"She's..." I can't finish the thought.
"Edward," my mother says softly from the doorway. Her eyes are watery, filled with sorrow. "Would you like to see her?"
When I woke this morning, I saw my child's eyes. Laughing, gentle blue eyes. He was going to be a big brother. I could see him, envision him holding her hand, helping her learn to walk, to run, playing together. And now, I see him, alone in our meadow, picking flowers to place on her grave. I see Krissy, sobbing beneath the great maple tree, a place she'd gone to daydream about our children. I see our family growing distant, isolated, lonely. And I see a little angel, my little Phoebe, a perfect miniature of her mother, with tears in her eyes. No. I won't let this tear us apart. I won't let her be forgotten. I want to remember my child.
"Yes, please Mom. I want to see her."
John stands and excuses himself. I hear him murmuring to my father in the hallway. My mother... I've never seen her this shaken, not since the Charlie Tango incident. She pulls the door closed behind her and approaches me, almost apprehensive, a white bundle tucked in her arms, tears glittering on her cheeks. She lowers herself to sit beside me.
"She's very small..." she murmurs, unable to go on, and gently passes the bundle into my arms.
I sniffle. "Thank you, Mom."
And she is small. I pull back the blanket. Her tiny body is dark pink in color, and covered by a light dusting of white, downy hair. I remember reading about this in one of Krissy's pregnancy books... this is my daughter.
"Hello, Phoebe," I begin. "My beautiful baby girl. You were always wanted. Always loved. And always will be." I lift her and place a soft kiss on her tiny forehead. Her skin is cold, and that does me in. I bring her body to my chest and hold her, rocking her, rocking myself. My mother holds me. She must have been through this other times with other patients, but this is different. This was her granddaughter.
I feel as helpless as I did when she and I first met. I turn to the woman who saved my life, and her expression mirrors mine. "Is she in Heaven, Mom?"
My mother nods, absolute conviction in her eyes. "I know she is."
~oOo~
More time passes. I'm unsure how much time. I tearfully relinquished my daughter's body back to my mother, with her word that she'd be kept safe and sound. My father said something about taking care of arrangements, and not to worry. Flynn spoke in my general direction for a while longer. I missed much of what he said, and then he went home, saying something about being on call if I needed... whatever I needed. Mia and Ethan brought food, but it felt like an incendiary device had gone off in the pit of my stomach. Mia cried. For the first time in my life, I couldn't bear her to be near me.
My mother walked me up to Krissy's room in intensive care, explaining her injuries and what to expect, but the whooshing in my ears from my racing heart was such that I heard about every seventh word. It didn't really hit me until I saw her.
It was worse than after Hyde's attack, so much worse. She was hooked up to a multitude of machines, beeping, clicking, whirring, all keeping her alive. Her entire right arm encased in plaster, head bandaged, her blanket covering any number of other injuries. Dark circles ringed her eyes. A tube taped to her mouth, her chest rising and falling to the sucking sound of a ventilator.
I feel my knees weakening again, and my mother takes my hand, squeezing my fingers. "She'll be asleep awhile. You should talk to her though," she says.
I settle into the chair by her bed and lean against the railing. She's so badly broken, I'm afraid to touch her, and after feeling how cold and lifeless our daughter had been, I'm terrified Krissy will feel the same way to me. It's irrational, I know. "Tell me again, Mom. please. I'm sorry, I wasn't able to pay attention the first time." And I brace for the rundown.
~oOo~
My vigil is arduous. 'Awhile' turned to 'indefinitely' when her brain began to swell. On day six, as Krissy lay comatose, I left her side for an hour to bury our daughter. I pray she won't hate me for doing this without her, but it was for our daughter's peace, not for mine or anyone else's, that I moved forward with her burial. We'll do a memorial when Krissy wakes up, whatever she wants. Whatever will help her to forgive me.
If she wakes up. And this is becoming a bigger, graver if.
Gail brings Ryan by every day, and I see him in the waiting room. Children aren't permitted in the ICU. The hole in my heart rips open every time he asks about his little sister, and every time I soothe his 'I want Mommy' tears. I can't let him see his mother this way, even if he were allowed in. I know exactly how confusing and frightening it would be for him.
Mom called Dr. Sluder in to take the lead on Krissy's case. She's been subjected to MRIs and other various tests every afternoon, but the results are never conclusive and rarely encouraging. I can recite the contents of her chart by heart, and while I don't have a very firm grasp on this kind of medicine, the neutrality of the vitals and orders written on the page pick at my desperation to take action, though there is none to take. None that I can take, that is.
Ray arrived late evening on the first day. Carla arrived on the second day and neither has left except to sleep and clean up I booked them in the dual suite at the Fairmont. Maybe that was inappropriate on my part, putting them together, but I really didn't care at the time, much above and beyond seeing that everyone was taken care of. Sawyer went home on bed rest after surgery to remove a ruptured spleen and was back for light duty after the second week. Ryan, quickly recovered from a minor concussion and bruising, insisted upon taking shifts at the door to the ICU. We spoke briefly, he voiced his feelings of guilt over what part he could have played in driving the SUV, but as the police report concluded, it wasn't his fault. The other driver, a known repeat-offender of drug and alcohol abuse, got behind the wheel that afternoon to buy cigarettes. They found his mangled body across the street.
