Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2) (28 page)

“You have a suitcase?” Paige’s question blasted away my countdown before I reached the ridiculous.

I nodded. “Under the bed.”

When she released me to fetch the suitcase, my legs gave out, and I sank onto the edge of the unmade bed. Did I really want to leave him? Leave my family? Leave my home? Roy’s image, rumpled among the sheets and blankets, rose in my head. I ran a hand over the covers, almost as if I might caress my husband’s arm or chest.

At that moment, I knew. I fisted my hands, digging fingernails into my palms. “I’m not leaving.”

“Emmmmileeeee!”

At the sound of my husband’s shout, I shot up. “Roy.” My heart nearly burst with excitement, and I raced to the door to fling it wide.

“Jeez, Em,” Paige grumbled, her smile wide and knowing. “You could at least
play
hard to get.”

One hand on the door jamb, I turned to face her with a sly grin of my own. “Why? He’s had my heart since I was fourteen.” I gave her a wink and sped into the hall.

Indoor thunder rumbled as Roy scaled the staircase to where I stood. His eyes were still red-rimmed, and the circles I’d noted last week had deepened to purple canyons. He might as well have combed his hair with a garden rake. Yet, to me, he was still the handsome young guy who slipped me in through the maintenance garage entrance so many years ago. Still the same scared guy who’d said so simply, “Then we’ll get married.” Still the same man who’d held my hand through four active labors, who’d cuddled me close at night, who’d been my rock—my whole life—for the last eighteen years. But this man held a cellophane-wrapped bouquet—real red roses from a real florist, not from the supermarket or the hospital gift shop.

I did manage to slow down and count to ten before I hit the top of the stairs. Despite my efforts, my pounding heart threatened to fly out of my chest.
One, two, three, breathe, four, five, six, breathe, seven, eight, nine, breathe, ten
. “What are you doing here?” Thanks to the breathing exercises, I sounded a lot more placid than my nerves let on. “Why aren’t you at work?”

He stopped in front of me, eyes smoldering with some inscrutable emotion, and he shoved the roses at me. “I’m not letting you do this, Em. You can’t just walk out on me. Not after all we’ve been through.” He grabbed me, crackling the cellophane to hold me against his chest. The drumbeat of his heart  melded with the staticky wrapping around the roses, creating a symphony for me alone—a symphony of love and devotion.

Or had the doctors slipped a Mickey Finn into my I.V.?

I pulled away, wanting to look him in the eye when I told him of my decision. “Roy, I—”

“Don’t say anything, okay? Just hear me out. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep you here where you belong. If you want me to sleep on the couch, I’ll sleep on the couch. If you want me to take another job so you can stay home, I’ll take another job. Whatever it takes. I don’t want you to leave. Not now, not ever. I need you here with me, no matter what I have to do to make that happen.”

With each word he spoke, I glowed brighter. But I needed to hear those three little words he hadn’t yet said—and not, “You’ve lost weight.”

“Why?” I asked.

I clearly had interrupted a practiced speech. He blinked several times, his mouth agape. “Huh?”

“
Why
don’t you want me to leave?”

“Why?” He blinked again. “Because...because I nearly lost you last week, and I thought
my
heart would stop. Every night I’ve come home, and the only thing that gets me out the door again is knowing that soon you’ll be home. That I didn’t lose you. Except, maybe I have...” His voice roughened to a sandpaper whisper, and he pulled me into his arms again, this time tight enough to crush me and my poor roses. “Dammit, I love you so damn much, I can’t breathe if you’re not here with me. Please tell me I didn’t lose you.”

Oh, thank God. He’d said the words. The roses became insignificant. I snuggled even closer to his chest, reveling in the way he held me, like a precious treasure. “You mean it? You’re willing to do anything I want? Like tell me you love me every day? Like talk to me and listen—really
listen
—to me? Like take my side and stand up for me, even when I might be wrong?”

“Do you promise you’ll do the same for me?”

“Always. Every day from now until eternity. I love you, Roy. I was about to tell you I couldn’t leave you. You’re my home, my heart, my everything.”

“You’re not leaving me?”

I shook my head.

