leaving her dizzy, untethered. Her pulse hadn’t caught up to the room.
David stood by the window and turned at the sound.
“Rachel?” Too casual. “You okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She stared, breath uneven. “‘Mum’s vitals are dropping fast’? That’s what your text said.” Her voice cracked. “I thought she was gone.”
David raised both hands, half-apology, half-defense.
“Rach, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Can we step outside? I’ll explain.”
She glanced at her mother. At her father. The whole room felt like a cruel punchline.
She turned to David, jaw clenched. “Fine. But this better be worth the panic attack.”
He nodded. A flicker of guilt—or relief—passed across his face.
Rachel followed him out.
Cool air drifted through the hallway window, brushing Rachel’s flushed skin. She folded her arms—part warmth, part armor.
“Well?” she said. “What was that text?”
David leaned against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair.
“The nurse said Mum’s vitals were weaker. That we should keep an eye on her tonight. I... panicked. I thought you’d want to know right away.”
Her eyes didn’t move.
“And that’s how you said it? ‘Dropping fast’? I thought I was walking into—”
David winced.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—didn’t know how else to say it.”
“You could’ve used some basic judgment,” she snapped. “I nearly crashed the car.”
He looked down. Shoulders sagging.
“I’m sorry, Rach. I should’ve been clearer. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
Rachel leaned back against the brick wall, the chill grounding her. She blew out a long breath.
“I get it,” she said at last. “It’s hard. But you can’t send a message like that and not think about what it’ll do to me.”
David nodded. Small. Quiet.
“You’re right. I’ll do better.”
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile. Just heavy.
Rachel glanced at him—the shadows under his eyes, his posture folding inward.
Then he spoke, softer.
“The doctor doesn’t think she’ll make it through another day. Even though she looks stable now. They want us to be ready.”
Rachel’s arms tightened. The words bloomed like a bruise.
“You should’ve just told me that,” she said.
“I know,” he murmured. “I thought if I said it too directly... you’d drop everything.”
“I did drop everything,” she said—not loud, but sharp. “Because you were vague. Again.”
He shifted, hands deep in pockets.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” she cut in. “But it still matters.”
David nodded. Swallowed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Rach. Every time I walk into that room, I feel like I’m failing them. Failing you. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, or do, or be.”
His voice didn’t wobble, but something cracked open.
Rachel blinked.
No jokes. No deflection. Just honesty.
She let the silence stretch.
“We’re all failing,” she said. “That’s what it feels like. But it doesn’t mean we stop trying.”
David gave a small nod, barely visible. Then leaned back beside her, gaze tipped toward the ceiling like it might hold answers.
Rachel stayed still. The weight of what was coming pressed in.
But for now, neither of them moved.
Rachel exhaled slowly, chest still tight with dread and adrenaline. She turned toward the door.
“We should go in,” she said—quiet, but steady.
David nodded.
She pushed the door open. The soft creak cut through the stillness like a held breath released.
Inside, nothing had changed.
The air hung with disinfectant and the faint sweetness of fading petals. Her father lay as before—breathing slow, steady. Too steady. The kind of rhythm that tricks you into thinking time hasn’t run out.
Rachel paused. Her gaze settled on her mother’s face, impossibly still beneath the lamplight. Hands folded with care. Peaceful. Fragile.
David followed, slower now. He sank into the chair by the window, lightness gone. Silence settled—undisturbed.
Rachel stepped closer. Her hand hovered, then lowered, brushing her mother’s. Cool. Too cool.
She paused. Brushed again, gentler, as if willing warmth back.
“She looks the same,” she murmured. “You’d never guess how close we are.”
David leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Do you think she knows we’re here?”
Rachel didn’t answer right away. Her hand tightened around the blanket.
“Maybe,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like… she’s waiting.”
David turned. “Waiting for what?”
Her throat tightened. “For us to let her go.”
David leaned back, rubbed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”
Silence returned—heavier now.
Rachel pulled a chair to the bed and sat.
Her gaze drifted to her father.
“Even when he’s asleep,” she said, “he’s carrying it.”
David nodded. “Nurse said the sedative’s helping. At least he’s not in pain.”
Rachel nodded. But the ache stayed—stubborn. She hated the helplessness. The waiting. The watching.
David let his head fall back, eyes closed.
“You do so much, Rach. More than I ever could. I hope you know that.”
She glanced at him, surprised. No edge. Just truth.
“I don’t do it all,” she said. “I just do what I can.”
He opened his eyes. Looked at their mother.
“Well… I think you’re doing more than enough.”
The words landed.
Rachel let out a breath. A small smile touched her lips.
“Thanks,” she said.
She turned back to her mother, placed her hand gently over Lily’s.
There was nothing more to say. Only the waiting.
The hospice room was steeped in silence. Minutes stretched.
Rachel shifted in her chair. The ache in her legs barely registered beneath the weight on her chest. Her mother lay still. Her father’s slow rhythm offered the only pulse—fragile, but steady.
David stood and stretched. “I should head out. Lucky’s been alone all day.”
Rachel nodded, eyes on her mother. “Yeah. Go take care of him.”
He hesitated. “You’ll call if anything changes?”
“Of course. I’ve got it.”
He hovered, then brushed her shoulder. “Text me when you can.”
Then he was gone. The door clicked shut.
The room felt colder.
Rachel leaned back. Her gaze drifted to her father—lines deeper now, even in sleep.
Her phone buzzed. Chris’s name lit the screen.
She answered in a whisper. “Hey.”
“Hey, love. How are you holding up?”
“I’m… managing.” A lie too tangled to explain. “Mum’s still here, but the doctor doesn’t think she’ll make it through tomorrow. Dad’s finally resting. The sedative’s helping.”
“I’m glad. And you? Are you sure you don’t want me to come down?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m okay. David will be back in the morning.”
“How are Emma and Liam?”
“They’re alright,” Chris said gently. “Emma’s thinking about what she wants to say to Nana. Liam’s quieter, but... he’s finding his way.”
Rachel smiled faintly. “Tell them I’m proud. So proud.”
“I will. We’re ready to come whenever you need us.”
“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d manage. But you don’t have to.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. Try to rest, okay?”
“I’ll try.”
They hung up.
A soft knock. A nurse peeked in.
“How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” Rachel said. “Just staying the night.”
The nurse nodded. “Let us know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you.”
The door clicked shut.
Rachel reached for her mother’s hand.
“I’ll be here, Mum,” she whispered. “All night. You’re not alone.”
Her father stirred faintly. Even at rest, he looked worn.
The hours ahead stretched—quiet, uncertain.
But Rachel stayed.
She would not leave. Not tonight.
She leaned back. The chair was unyielding beneath her. The silence folded around her like a second skin.
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