Sparking Sara (The Men on Fire Series)

by Samantha Christy

  “Do you think she’ll start talking more?” I ask.

  He nods. “She’ll talk when she’s ready. She’s perfectly capable of it. I just think she doesn’t have much to say yet. It’ll come.”

  “See you later?” I ask as he walks away.

  “If you’re still here after lunch, you can help me get her walking. Somehow, I think she’ll do much better today.” He winks at me before he goes around the corner.

  Why would she do better today? Maybe because she’s in a good mood after painting.

  Sara looks tired when I go back into her room. “You did great, champ. You’ve impressed Donovan, and I get the feeling it takes a lot to impress him.”

  She smiles.

  Then she looks down at the ring that’s still on her left hand.

  “How did you get in?” she asks, nodding to the paint supplies we stacked in the corner.

  “To your apartment?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Oliver let me in. We had cappuccino.”

  “He has a key?” she asks.

  I scrub my hand across my jaw. “He didn’t tell you?”

  She just looks at me, waiting.

  “Sara, you and Oliver share an apartment. You live together.”

  She closes her eyes and sighs. I take it this is not good news to her.

  “Listen,” I say, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Nobody says you have to jump right back into anything you’re not comfortable with. And you have time. You’ll be here for a while. That will give you a chance to get to know him again. Oh, my gosh, Sara, the things you two did together. He should be the one to tell you, but you’ve been all over the world. You’ve seen incredible sights. Done incredible things. He has photographs and souvenirs. Just wait until you hear about all of it.”

  She turns her head and stares at the wall. I can tell she’s worn out. I pick up our book off her side table and read to her as she rests. I read until another therapist comes into the room. He exercises her arms and legs, telling us how important it is to keep her muscle tone. Then, with my help, he sits her in a chair for an hour, during which the cognitive therapist and then the speech therapist both have their turns with her.

  Before Sara is moved back to bed, a female nurse comes in to help her get to the bathroom.

  By the time her head hits the pillow, she’s almost fast asleep. I study her as she dozes off. She’s far too thin. Joelle said they’re even using the feeding tube in her stomach to give her extra calories. I pick up my phone and text in an order to one of my favorite lunch places.

  An hour later, when Sara starts to wake up, she inhales a big breath through her nose. “That smell,” she says.

  Without seeing her eyes, I can’t tell if she’s offended like she was from the smell of the cappuccino.

  “It’s my favorite food,” I tell her. “Pizza.”

  She smiles as her eyes flutter open. “Please say pepperoni.”

  I laugh, thinking how she’s supposedly vegan.

  “No self-respecting pizza lover would order one without pepperoni,” I say.

  “Mmmmm,” she mumbles.

  I wait until she’s fully awake to open the box and serve us our lunch. While we’re eating, a nurse comes in and congratulates Sara on going an entire day without the vent.

  “Seriously?” I say. “That’s fantastic.” I turn to Sara and pump my fist. “Rock star!”

  “In fact, we may not have to use it at all anymore,” the nurse says.

  “She can get the trach out?” I ask hopefully.

  “We’ll monitor her O2 count over the next twenty-four hours, and if it remains stable, the ENT doctor will remove the trach.”

  “Does that mean surgery?” I ask.

  “Nope. They pretty much just pull it out and slap a bandage on her neck. No stiches. No tape. Just a bandage. I could do it if they’d let me. But they don’t let me—that’s above my pay grade,” she jokes. “The wound will heal in five to seven days, leaving a small scar.”

  “Battle wounds are sexy,” I say to Sara.

  She smirks and rolls her eyes.

  Shit. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds. I didn’t mean anything by it. But from the look on her face, Sara didn’t mind that I said it.

  Donovan comes in as the nurse is leaving. “Twenty-four hours off the vent?” he says. “You rock, girl.”

  “See,” I say to her. “I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

  “What is that heavenly smell?” Donovan asks.

