: Chapter 22

“Has he been conscious?”

“Yes, he was awake on arrival. We’ve given him TPA, and the stent was successful in removing the clot.”

“NIH Stroke Scale score?”

“Thirteen.”

Thirteen. That number knocks the air from my chest with a whoosh. A moderate ischemic stroke, on the brink of severe.

Samuel’s chest rises and falls beneath the thin, striped blanket. I make a mental note to bring him something warmer from home. It’s the only thing I can think of to do. Otherwise, all I feel is helpless. Adrift.

We’ve been planning for this. After the first stroke, I felt the grains of sand slipping through my fingers. It was only a matter of time until there was another. This was inevitable.

Last time, I was there. We were sitting at home, eating salad and grilled chicken. Kane was winding around Samuel’s ankles in a cloud of white fluff. We were talking about music. “Sweet Apocalypse” by Lambert was playing. Samuel wanted to see an upcoming piano concert on campus. He slurred the word “summer.” When I looked up, the left side of his face started to droop. I called 911. I kept him awake. I rode with him in the ambulance. I did what I could until there was nothing more to do. This time, I’m just a spectator. Will he wake up? And who will he be if he does?

These questions are caught up in my mind as the neurologist runs through the possible permanent damage and the recovery process. Potential cognitive impairment. Potential loss of speech. Potential loss of ambulatory abilities.

All I hear is potential loss of personhood.

When the doctor leaves and the nurses have checked Samuel’s IV and documented his vitals, it’s just me, standing in the room, looking down at the man who saved me. Day after day, he saved me. From the world. From myself. He nurtured a darkness that would have consumed my life had he not taught me how to feed and care for it.

I pull one of the chairs with its pink vinyl cushions and worn wooden armrests to the side of Samuel’s bed and take his hand. I wonder if he can feel it when I squeeze his fingers. We’ve never been affectionate. It’s not really in our nature, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, all things considered. Maybe that means he’ll feel my touch. Maybe he’ll know that I’m here.

A long breath fills my lungs as I turn Samuel’s hand over in mine. I trace his life line, wondering if any palm reader would ever guess how many deaths have been absorbed in that crease of skin. My eyes drift closed as I remember the gentle work of his hands on my back when he cleaned and dressed my wounds each night after he’d found me in the desert. It felt like a privilege. I had been chosen. I was being cared for. Finally. Some would say it came with a price, the weight of fulfilling a legacy of death and destruction. But that’s not how it feels to me. Nothing I wanted in life came without pain. At least because of Samuel, that pain is someone else’s burden to bear. It just comes from my hand.

Despite being so still and quiet, with only the beeping of monitors and the squeak of nurses’ shoes down the hallway, I don’t notice anyone enter the room until the first words pass Eli’s lips. “Hi, sweetheart.”

My heart stirs like some creature washed up on a muddy, desolate shore, struggling to come back to life. I open my eyes and Eli is standing next to me, a coffee in each hand. Something in me must not look right, because he doesn’t ask questions or even pass me my drink. He sets the coffees the bedside table and squats at my side, reaching up to sweep hair back from my shoulder.

“Hey there, Pancake,” he says with a gentle smile.

I’ve suddenly lost all will to fight this horrible nickname Eli insists on pursuing. In fact, it feels oddly comforting. “Hi.”

“He’s stable?”

I nod. Eli searches my face as though trying to find something I’m missing. Some key that will fit into a lock. “What do you have on for the weekend? Anything that needs to be taken care of at home, or at Cedar Ridge for Samuel?”

He’s not asking inane, annoying questions. He doesn’t want me to regurgitate information for his benefit. He’s asking me something useful. Something meaningful.

My heart does that thing again, squirming in the oily mud. Part of me wants to fight Eli’s kindness, just to be able to pull the release and let some of the pressure free from the reservoir of rage and confusion trapped behind the dam. Another part of me wants to burrow into him and hide from the world. I swallow and Eli passes me the coffee, and I take a long sip as I run through the mental list shoved into the back of my brain.

