The Truth About Air & Water (Truth in Lies #2) (10 page)

The nurse who spoke to me earlier about being his fiancée returns. She grabs my arm and half-pushes me out the swinging doors of the emergency room. “You should wait out here, Ms. Landon. Right now, they are doing everything they can to help your fiance.” She points towards the waiting room that I remember Marla being directed to earlier.

In a daze, I walk slowly, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other, and make my way down the long hall toward Marla and my dad and some kind of reassurance. Someone grabs my arm at the halfway mark along this trek.
Mom.

“Tally? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” She asks after taking one look at my face.

“Something is wrong with Linc.”

I glance back. Now, there are at least another half dozen doctors and nurses streaming in and out of the swinging doors to the ER where Linc is. My mind tries to tabulate the exact number, but I can’t.

I can’t even breathe.

I try to remember what I said to him last. What was it? But I can’t remember.

“They’re taking him to emergency surgery. They’ve brought in a neurologist. Tom Carter. He’s good.” My dad looks beyond stressed.

I concentrate on breathing in and out so I don’t freak out right along with him.

“I thought Dr. Carter only did brain surgery,” I say slowly, holding the cup of coffee in my hand and vaguely feeling the heat from the Styrofoam even as it begins to feel cold in my hands.
How is that possible? Cold and hot at the same time.
Like me?
It’s been sixty-five minutes since I last saw Linc, and I think I can measure it in days.

“He does. The CAT Scan showed some bleeding. They need to relieve the pressure.”

My dad is a man of few words but the ones he’s chosen to use seem to cut into me as swiftly as a scalpel would. I actually flinch as the familiar resounding edge of fear moves in and takes me over completely. The unbelievable pain comes on much more slowly. My dad holds my stunned gaze and starts to nod as if I’ve just figured out the scenario for all of us.

“It’s really serious, Tally, but Tom Carter is the best.”

“He could die.” I’ve said this as if I’m reading from my first book in Kindergarten.

See Spot run.

See Spot run fast.

Does Spot die?

Does he get hit by a baseball and die? Or die in a burning car? Like Holly?

Cara will be five in a few years. I should be ready for this, for Kindergarten, with Cara. I should teach her to read now. I can’t seem to get her to talk, but maybe I can teach her to read.

But if Linc dies, then so do I.

Then, where will Cara be?

These are the questions we have that we never give a voice to.

These are the thoughts we think but that we never actually say.

CHAPTER SEVEN

No Air -TALLY

Marla’s here.
She puts her arm around me. Her warmth seeps into me somehow after a few minutes. I look at her helplessly.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Her words cause my lips to curve.
I can still smile. That’s good news.
That’s all the good news I have to go on right now.

I look at her even more intently. “I’m going to hold you to that.” She nods. “Sorry about the have-to-keep-it-a-secret-we’re-getting-married-tomorrow shtick. I really wanted to tell you.
Today
? We were trying to take in consideration my parents, my mom really; and protect Linc’s dad from blowing a gasket, I suppose. So much for the secret. Or the surprise.” I’ve said this like I’m reading off of a piece of paper at a eulogy. It feels like one.

I’m numb. I grow colder by the minute.

“Remember, I’m the expert when it comes to wedding plans. An elopement is really the only way to go. You’ll just have to put it off for a few more weeks or keep to the schedule for late October? November?” She frowns, which makes me kind of smile because the logistics have just become a nightmare, and we both know it. She sighs. “You guys
love
each other. That’s all that matters. All you need is love.”

“What are you doing? Quoting the Beatles’ song lyrics now?”

“Anything that will work for a distraction, baby.”

“Thanks for being here. Don’t call me baby.”

“Nowhere I’d rather be,
baby
. Charlie’s coming up after he does rounds. We’re all here for you and Linc. You know that. Always.”

“Always,” I say in rote but I can’t really breathe and I try to hide that fact from Marla. A distinct part of me worries I’ll never be able to breathe properly again. I give voice to the overriding fear. “But what if something happens to him, Marla? What then?”