“Ahem!” Paige stood in the doorway to my bedroom, that sly grin still shining on her face. “You guys might want to take your discussion someplace a little more private than the hall. Why don’t I take these roses downstairs? Sam and I can put them in water and entertain Mrs. Handler while you two...umm...” She rolled her eyes. “...get reacquainted.”

I took hold of Roy’s hand to lead him toward the bedroom, but he held back, a worried frown creasing his face. “Are you...” He placed a hand at the center of his chest, and patted rhythmically, imitating a heartbeat. “...okay?”

“Let’s find out,” I whispered in his ear.

Both grinning like lovesick fools, we couldn’t run past Paige fast enough.

****

Francesca

Several hours later, I was working the graveyard shift when an ambulance brought in an injured motor vehicle accident victim. “Fractured right femur, shattered knee, possible TBI,” the nurse recited from the EMT report as we raced to the ambulance bay. “Head-on collision.”

TBI: traumatic brain injury. Which meant we’d need a trauma surgeon. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. My nerves jumped from synapse to synapse, and I mentally prepared myself for what I’d find. “Who’s on call tonight?”

“Dr. Humphrey. He’s on his way.”

“Any other victims enroute?”

“Second driver. Drunk. Cut his forehead, but otherwise stable.”

Naturally. For some reason, drunk drivers tended to survive unscathed while severely injuring their sober victims. Theorists claimed the alcohol tended to make the intoxicated driver more...for lack of a better word...fluid. Whereas sober drivers about to collide tended to tense up for impact, increasing the severity of their injuries. The screeching siren ushered in our injured victim, and we went into overdrive to get the poor man into the E.R. so we could begin treatment. While the nurse took down the vitals and other details the attendant provided, I went straight to work on assessment of the patient’s physical condition. I moved to the head of the gurney to examine the man’s face and stopped short.

Even behind the oxygen mask strapped to his nose and mouth, I recognized my former fiancé.  “Michael? Oh, my God. Michael! Can you hear me?” He didn’t respond. I reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers inside my palm. “You’re going to be okay, you hear me? Dr. Humphrey’s on his way. He’s the best trauma surgeon in the county, Michael. You’re in the
best
hands.”

As if my words had conjured him up, Dr. Humphrey suddenly appeared at the end of the hall. “Dr. Florentino?”

“It’s Michael,” I said, my hand still attached to his while the gurney rolled toward triage. “My...” I scrambled for the right phrase. My what? How could I explain our complicated relationship in the simplest way? “We used to be engaged.”

Behind me, the triage nurse gasped.

Dr. Humphrey nodded. “Okay. Let him go, Doctor. I’ve got him.”

I couldn’t. Fear kept me tethered to him, and I gripped his fingers tighter.

Someone’s hands clamped my shoulders. “Doctor. Let him go.” Helena, the R.N. in charge, spoke in a tone unaccustomed to disobedience.

I nodded, but still didn’t release my hold on my former future husband.

“Doctor! Release the patient. Now.” Gerald finally had to pry my hand from Michael’s.

I stopped running alongside the gurney and allowed the team to roll him away. “Come on,” the P.A. said. “Let’s get you some tea, huh?”

He walked me into the break room and pushed me into a chair. I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t see straight. My mind remained fused to Michael and what he was currently going through. Shivers shook me from scalp to toes. A traumatic brain injury could cause major damage to the human body. What if he were severely injured? Concussion, hemiplegia, paraplegia, coma: the list of possible outcomes raced through my mind, along with images of Michael suffering in the grips of each condition.

I shot to my feet, colliding with the cup Gerald brought me, and splashing hot tea across my neck and shoulders.

“Aw, Jeez,” he exclaimed. “You okay, Doc?”

I couldn’t care less about the stain on my lab coat or the stickiness in my hair. “I can’t sit here. I need to do something.”

“The
best
thing you can do is stay here. Dr. Humphrey will take excellent care of him. You know that.”

Well, of course, I knew that. “When the hell did you become my mommy, Gerald?” At my razor sarcasm, he took a tentative step back, and I sighed, contrite. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s cool.” He shook off my anger and apology with one smooth shrug. “You’re scared. That’s understandable. It’s not easy being on the other side of the E.R.”