“I need to call Cedar Ridge to keep them updated on Samuel.”

“Leave that with me. I’ll speak to Blake, she’s Fletcher’s wife. She’s an orthopedic surgeon here. She can get the update and make sure it’s provided to Cedar Ridge. What about home?”

“My cleaner, Amy. She’s coming tomorrow but I’ll ask if she can swing by this morning to feed Kane.”

“What about classes? Do you have anything due on Monday?”

“I’m caught up on coursework. The only thing I haven’t done yet was suggest some essay topics for Dr. Halperon’s midterm exams.”

“Okay, let me talk to her. What else?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I can do it. I just need an hour or two.”

“Bria, let me handle it. Dr. Halperon has done enough last-minute shit to everyone else in the department. She can dig up some old essay topics and repurpose them, she doesn’t need you to do that.”

I let out a long sigh and press my fingers to my temple where a headache starts to throb. “Everyone will know, Eli. If you get involved, they’ll talk about why.”

“Do you care?”

No. I don’t. “You do,” I say. It feels like casting a barbed hook into black waters.

“I don’t give a shit what they think,” Eli replies, his hand resting against my cheek. His thumb strokes my skin with slow and careful grace. “Actually no, I take that back. I do care. I want everyone to know that you’re mine. Halperon. Takahashi. Even the grouchy custodian guy, Dale.”

“Not Dale.”

“Yep. Dale.”

Christ. Why does this simple touch on my cheek feel so good? Why does everything that Eli says seem to slice through shadow like the summer sun? I should be working harder to drive him off. I don’t want to hurt him, even though it feels inevitable whether I let him closer or push him away. We’d both be better off apart. Eli would be safe from me, and I would find another outlet for the helplessness I feel. Swimming. Hunting. Running until my heart explodes. They all have their appeal, but something feels hollow about every option but him.

“Hey,” he says, and I don’t realize my gaze has drifted away to the corner of the room until his voice pulls it back. Eli stands and tugs on my hand to lift me from the chair, taking my place before pulling me back down to sit on his lap. I’m not quite sure what to do with myself. I’ve never been held like this before. I feel like a rigid plane of wood until he takes my coffee and sets it down next to his. Then he wraps his arms around me and leans back, tying me into an embrace against his chest. His heart drums a steady percussion beneath my ear and I close my eyes.

“You don’t need to stay, I’ll be fine,” I whisper, my irritation flaring for my weakness as I press myself closer to Eli’s warmth.

“I know you will.”

I squirm a little as this new vulnerability gnaws at my mind. Eli only increases the strength of his hold and I lose all fight when his hand drifts through my hair. “I’m sure you have other things to do today.”

Eli presses a kiss to the top of my head. “I was going to try to convince you to spend the day with me and then sneakily turn that into the whole weekend, so no, I don’t.”

I let out another sigh as I resign to give up the battle against myself, at least for today. I’m suddenly too tired to fight it, but I know it will linger, ready to cause turmoil. Is this what it would be like if I let myself be with him? Would I always have to war my innermost darkness if what I had with Eli wasn’t just sex, but something more?

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, Pancake,” he says, as though I’ve spoken my thoughts out loud.

“I can try if you keep calling me Pancake.”

Eli’s smile warms my head as his arms tighten. “You can try, but you won’t succeed.”

We fall into silence. Silence falls into sleep that’s neither deep nor restful. A new routine seems to grow around us like vines. Nurses check Samuel on their rounds. Eli leaves the room to place calls or retrieve food or coffee or water. Machines beep. Voices pass in the hall. The scent of latex and sanitizers drifts through the room. And all the while, Samuel lies still, the only proof of life being the rise and fall of his chest.

At eight o’clock, the visitor hours are over, and I know there’s nothing more to be done but wait for news. Eli doesn’t remind me that they’ll call if anything changes, or that I need to get some rest. I give Samuel a kiss on each cheek and Eli simply takes my hand and we leave. The only thing he asks is where I want to go.

“Home,” I say. “Let’s just go home.”