Prologue
Peter Daniel Tucker had always loved the spotlight, but never once got his chance. He participated in his school’s theatrics consistently, and regularly acted as the class clown. He never had any best friends, but he absolutely remained to be friends with everyone. The teachers either loved or hated him, and it could very easily fluctuate depending on the day. There was never anything particularly extraordinary about Peter, despite his abilities to humor others; He wasn’t exceptionally talented. He wasn’t the funniest kid in his grade. People knew who he was, but he never had a name for himself. No label, no recognition beyond the occasional giggles of the girls he’d lazily flirt with. What was there to recognize about him? He was needed for comic relief and merely that, never extending beyond his duty as resident jester. Nobody needed to hear his voice. Nobody wanted to unless a joke was falling out of his mouth. Nobody cared for him on his darkest days. Not until the incident, at least.
Worlds change quickly. The small town of Blue Springs was never used to a tragedy like this. But with every fallen nobody, comes a series of insincere grief. Adults who never spoke with the Tucker family sent out wishes. Respects were given from afar in the form of social media posts. Assemblies were held and grief counseling was offered; An offer that no one would follow through with, as Peter’s school would later learn. It wasn’t a tragedy that Peter was gone. It was a tragedy that people had actually cared so little.
Rosita was set to be never the same. The frail mother of the young boy had forever deserved a soft epilogue, but it was evident that she will never receive her rest. Her youngest children, Peter’s siblings, remained stagnant. They weren’t necessarily grieving, but they weren’t necessarily overjoyed either. They seldom saw friends and habits fell short, every part of the Tucker family was slipping in the cracks. Peter’s incident was enough to spiral each and every member of the Tucker family; except Paul. Paul hadn’t been a part of Rosita’s life in many, many years, let alone Peter or his brother and sister. He had been an absentee father for what felt like absolutely eons, and his arms never extended out to his now shambled wife and children. It wouldn’t mean much now if he were to drop by. Rosita had grown and learned to live without him, and the children are hardly capable of remembering what he was like. Or simply, his existence itself.
The hospital visits never got easier. Peter’s complexion would grow paler each and every time, and his eyes seemingly shut little by little with each passing minute. His now skeleton like hands were clammier, and his bones felt weaker. There he would lay, for who knows how long. He never seemed to be doing better. Nothing could convince Rosita that he was healing or waking up soon. The doctor’s words and the nurse’s promises felt like words that were stripped out of sympathy cards, or even excerpts of consoling words from a tabloid’s advice columnist. Nothing felt right. Nothing assured or brought Rosita a source of comfort. Nothing ever could, after all.
Leighanna and Oliver Tucker never went inside with Rosita. They were forever given the option, and absolutely encouraged by Rosita. They often lingered in the waiting room or hung around by the vending machines, simply lurking like ghosts. Rosita never favored her children’s behaviors, nor did the hospital workers. They were consistently told to report back to the children’s ward or even stay by Rosita’s side, but nothing ever worked. The young girl and boy walked aimlessly and that was that. Nothing could change that course of nature.
Peter was declared to be in second stage coma on the fifteenth of August. The day started off with its regular dosage of sadness in the Tucker home, though slightly more as it had been two months since the incident. Despite the gloom residing above the family, it was a sunny day and most of the neighborhood had spent it outside. Every child and parent alike, playing or even biking. All except Leighanna and Oliver. Leighanna and Oliver often stayed within the thin walls of their house, but today, it was particularly noticeable. Neighbors of the same age had dropped by to offer play time with the grieving siblings, but after the third child dropped by, Rosita knew what she had to do. She brought her car into the garage, and shut every window and locked every door. If you were to ask an outsider, the Tuckers’ were not home. And they hadn’t been for a very long time.
Rosita neglected to visit Peter for most of that day. It was absolutely the proper thing to do, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. In the midst of the quietest hours, Leighanna’s hand wrapped against her mother’s door. She knocked lightly, yet to no avail. Knock, knock, knock. There continued to be no response, so there was only one thing left to do. Leighanna slowly twisted the doorknob of the often locked door, and it slowly creaked open. Rosita tilted her head to face her daughter, but eye contact was not made. Leighanna’s hand slid down the door, and she stood there in a ghastly manner. She remained motionless and speechless. Though words were not spoken, Rosita knew what her child wanted. She wanted to see Peter.