“It won’t.”

“How do you
know
?”

“I just
know
,” Marla says squeezing my ice cold hands. “I just
know
, Tally.”

Davis Presley arrives and essentially takes over. He makes no comment when my dad quietly takes him aside and tells him that Linc and I were planning on eloping tomorrow. He takes in the little bit of old news and in slow motion looks my way and finally rewards me with a polite nod. And that is it.

I decide he’s scared. Scared for Linc. Maybe even scared for me and Cara. All of us. He says as much when he finally comes over. His hands shake as he absently drinks a cup of coffee. “Eloping. I guess congratulations would be in order, Tally.” He takes my hand in his and weakly shakes it.

“If that were true. Yes,” I say into his inexplicable silence.

And that is it.

After that, we don’t talk about Linc and me or the fact that we were eloping tomorrow after Linc’s morning practice. That proverbial wish ship has sailed without us.

He says nothing to me. That’s it. That’s all. No Tally-how-are-you-holding-up? Nothing. Nada.

Every once in a while he leaves to make various phone calls and returns with cryptic updates that can be summarized like this: “Kimberley. The Giants. ESPN.”

The man has his priorities and they aren’t me.

There’s no how-can-I-help-you, Tally? Where’s-Cara? What-can-I-do? There are no words of comfort for me from Linc’s dad.
There is nothing.

One of Linc’s doctor’s come in and give us an update. “His surgery went well. He’s critical but stable. And
no
, you can’t see him just yet.”

Four hours in, I conclude that Davis and I are on the same page.
We just want Linc to live. We just want what is best for Linc. We are in agreement.

These thoughts continue to console me as I try to get some sleep sitting up in a chair in the family waiting room just off of the ICU as this horrible day draws to a close and another begins.

At three in the morning, I awaken in the semi-dark in a hospital that never really sleeps and discover Davis quietly watching me. Unveiled and way past the guise of serving as my future father-in-law, his brooding look is downright ominous. It serves as the first sign of the trouble that is to come, but I’m too tired to actually respond or stop him in any way.

By eight in the morning, some twelve hours have passed since the line drive, and we still occupy the same chairs in the waiting room. It now feels like a prison of sorts. We can’t leave because we wait for news, for rounds, and for any and all updates about Linc. We live for the cryptic statuses.

“He’s-critical-but-stable.”

“We're-running-an-IV to get him some fluids and nutrition and avoid dehydration.”

“He's-been-sedated-so-he-can-rest.”

“His body’s healing.”

“You can see him later this morning, Mr. Presley.” A curious side glance at me takes place. “We’ll be limiting visitors to immediate family one at a time right now.”

I don’t think a fiancée is going to count as immediate family and a new kind of reality begins to dawn as I see Davis unconsciously nod in agreement at this rule.

Marla left with Charlie a few hours ago. My mom gave up at four in the morning and went into parent mode for her other kid to ensure Tommy gets off to school today. My dad is off doing rounds without having gotten any sleep and assures me he’s fine because it’s his day off. None of it really reaches me or computes on any coherent level. I feel nothing. I just sit here and wait and wonder at the phenomena that I am able to breathe at all. Meanwhile, Linc’s dad barely says anything to me and the silence from him is its own particular brand of heartbreak.

“He’ll recover.”

My dad.

He’s taken another look at Linc’s chart and tells me he likes what he sees. “His vitals are good. He’s resting.”

“More please,” I say with a tight, improvised smile.

My dad pulled chief cardiologist rank, convincing them to let me in for a mere fifteen minutes to see Linc for myself, while Davis was off making one of his mysterious phone calls. We are in clandestine mode already without verbalizing why. Linc was sleeping. He looked peaceful but worn out at the same time. His head was mostly bandaged and I have no idea how much of his head they had to shave. There were tufts of black hair sticking out on the left side of his head. The only parts that weren’t bandaged. He’s still critical but stable. I still can’t breathe and find myself still holding my breath at odd times when I finally gasp for air with the realization.