  I nod to the box. “Pizza. We have plenty if you want some.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, pulling up an extra chair next to Sara’s bed. “We’ve got a few minutes before your afternoon session. Let’s gossip.”

  I observe him closely as he tells us the dirt on the other PTs and nurses. I guess I never noticed before, but now that I’m paying attention, I think we should introduce him to Davis Martinez. I almost say something to Sara about it, but then I realize she won’t know who I’m talking about.

  And for the hundredth time, I try to imagine what it must be like not to remember parts of your life.

  “Enough chit-chat,” Donovan says. “Time to put your dancing shoes on.”

  He gets Sara’s shoes out of the closet, and we each put one on her. Then Donovan brings in a wheelchair and wheels her out into the hallway where a few others are waiting in the same formation as they were the other day when she took her first steps.

  “You,” he says to me, pointing to the end of the hallway. “There.”

  I raise my eyebrows at him, thinking he’s rather optimistic having me stand so far away.

  He nods at me as if he knows she can do it.

  “Are you ready, Sara?”

  She nods and he lifts her up, holding on to her like he did the other day. And like the other day, someone is on the floor helping her move her feet while another follows her with the wheelchair.

  She looks at me, twenty feet away from her, and I can tell she thinks I’m too far away.

  “Come on, Sara. You can do it. You’re a rock star, remember?”

  She takes two steps with help from the guy on the floor. Then I notice on the third step, she picks up her right foot all by herself, without any help. And then her left. And then she does it four more times before she loses her balance and falls into Donovan’s arms.

  He sits her down. “You’re doing great, honey. Let’s go again.”

  He helps her up and she starts again, this time without needing to be told which foot to move. She inches closer and closer to me, but I can tell she’s getting tired.

  “Sara, make it all the way to me and you can have whatever you want. I’ll even watch The Bachelor with you, and you know I hate that show.”

  She smiles. “Burger,” she says.

  “You want me to bring you a cheeseburger for dinner?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “You walk all the way to me and I’ll bring you two.”

  She smiles and then closes her eyes as if to muster the strength. Then I watch her take at least ten more steps. The last few steps, she doesn’t even have to look at her feet. She stares at me. I stare at her. And something seems to happen between us. Something that feels wrong, but at the same time—so fucking right.

  Donovan and the others give her a standing ovation after she sits back down. “I think she should also get a milkshake after that,” he says.

  “Chocolate,” she says.

  “You got it,” I say, my smile about splitting my face in two. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”

  “Oh, you thought we were done?” Donovan says.

  Sara looks a bit scared.

  Donovan laughs. “We’re done with walking for the day. But you’ve impressed me so much, I thought we’d get you on the bike.”

  “Bike?” I say incredulously, looking at the shock on Sara’s face.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s a three-wheel bike. It’s perfectly safe and low to t
he ground.”

  “Outside?” Sara asks hopefully.

  “No. Sadly, it’s raining this afternoon, so we’ll do it in the therapy room. Perhaps we can get you outside tomorrow.”

  Sara’s been trapped indoors for over two weeks now. Her only fresh air came when she was transferred to and from the ambulance. Hardly an exhilarating experience.

  Later in the afternoon, after all her therapy is done, Sara and I are back in her room playing cards. And every time she calls for a card I have, I hold it over her head, making her reach for it.

  I catch Donovan smiling at me from the doorway. He moves aside when Oliver walks in, his arms full of takeout food.

  “You’ve got quite a load there,” I say, hopping up to help.

  “Nothing’s too good for my girl. Right, luv?”

  Something about the way he says that to her makes my spine stiffen.

  He pulls out a bottle of champagne. “I even brought us some bubbly.”

  Donovan comes walking into the room, eyeing the champagne. “I’d be happy to keep that on ice for you until the doctor clears her to drink.”

  “She can’t drink?” he asks.

  “She shouldn’t,” Donovan says. “It’s still very early in her recovery.”

