Wanting to run from it all

*Will*

Our plane touches down in Copenhagen at ten in the morning. By eleven, Kiera and I step through the main doors of the Royal Hospital. I can’t help but feel grateful that the ambulance brought Frida here; this hospital boasts a top-ranked trauma center. As I read the signs in Danish, I lead the way toward the reception desk.

Kiera walks quietly beside me. Since we landed, she's been unusually silent, which I appreciate. On the flight here, I enjoyed her conversation, but right now, my thoughts are a jumbled mess, and my emotions are raw. I feel untethered, as if I’m floating through an endless void. Inside me lies a vast sea of grief, stretching endlessly.

I remind myself that fatigue might be amplifying my feelings. I should have tried to sleep on the plane. Kiera encouraged me to rest, but my mind wouldn’t quiet down. Now, my heart races, my palms sweat, and I desperately try to push away the thoughts that threaten to consume me. But I can’t help it...

Somewhere in this hospital, my sister lies dead.

Suddenly, I feel Kiera’s hand on my shoulder. Her voice is gentle. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need a moment?”

I blink and glance around, realizing I’ve stopped walking. We’re standing in the middle of a bustling hallway, still several feet from the reception desk.

“Good morning,” the receptionist greets us in Danish. “Welcome to the Royal Hospital. How can I assist you today?”

I remove myself from Kiera’s comforting touch and step forward. “I’m here to see a patient. Frida Lund. I was informed she’s in the pediatric trauma center.”

The blonde nurse turns to her computer, typing swiftly. After a moment, she looks up. “Yes we have Frida Lund here, she has a list of approved visitors. Could I please see your identification?”

I pull my Danish passport from my pocket and hand it to her. “I have a friend with me. Can you approve her as a visitor?”

“I’ll need to see her identification as well.”

I glance back at Kiera. “Can you give her your passport?”

Startled by my sudden switch to English, Kiera quickly checks her pockets before producing her passport. “Yeah, here you go.”

“Thank you,” the nurse replies in English. After a brief moment of typing, she hands back our identification. Then she speaks to me in Danish, “Frida Lund is on the third floor, room 312. Please check in at the nurse’s station before entering her room.”

Kiera stays close as I lead the way to the elevators. We ride up to the third floor in silence, my heart racing with each passing second. I still don’t know if Frida has been told that her mother is dead, nor do I fully understand the extent of her injuries. The doctor mentioned a fractured ulna… it was cracked but not misaligned…so she’ll need a cast for four to six weeks. She also has three hairline cracked ribs. The most concerning injury is to her leg, which required surgery yesterday due to oblique displacement. They realigned the bones and secured everything with a metal plate and screws. She’ll need to wear a cast on her leg for up to eight weeks and won’t be able to bear weight as it heals.

A broken arm, a broken leg.

And no mother.

My poor, sweet little Frida.

The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors open with a soft ping. I find myself staring at the vibrant flyers plastered on the wall across from me.

“Come on,” Kiera says gently, guiding me out. “You can do this.”

Following the signs, we make our way to the pediatric trauma center. As we approach, a tall nurse with clear-framed glasses stands up from the reception desk. “Are you Mr. Lund?” He asks.

“I am,” I reply.

He smiles warmly. “The reception desk informed us that you were on your way. Frida will be so pleased to see you. She’s been asking for you.”

A wave of relief washes over me. “She’s awake?”

“Not at the moment. We gave her some pain medication about thirty minutes ago, which tends to make children drowsy. But you’re welcome to go in and sit with her, even if she’s asleep.”

Kiera glances between us, like she is trying to catch the nuances of our Danish conversation.

“Thank you,” I say, shifting to English.

“We’ve notified her doctor that you’re here,” the nurse continues, switching languages. “She’s with patients now but can stop by to speak with you in about an hour.”

I express my gratitude again and lead the way down the hall. The walls here are colorful, adorned with a mural of cheerful forest animals in party hats, each carrying balloons. The lively scene feels so out of place against the heavy atmosphere that surrounds us. Behind closed doors, machines hum, providing life-saving support to other injured children.

Room 312 has the door slightly ajar. As I push it open, I hear the familiar beep and whir of medical equipment. Holding my breath, I step inside. The only light comes from the large window, and a TV in the corner plays an old episode of a Danish kids show, the volume muted.

In the center of the room, a large hospital bed dominates the space. Frida lies asleep, a delicate figure amidst the white sheets. With her eyes closed and lips turned down in a pout, she looks like a sad little doll. Her blonde hair spills across the pillow.

My heart sinks as I take in the full extent of her injuries. The bruising around her left eye is raised and purple, and scratches mar the side of her face. She’s still wearing a neck brace, and her left arm is secured from hand to elbow. Her thin leg, freshly bandaged from knee to ankle, peeks out from under the blankets. Wires connect her to the machines, the source of the soft beeping that fills the room.

My gaze lands on the fuzzy pink sock on her foot, and that’s when I break. “Oh, Christ…” I choke on the sob that escapes me, covering my mouth with my hand as I turn away, tears stinging my eyes. I try to push past Kiera, but she grabs my shoulders.

“Hey, no. Come on, you have to stay,” she urges.

“I can’t,” I gasp, overwhelmed by grief. “I can’t see her like this…”

“You have to. Mr. Lund, she needs you.”

I shake my head, drowning in fear. I can’t lose her too; I won’t survive it.

“God help me, I can’t…”

“Look at me.” Kiera cups my face, forcing me to meet her gaze. “Mr. Lund, look at me.”

I lift my eyes to hers. Kiera’s expression is calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil inside me. In this moment, she’s in control. Her eyes flicker with determination, green at the edges and shifting to a warm brown at the center.

“She’s alive,” she assures me. “Say it.”

“She’s alive,” I repeat, my voice shaky.

“Good. Just take a breath and slow down. Say it again.”

I inhale deeply and let it out, gripping her shoulders for support. “She’s alive.”

Kiera turns me to face the monitor. “Look at her heart rate. She’s strong. Her pulse looks good too. God, look how strong she is. She’s a fighter, Mr. Lund.”

“A fighter,” I echo, my eyes scanning the machinery. I’m no doctor, but I can hear the steady rhythm of the heart monitor.

“That’s one tough little girl.” Her tone turns softer. “But she needs her uncle now. You’re going to sit in that chair and hold her hand. Do you hear me?”

“I don’t know what to say to her,” I whisper, leaning against her touch for support. “If she doesn’t know… if they haven’t told her…”

Kiera’s grip softens. “Then you tell her you love her. Tell her she’ll always have a home with you, no matter what. Just as you loved your sister, you’ll love her daughter. It’s as simple as that. She’s yours now, Mr. Lund.”

A sense of resolve hardens in my chest as I glance down at Frida’s fragile, sleeping form. “She’s mine.”

“Yeah, she is. She’s all yours.”

I know this is true, even if it’s hard to grasp. One missed phone call changed everything. I’ve become a parent, responsible for someone other than myself. God help me, I’ve wasted so much time. There’s so much to be done… both for Vera and for Frida. I’m the only one who can do it. No more lingering in grief; it’s time for action.

I tap her hand, and Kiera releases me. Turning away, I step toward the door.

“Whoa, hey.” Kiera grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”

“Stay with her. When she wakes up, call me.”

Her eyes widen. “What are you going to do?”

“I need to call my lawyer here in Denmark.”

With a nod, she lets me go.

I’ve always been the backbone of my family. Even though Vera was the older sibling, she always turned to me when she needed something. I paid for her apartment, her car, and Frida’s private school. I won’t leave anything to chance now. Frida is mine. I need to make arrangements for us to go home.