The Darkest Sunrise (The Darkest Sunrise #1)

I’d thought it was bad when he couldn’t make it through the day without at least one breathing treatment, but now, we were up to three.

My son was eleven. He should have been out playing soccer and being a little shit, pulling pranks on the girls he liked—not waking up at three in the morning and struggling for survival. And, with every passing day, as he slipped further down the inevitable slope, I became more and more terrified that, one day, I’d lose him.

His lungs rattled as he sucked in so hard that the wheeze could have been heard throughout the house.

The familiar buzz filled the room as the nebulizer roared to life.

“Calm down, and try to breathe,” I whispered, my heart shattering as I placed the mouthpiece between his lips, his pale, shaky hand coming up to hold it in place.

Jesus. This was a bad one.

I sank to the cold tile floor at his feet, my heart in my throat, and draped my arm over his thigh. My boy was a fighter, so I couldn’t be sure if my presence helped him, but the contact did wonders for me.

I timed my breathing with his, and within minutes, I was lightheaded. I couldn’t imagine how he was still upright.

Please, God. For as many times over the last three years that I’d bargained with the Lord in exchange for Travis’s health, I should have been a priest.

A vise wrenched my chest. The breathing treatment wasn’t helping. At least not fast enough.

A wave of dread rolled in my stomach. He was going to hate me. But I was the parent; it was my job to make the hard choices—even if they destroyed me. His pain and struggle coursed through my veins, too. This wasn’t only his fight. It affected us all. If anything ever happened to him, I’d have to carry that hole in my soul for the rest of my life.

I’d promised him that I’d take care of him. I hadn’t promised him that I’d be his friend while I did it. “Hannah, can you go grab Daddy’s cell phone?”

“No!” Travis choked.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his shoulder. “Buddy, I’m sorry.”

“I’m…not…going,” he wheezed.

I swallowed hard to pack the overwhelming emotion down. I had to be strong enough for all of us—regardless that parts of my heart were crashing to the ground.

I couldn’t go through this again.

But I couldn’t not go through it again, either.

“You have to go, Trav.”

On weak legs, he shot to his feet, but his balance was off and it sent him stumbling forward.

Lurching up, I caught him around the waist before he cracked his head on the vanity. The nebulizer clattered against the floor and the buzzing droned on as he fought against me.

His movements were sluggish and his hands were slow, but for the way each blow slayed me, he might as well have been a championship boxer. God knew I’d welcome a TKO if it would soothe him.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured, dragging him into my chest.

“I hate you,” he cried, refusing to give up.

He didn’t. Travis loved me. I knew that was as true as the sky was blue. But, if he needed an outlet for his anger, I’d be it every single time.

I gave him a gentle squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t hug me back, but I didn’t need him to. I just needed him to keep breathing.

When Hannah reappeared with my phone, I guided Travis to sit on the toilet.

As expected, he was crying. I couldn’t fault him. I wanted to fucking cry too.

It wasn’t fair. None of it.

Lifting my phone to my ear, I hit send. As it rang, I bent, and scooped the plastic tubing up, and passed it back to my son. “Finish that and we’ll head to the hospital.”

He glared up at me, giving it the pre-teen attitude that seemed to be bred into kids, but he was too weak to properly snatch it from my hand.

A sleepy, “Hello?” came through the phone.

“Mom. Hey, can you meet me at the hospital to get Hannah?”

Her bed squeaked as she presumably climbed out of it. “How bad?”

I glanced at Travis, watching him sway with every breath. He refused me his gaze, but he was listening.

“Hannah, stay with your brother,” I ordered, walking out of the bathroom.

I didn’t answer her question until I was in my room. I went straight to my closet and changed into a shirt and jeans before slipping a pair of sneakers on.

“Pretty bad.”

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Yeah. Okay. I’m on my way. Hurry, but drive safe.”

I then moved to my dresser to collect my wallet and my keys. Closing my eyes, I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Yeah. Same to you.”

With a deep breath that I hoped would ease the hollow ache that never seemed to leave me anymore, I opened my eyes.

Catherine was staring back at me.

I wasn’t positive why I left that picture on my dresser. I’d told myself that it was for the kids. So they could feel like she was still a part of our lives, despite the fact that it was now only the three of us.

I picked the picture up. She was smiling at the camera, her brown eyes glistening with unshed emotion, Travis wrapped in a swaddling blanket, mere hours old, tucked into the crook of her arm. I traced my fingers over the top of his dark, unruly hair as if I could comb it down, but my gaze drifted to his mother. It had only been three years since she’d died, but so much had changed.

She’d have known what to do with Travis. How to heal him. Maybe not physically, but emotionally. I remembered the first time he’d had an episode. I’d raced around the house, calling 911 frantic while she’d calmly sat next to him, rubbing his back and whispering reassuring words into the top of his hair. She was in agony, but she kept it together for him, a skill that had taken me over three years to master. She’d always been so good at reading his mood and rationalizing with him to take his medications. If he’d needed something, she had known instinctively. I’d often thought that watching the two of them together was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

She hadn’t bumbled. Or faltered. She’d been a rock.

I wasn’t like Catherine.

I was weak.

And exhausted.

And so damn scared.

But, even if it destroyed me, I would be there for him. That was one thing that would never change.

So, no. I wasn’t like Catherine at all.

When I heard the nebulizer turn off, I set the picture back on the dresser and stared my wife straight in the eyes as I whispered, “I hate you so fucking much.”





* * *





“I’ll send her in right away, Mr. Clark,” I said, backing out of the door, a wide smile stretching my lips.

It was fake—both the promise and the smile. I was exhausted. I’d been at the hospital for almost twenty-four hours, and sleeping stretched out between two rolling chairs had been exactly as restful as it sounded.

“Hey, Denise,” I called, strolling over to the nurses’ station, my tired feet screaming with every step. “Mr. Clark needs help to the bathroom.”

She looked up from the computer screen with a scowl. “You have lost your damn mind.”