  Oliver waves him off, pulling two glasses from his bag. “One glass can’t hurt.”

  “Actually, it can,” Donovan says. “Sara is working very hard to reestablish the connections between her neurons. Alcohol can and will affect her ability to do that, even temporarily. You don’t want any setbacks in her progress now, do you?”

  Oliver looks at the bottle in his hands. “Well, bullocks. I guess it’ll have to wait, hun.” He hands the bottle to Donovan. “For the day she gets to come home.”

  Donovan nods. “I think we’ll all have a drink on that fine occasion.”

  Oliver proceeds to retrieve a large spread of food from his bag.

  “I brought all your favorites,” he says. “Tofu-spinach lasagna with a side of stuffed peppers. And for dessert, black bean brownies.”

  Sara looks anything but excited about the food placed in front of her.

  Oliver feeds her as he tells her about their travels together. I begin to feel like a third wheel, as I often do when Oliver is here. But for the first time, I realize I’m not okay with it.

  “I’ll see you guys later, then,” I say. “I’ll make good on those burgers another day. Okay, Sara?”

  She nods sadly before taking the bite of lasagna Oliver is shoveling into her mouth.

  “Bye now,” I say on my way out the door. But what I really want to tell him is that he doesn’t need to feed her anymore. If he’d been paying attention, he’d see she’s getting back a lot of her fine motor skills. But I keep my mouth shut because there’s the whole stepping-on-toes thing.

  “Thanks for filling in when I can’t be here, mate,” Oliver says.

  Filling in.

  The way he says it is like he thinks I’m doing him a favor. I can’t quite figure him out. He acts like he wants to be here, but then he only bothers showing up for an hour or two at a time. I get that he’s busy and he has a job he needs to keep, and I even get that some people just hate hospitals and being around sick people. But there’s something about him I just can’t put my finger on.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sara walked twice as far today as she did yesterday, with minimal help. There was no guy on the floor telling her which foot to move. No wheelchair following her with every step. Donovan told me she’s improving quickly. He said if this keeps up, she may only be here another week or two. I’m not sure why I feel like that’s not necessarily a good thing. Two weeks. She has two weeks to get used to the idea of going home with a stranger.

  “How are her oxygen levels?” I ask the nurse when she does her rounds.

  “Good,” she says. “I have every reason to believe the doctor will remove the trach today.”

  When the nurse helps Sara to the bathroom, Sara requires little help. Over the course of only one day, she’s graduated from using a walker to simply having a belt tied around her waist for support as someone walks beside her. She takes slow, careful steps, but does it all on her own. Before she disappears around the corner in the bathroom, she shoots me a smirk. One that tells me she’s proud of herself.

  I’m glad to see her in such a good mood. Two days ago, when Joelle called me, they were worried about her falling into depression. I’ve seen little evidence of that.

  Donovan has her do more painting before lunch. She’s making incredible improvements with her fine motor skills.

  I decide to sneak out and run some errands during her sessions with the cognitive and speech therapists. I promised the woman a burger, and she’s going to get one. And since Oliver is coming for dinner, probably with some hideous bean and tofu crap, lunch is our only option.

  ~ ~ ~

  When I return a few hours later, I have two bags with me.

  Sara is sitting in a chair, looking through the pile of pictures Oliver brought her yesterday. Pictures of them. She puts down one of them and looks longingly out the window.

  I find it hard not to stare at her. Apparently, she got the trach out while I was gone. She’s now free of all tubes and wires. She has a small bandage where it once was. I wonder if she’s worried about the scar it will leave. But I know she’ll still be just as beautiful.

  I shake my head, knowing it’s wrong of me to think such thoughts.

  Sara gazing out the window reminds me what a nice day it is today.

  “How about we blow this popsicle stand and go have lunch outside?” I ask when I walk into the room.

  “Yes,” she says excitedly.

  I put down the bags on her bed. “But first, you have a very important decision to make, Sara.”