I said nothing for a long time, too shaken to form niceties and too afraid the next thing I blurted would draw blood. Guilt sopped me, drowning me in shoulda-woulda-couldas. Michael had come back to Snug Harbor for me. If he’d stayed in Portland, this never would have happened. Why hadn’t he gone home last week? I told him to go back. Why had he stayed? It wasn’t like he had any other reason to remain here. His parents had died two years before our scheduled wedding in a private plane crash. He had no other family. I was the only person in Snug Harbor he would have stayed for. But why? Did he really think if he stuck around, I might change my mind and go with him? Oh, God. That had to be the reason. He’d stayed here for me and now, he might die.

The loudspeaker squealed to life, breaking the silence and cutting off my self-analysis. “Dr. Florentino to E.R. Three. Dr. Florentino, E.R. Three.”

Thank God. Something to occupy my thoughts. I hoped it was something delicate and time-consuming, but not serious. The patient with poison ivy around his crotch popped up from my memory. Yes, a case like that would be perfect right now. I started to rise again, but Gerald placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take this call.”

“No, you won’t.” Despite his attempt to stop me, I got to my feet. “You’re right. Michael’s in the best of hands right now. The smartest thing I can do for myself is my job.”

“Well, then, I’ll just tag along with you,” he offered.

For a split second, ire resurrected, but I realized, if our situations were reversed, I’d react the same way. We were a united team. If one of us hurt, the others swooped in for comfort and support. I suppose only those in the trenches—armed services, doctors, cops, firefighters—could understand. “Okay,” I said at last. I swept a hand with a flourish. “Shall we?”

“After you, oh, great healer.”

“Naturally,” I replied, and with the barest smile twitching my lips, I left the break room for E.R. Three. Another nurse, Yvonne, met us outside the exam room and handed me a manila folder. “What have we got?”

“Driver two from the auto accident,” she replied. “Twenty-two year old Garrett D’Amico, forehead laceration.”

Every scintilla of good humor disappeared at cheetah-on-the-hunt speed. I thrust the folder into Gerald’s arms. “He’s all yours.”

Shaking with rage, I fled back to the break room.

Chapter 20

Francesca

The critical care unit is the harbinger of hope, a place where strength rises from within to confront the harshest adversities. After my shift, I sat at Michael’s bedside, waiting for answers. In this part of the hospital, no one could wrest control from fate’s hands. Not even me. Dr. Humphrey and a crack surgical team, which included a neurosurgeon and an orthopedic surgeon, had taken excellent care of Michael’s injuries. His fractured leg was reset and immobilized in a cast. Brain scans showed a concussion, but no intracranial bleeding or swelling. Unconscious throughout the medical procedures, he remained suspended in time and blissful ignorance. He’d been sedated to avoid the possibility of seizures that might cause additional injury. The staff here would continue to monitor his vitals and brain activity for at least the next several hours.

Thus, I could have gone home. He didn’t even know
he
was here, much less that I sat beside him. Yet, I stayed. My limbs numbed from remaining in the same position, hunched over the bedrail, my hand holding his. Still, I stayed. Around me, nurses’ conversations hummed, along with the noise of machines intended to keep patients holding on to life’s fragile threads. I barely heard them over the pleas echoing in my brain.
Please, let him be all right. Please. Let him wake up soon. Please
.
It’s my fault he’s here. Let him be all right.
And there I stayed.

I have no idea how long I sat before one of the nurses, a young fresh-faced woman with soulful brown eyes and bright red hair, touched my shoulder. “Doctor? You need to go home.”

I shook my head. “I’ll stay just a little while longer.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s not a request. Dr. Humphrey has ordered you gone.”

That comment jolted me. “He did?”

She nodded. “Dr. Humphrey is kinda territorial about his patients. It’s nothing personal.”

No. I supposed it wasn’t. The presence of loved ones could often help a patient rally, but at our last meeting, Michael and I had exchanged some harsh words. So he probably wouldn’t fight the good fight on my behalf—except, maybe, to spit in my face.

Slowly, I got to my feet. Invisible pins and needles pricked my limbs as circulation struggled to return to my bloodstream. I must have looked as stiff as I felt because the nurse wrapped an arm around my waist and walked with me to the automatic doors. “You’ll call me if there’s any change in his condition?” I asked her.

“Absolutely. I’ll leave a note at the nurses’ station that you’re to be notified.”