Three days passed in a blur of antiseptic smells and hushed voices. I barely left the hospital, catching naps in the waiting room chairs and sipping cold coffee from vending machines. Hugo had been absent most of the time, citing "important surgeries" that couldn't wait. I wondered if those surgeries were as important as his father's recovery.
Richard's condition had stabilized initially, but something changed overnight. The morning nurse's face told me everything before she spoke.
"Mrs. Washington? Your father-in-law's condition has deteriorated significantly."
I followed her to Richard's room, my heart hammering against my ribs. The machines surrounding him beeped more frantically than before, their rhythm urgent and unsettling. His skin, visible around the burn dressings, had taken on a grayish tinge.
"What happened?" I demanded, reaching for his chart.
The nurse hesitated. "His temperature spiked overnight. We've started broader spectrum antibiotics, but..." She trailed off, her eyes darting to the door as Dr. Elena Martinez entered.
"Mrs. Morris," Elena said, her expression grave. "We need to discuss Mr. Washington's condition."
I knew Elena from my own medical days. She didn't mince words.
"His white cell count is through the roof," she continued, flipping through the chart. "We're seeing signs of systemic infection that doesn't match typical burn-related complications."
"Where's Hugo?" I asked, scanning the room as if he might materialize.
"Dr. Washington is in surgery," Elena replied, her tone carefully neutral. "We've paged him."
I watched as nurses moved around Richard's bed, adjusting IVs and checking monitors. Something wasn't right. The infection was too severe, too sudden.
"May I see his surgical notes?" I asked.
Elena hesitated, then nodded. "You're still listed as family."
I followed her to the nurses' station where she pulled up Richard's electronic chart on the computer. I scanned the surgical report from Thanksgiving night, my medical training kicking in despite years away from practice.
"Operating room inventory," I murmured, scrolling through the list. "Surgical sponge count..."
My finger froze on the screen. The numbers didn't match.
"There's a discrepancy," I said, pointing to the screen. "The count is off by one."
Elena leaned closer, her brow furrowing. "That's not possible. All sponges are accounted for before closure."
But the numbers didn't lie. One surgical sponge was missing from the inventory.
I was still staring at the screen when Catalina appeared in the hallway, her face pale and drawn. She was heading toward Richard's room when I intercepted her.
"Catalina," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "We need to talk."
She tried to step around me. "I'm busy, Mariah."
"You left something inside my father-in-law," I said quietly.
Her eyes widened, darting to the chart in my hands. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The sponge count doesn't match." I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "One is missing. And now he's dying from an infection that shouldn't exist."
Catalina's composure cracked. Her hands began to tremble, and she glanced frantically around the corridor.
"It was an accident," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. "I thought I got everything. The count was correct at the beginning of closure, but then Hugo was called away for an emergency consult, and I... I rushed..."
"You left surgical gauze inside him," I finished, horror washing over me.
Catalina's shoulders slumped as she nodded, a sob escaping her lips. "He was already critical. I didn't think..."
"You didn't think he'd die?" My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm.
Before she could answer, alarms began blaring from Richard's room. We both turned to see nurses rushing inside, Elena shouting orders.
"Code blue! Crash cart!"
I ran to Richard's room, pushing past a stunned Catalina. Inside, medical staff swarmed around his bed, their movements urgent and precise.
"Septic shock," Elena announced grimly. "Blood pressure dropping fast."
I watched in helpless horror as they worked to save him. The machines screamed warnings, nurses called out vital signs, and Elena directed the resuscitation effort with calm authority.
But I knew. We all knew. It was too late.
Thirty minutes later, Elena called the time of death.
I stood frozen beside his bed, my hand clutching the rail as tears blurred my vision. Richard Washington—my father-in-law, the man who had welcomed me into his family with open arms—was gone. Killed not by the fireworks that injured him, but by medical malpractice. By a surgeon who wasn't qualified. By a system that had failed him.
With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and dialed Hugo's number.
"Mariah," he answered, his voice distracted. "I'm in the middle of something."
"Your father is dead," I said, my voice breaking. "He died from septic shock caused by surgical gauze left inside him during the operation."
The silence on the other end stretched for several seconds.
Then Hugo spoke, his words cold and clinical, as if discussing a stranger rather than his father.
"I'll handle it," he said, and hung up.