  “What?” she asks apprehensively.

  I pull out the two shirts I bought. “Nighthawks or Royals?”

  She looks more than a little relieved, and I wonder what she thought I was going to ask her.

  “I noticed your clothes are a bit baggy. So until we can get more meat on those bones, I thought you might be more comfortable in something that fits better.” I pull another shirt out of the bag. An FDNY shirt. “I brought this one, too. Just so you’d have choices.”

  She studies all of them and then looks at me with soft, grateful eyes.

  “I’m sorry if you don’t like baseball,” I say. “Or standard-issue FDNY shirts. But these are the only things I could think of to get you. Because I don’t do girl clothes.”

  She laughs. “They’re perfect.”

  “Which one do you want?”

  “Can I have all of them?”

  I hold them out to her. “They’re yours.”

  Her finger traces the logo on one of the baseball shirts.

  “Maybe we could watch a game together,” I ask. “I think there’s one on later this afternoon if you’re interested.”

  “That would be nice,” she says. “Thank you, Denver.”

  When she says my name, something inside me shifts. She’s never said my name before. And I realize I may like the way it sounds coming off her lips a little too much.

  “You must be happy to have gotten the trach out,” I say.

  “I am.”

  “You look …” I remember who she is and who she’s with and realize I shouldn’t finish the sentence.

  She reaches up and touches the bandage self-consciously. “I look what?”

  I wonder if she thought I was going to say she looks bad or ugly or sick. I wasn’t going to say any of those things. I was going to say she looks beautiful. But I don’t.

  “You look great, Sara.” I pick up one of the pictures of her and Oliver. “I wonder where this was taken,” I say. “It looks like maybe the Swiss Alps. You sure did a lot of traveling.”

  “I don’t remember,” she says sadly.

  “I know you don’t. It’s okay, Sara. It’s not your fault.” I put down the picture. “Do you real
ize you’ve spoken more words in the last thirty seconds than in the last week?”

  I pick up another picture. This one I recognize as being taken in their apartment. “Your apartment is pretty great,” I say. “Especially your studio.”

  She looks over at the paint supplies in the corner. “I wish I could see it.”

  “Maybe you can,” Donovan says, coming into the room with a wheelchair. “Sorry, I have a habit of eavesdropping and I heard Denver say you should go outside. So, here’s your ride, young lady.”

  “What do you mean she can see it?” I ask.

  “We like our patients to acclimate back into their normal lives before leaving. Often, we will go on field trips. I think taking Sara to see her apartment would be a good first outing.”

  “Really?” she asks.

  “Sure, why not?” he says. “We’ll have to coordinate with your fiancé, of course.”

  Sara looks over at me. “Will you come?”

  I look at Donovan and he shrugs.

  “I guess,” I say. “I mean, if Oliver doesn’t mind.”

  Donovan helps Sara into the wheelchair. “It’s not Oliver’s decision,” he says. “It’s Sara’s.”

  Donovan puts the bag of food in Sara’s lap and motions for me to step behind the wheelchair.

  “You’re not coming?” I ask.

  “You are capable of pushing a wheelchair, no?”

  I laugh. “Of course.”

  “No getting up out of your wheels, okay, honey?” he says. “Call me if you need any help. But somehow, I think you’ll be in good hands with the fireman. Have a good lunch, you two.”

  I push her outside into the courtyard. It’s a sunny, temperate July day. Not too hot. Not too humid. A perfect day to eat outside. I find a table that I can push her up to, and then I pull out a chair for myself before emptying the bag.

  Sara’s eyes go wide as I pull out three cheeseburgers, two fries, and a couple of milkshakes. I put her shake in front of her. “Chocolate,” I say. “Just what you ordered.”

  Then I hand her a straw. I don’t bother to take it out of the wrapper. I make her do it.

  She looks at the straw in her hand. “Oliver would unwrap it for me.”