Deb shook her head and spoke quietly. “No. Never.”
Something about being in a hospital made anything personal impersonal. Bad breath, sexual partners, foot fungus, vaginal odor, gastrointestinal noises, even past relationships and bad habits were no longer private, they were health history. In a hospital, doctors were priests, and anything less than cleansing your soul was an act of aggression against your wellbeing. Or, in this case, Deb must have felt she would be acting against mine.
Dr. Livingston gestured to her nurse. He left for a moment and then returned with two chairs. The doctors took a seat at the end of my bed.
“It would be interesting to ask her questions during a MEG,” Dr. Livingston said.
Dr. Brock nodded, still staring at me with that deceivingly warm smile. “And your memories of Josh span back nearly two years?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling more like an experiment than a patient.
Dr. Brock was trying hard to seem interested in helping me, but I could see them planning their articles in The New England Journal of Medicine. I had been guilty of the same excitement and curiosity the doctors had in their eyes. We were healthcare professionals, and day in and day out, we saw many of the same ailments. Seeing something atypical was exhilarating. That interest didn’t mean I couldn’t empathize, but it was a struggle to balance one against the other—a struggle the doctors were losing.
Dr. Brock crossed her legs and settled into her chair, readying her pen and notebook. “How did it make you feel when you saw Josh?”
I pointed to her paper. “I haven’t agreed to a session. I’m not comfortable with notes.”
“I understand,” Dr. Brock said. “I can easily dispose of any notes at the end if you decide you don’t wish to continue.”
Deb glanced at me.
“But,” Dr. Brock said, “this has clearly been traumatic for you. It would be overwhelming to try to process this loss of time and mourn Josh and the life you led while unconscious and still navigate today, or tomorrow, or the next day. Have you thought about what you’ll do when you leave the hospital?”
“She has a week of physical therapy,” Deb said. “They’re moving her to rehab tomorrow.”
“And after that?” Dr. Livingston prompted.
“I … I don’t know. Josh was living with me in my apartment. I’m not even sure I still have my apartment.”
“You do,” Deb said, squeezing my hand.
“Tell me more about your memories,” Dr. Livingston said, “and the physiology that accompanies them.”
I frowned.
Dr. Brock stiffened. “Dr. Livingston, if you don’t mind, I think we should concentrate on Avery’s emotional state for the first session.”
“Or not mix two completely separate health fields,” Deb grumbled. “What was Dr. Weaver thinking?”
“Excuse me?” Dr. Livingston snapped.
“This is a train wreck,” Deb said. She looked at me. “You both approached Dr. Weaver, didn’t you?”
Dr. Brock breathed out a small laugh. “Hamata, Avery’s recovery will happen in many different facets. We just want to help her readjust to reality.”
“I’m very interested in—” Dr. Livingston began, looking to Dr. Brock instead of me.
Deb held up one hand. “We know you’re very interested. We think you should both leave, and come back when you can stop talking like Avery isn’t in the room.”
The male nurse smiled.
“Hamata,” Livingston began.
Deb walked over to the door, opened it, and smiled politely. The doctors traded glances and then stood, nodding to me. The nurse picked up the chairs and did the same.
“Feel better, Jacobs,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Deb began to shut the door behind the doctors, but a nurse pushed through, rushing around the room, checking monitors, pulling the EKG strip, and writing in my chart.
“Look, Jacobs. It’s the new girl,” Deb said.
“Hi,” the nurse said back, barely looking up. Her voice instantly made me angry, but I had no idea why.
“New?” I asked.
“I started in the ER just before your accident,” the nurse said. “Do you remember me?”
The tawny beauty reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t quite place her. I didn’t remember knowing her at all from the hospital. Something told me she was bad news.
“No,” I said simply. I wanted her to leave. Her presence made me want to throw things.
“You look tired, Parsons,” Deb said.
“Yes, I’m swamped. Michaels called in. Pretty sure there’s a Bruno Mars concert tonight.”
Deb chuckled, but I narrowed my eyes.
Parsons smiled at me. “Sorry for not introducing myself first. I assumed because we’ve met before … but I shouldn’t have. I’m Hope Parsons. I actually just moved into your building a few weeks ago.” She leaned over and offered her hand to me.
I didn’t take it.
Parsons stood, slow and awkward. “Um … okay, it was nice to meet you again. I have to get back to Josh’s room.”
“I bet you do,” I murmured.
She glanced at me and then spoke to Deb. “I’m assisting Dr. Weaver with a procedure.”
“On Josh?” I asked.
Parson’s eyes grew large. “I shouldn’t have said that. I can’t discuss his care with—”
“You can discuss it with me,” Deb said. “I’ll be his nurse tomorrow.”
Parsons shook her head. “I can’t, Hamata. Not in front of Avery. I need this job.”
I sat up. “Why? Because you’re a single mom?”
Parsons hesitated. “Yes. Why?”
“When did you move into my building?”
Parsons was confused, but I could see she was counting in her head. “A few weeks after your accident.”
“Have I met your son?” I asked.
“No.”
I bit my lip. I was either going to be crazy for being right, or being wrong. “Is his name Toby?”
Parsons offered a cautious smile. “Yes? I must have been talking about him when I came in to check on you. We’ve had a few one-sided conversations,” she said, her cheeks pink. She scribbled a few more things on my chart and then hooked it to the end of the bed. “I really have to go. Glad you’re okay, Jacobs.”
She hurried out, and Deb frowned at me. “What was that about?”
“You don’t think it’s weird that I know her son’s name? That I even know she has a son?”
Deb shrugged. “She admitted to talking about him. You know loved ones are encouraged to speak to patients in comas. You heard her. That’s all.”
“Call Quinn,” I said.
Deb winced. “I’m not calling Quinn. He’s had a rough time, and …”
“Deb, are you my friend?”
“Yes, but …”
“Then call him. Tell him I want to see him. I have questions.”
She stood, gathering her things. “Fine.” She pointed at me. “But if you don’t stop, one of those doctors is going to commit you just so they can do whatever tests they want. Be careful.”
I smiled at her, watching her leave. “Thank you.”
“To be honest,” she said, pausing at the door. “I hope you’re right. Quinn is hot, and I wouldn’t mind getting pummeled by him every night.”
“In a better life, he’s in love with you.”
Her grin was half sad, half hopeful. “Maybe they’ll let me live there with you.”
It had finally happened. Brooke had called me a selfish bastard. Years later, Avery had called me one, too. Hope was likely thinking it. They were all right. I was like poison, yet I had pursued Avery anyway.
I’d hoped if I did it the right way, if I was honest and treated her with respect, treated our relationship with respect, that maybe whoever had cursed me would give me a second chance.
I looked down at Avery, surrounded by machines, tubes, and steady, irritating noises that meant she was alive, but she was too far away for me to reach. I took her frail hands in mine, unsure if she would take me back when she woke. If she woke.