The routine followed as it normally does. Oliver shifted into his hightops and brushed over his hair, making minimal yet adequate effort. Leighanna had grabbed her “Congratulations on waking up!” card and put her hair in a braid. Not once has she been able to give that card to him. Maybe today was the day, Leighanna had figured. A heavy amount of hope resting in her heart. Rosita’s shaky hands always grabbed the keys the same way; The key chain from Peter’s eighth grade trip would be grabbed, and it would be held with a might that she only used for that occasion.
Car rides were often silent. Rosita regularly registered her surroundings, ensuring that nobody on the road would end up like her own son. Leighanna and Oliver found ways to entertain themselves one way or another, often keeping coloring books in the net pockets of the driver and passenger seat. By now, the crayons were growing dull and nubby, and each page was nearly complete. Rosita would never bother to buy any more, she didn’t think there was a need for such. Despite her feelings, Leighanna and Oliver consistently rummaged for more books or even went as far to save for further.
The hospital was uncomfortably quick to let Rosita and the children in that day. Rosita and Leighanna’s optimism shone, viewing this as the reveal of an awake Peter. Oliver knew there was minimal hope for his brother, but despite it all, he felt good about today. For the first time since the incident, all three of the Tuckers’ entered Peter’s room. Inside, however, was not a pleasing sight. Doctors surrounded the young boy’s bed, and clutched clipboards close to their chests. It was a numbing and frustrating silence; only the beeps and monitors of Peter’s equipment rang through the room.
“Are you going to tell us the news?” Leighanna was the first to talk. This was normally a behavior Rosita would punish her for, but admittedly, she was just as antsy as her daughter. The doctors remained quiet for what felt like forever, but one had finally spoken up. He breathed in and out slowly, and brushed his pepper gray hair to the side. He approached Rosita and her youngest children with ease and heavy feet, evidently unprepared to tell them about what was to come.
“As of this morning, Peter has reached stage two coma. He has not shown any amount of progress, and is deflecting everything we have done to save him.” Each word did not feel real. Each word felt made up, and it felt fictitious. None of this was actually happening, and the doctor had handcrafted his own words. His own language, and had hoped and prayed that Rosita would find some form of translation. Leighanna and Oliver looked at each other for some form of comprehension, but each and every family member struggled. They struggled to make sense of the doctor’s words and couldn’t fathom any part of the situation.
Rosita’s eyes watered and her hands shook, losing grip of everything in her hands. Leighanna’s eye contact drifted slowly to her hands, eventually realizing that she had left the card in the car. Oliver stared at his brother, his own heavy eyes meeting Peter’s eyelids. Nobody moved for a very long time, particularly the doctors. It was a simple process when they all finally did. They formed into a line and began pouring out the door, not looking at the grieving family. Despite what anyone may think, Rosita appreciated this. She did not want to be seen by anyone’s eyes. She did not want the attention of anyone. All except for one person was allowed to look her back-and it was Peter.
The first to walk over to Peter’s bed was Oliver. He leaned over Peter’s bed gently, and stared at him. His complexion was sickly, today being the worst he ever looked. Oliver looked at the windows surrounding Peter’s bed, and they all remained to be open. Oliver summoned his older sister over and they began closing each door, knowing that the obnoxious sun likely didn’t help Peter. Rosita glanced over at her son and daughter, a very weak smile stretching across her face. After they had managed to shut the windows, Leighanna and Oliver rested their heads on Peter’s covered legs. Rosita decided not to move them, figuring that this was their own way of paying respects.
The day ended just as it always would. Rosita would bestow a silent prayer for her son, and she’d clutch his hand gently. She never awaited the moment of releasing it. It always swung without care, without effort, and just without life. Back and forth it lay, swaying like a pendulum. Rosita held two things that today; Her son’s hand, and a reluctant truth. She didn’t want to admit it nor think it, but she had to come to terms with it eventually. Peter wasn’t going to get better. He would stay there until his body could muster the strength. And by the looks of it, Peter would be very weak for a very long time. Despite it all, there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. And that alone was the reluctant truth.