And Krissy... there's been no change. Twenty-three days, and other than the bruises fading and staples removed, she hasn't moved, hasn't taken a breath on her own, her eyelids don't even flicker as she sleeps. Mom uses long clinical terms to describe her lack of progress in the most gentle way she can, but I know better. The longer she sleeps, the less likely she is to wake. Devastation doesn't even begin to describe my grief. The reality that Krissy may never open her eyes seeps into my soul like the blackest ink, like slow, creeping poison.
Dad visits every morning and evening and makes me leave Krissy to clean myself up, to change clothes at least once a day. I don't see the point, I'm not here to impress anyone, and I don't believe I smell. He visits for a while, mentioning things like DNR orders and living wills. I tune him out. Taylor takes orders from him in my stead; we haven't said more than five words to one another in days. Mia brings food and stays until I eat, though what she offers goes down like wood pulp. Next to me, Krissy wastes away on a cocktail of intravenous fluids. Ros brought some paperwork by for my signature, but I said something harsh and she hasn't returned.
The nurses see fit to quarrel with me daily over Krissy's treatment. Something about an electrode current therapy, which in layman's terms to me meant electric shocks. How barbaric. This is supposed to be a hospital, where people go to recover from things like car accidents. My mother had to leave a patient to explain the procedure to me and to convince me to let the staff do their jobs. My behavior has evidently become increasingly atrocious as each day passes, but I really don't care.
I feel Krissy slipping away. John stops by every afternoon, but for the first time as my therapist, he's of no help. I think my father is paying him to be sympathetic. Elliot and Kate took Ryan to stay with them after I insisted Gail not bring him by the hospital anymore. I hate myself for whatever damage this will do to my relationship with my son, and I miss him terribly, but it's what's best for him.
The swelling in Krissy's brain subsided in the third week, and they attempted to end her coma. Krissy stubbornly refused. I was told that it isn't unheard of, considering the extent of the trauma she sustained. She
now sleeps of her own free will. I hate and I love and I hate how stubborn she can be.
I rest my head against Krissy's mattress, her uninjured hand in mine. I talk to her, read to her, though I'm sure she can't hear me. I have to do something... anything.
"Krissy, baby... please, please come back to me," I whisper, pressing kisses to her fingers. "I miss you. I need you. I love you."
And on the thirtieth day, her fingers moved.
I startled. Perhaps it was my imagination. I brushed her knuckles lightly with my thumb, and waited, what seemed like forever. And she twitched again. An alarm goes off, one of her machines. An orange light on the ventilator... Christ, no! I furiously punch the alert button on the wall. Seconds later, two nurses scurry in.
"Don't be alarmed, Mr. King. Krissy's just trying to breathe. The ventilator doesn't like it when patients try to breathe on their own," she says, almost cheerfully. Nurse Two... I never bothered to learn their names... is disconnecting the breathing tube, and I see Krissy's fingers move again, curling into her palm.
Oh God, it's happening. My mind sails into a joyous, if ever possible, panic mode. She's actually waking up... what do I say? What do I tell her? Will she hate me? Why didn't I prepare what I'd say to her? I chastise myself for this most selfish stream of consciousness. She's waking up, that's what matters. That's all that matters.
Nurse One moves down to check the chart, and I pick up Krissy's fisted hand. "Baby, I'm here," I say to her.
"Please stand aside, Mr. King," Nurse One bustles back over to Krissy, and I practically leap away as she reaches toward my chest to urge me out of the way. I haven't reacted quite that violently to a stranger's attempted contact in years. They're checking her pulse, checking everything, when Dr. Sluder strides in.
"Trying to wake up today, are we, Mrs. King?" she drawls, briefly consulting the chart Two is holding up for her and then feeling Krissy's pulse.
"What's happening?" I demand.
"Your wife is regaining consciousness, Mr. King," she says without looking at me. "Will you draw the shades for me, please." This isn't a question.
"Why?"
Dr. Sluder scurries around, adjusting machines and checking Krissy's reflexes. "Waking coma patients don't like bright lights, Mr. King. Please, the shades."
Stunned, I do as I am told. I move cautiously toward the bed, but stop about halfway, disembodied with uncertainty.
"Come on, darlin'," Dr. Sluder encourages, her fingers gently prodding my wife's cheeks.
Krissy's eyelashes flutter. I'm dimly aware that I'm holding my breath, and in the time it takes to remember how to exhale, she's blinking slowly, sleepily.
"Good to see you, Krissy," Dr. Sluder says to her. "You're in the hospital. You were in an accident. There's a tube in your mouth that was helping you breathe, we'll take it out in a minute. If you understand, can you give my hand a squeeze?" She seems satisfied with Krissy's minimal response and has a third nurse, who has exchanged places with Two, remove the tape from Krissy's face.
"When you're ready, take a deep breath and then blow out, Krissy." Dr. Sluder waits as Krissy's chest rises, and then gently pulls the tube. Krissy's cough is dry and weak. I'm glued to the spot, heart pounding, as One offers Krissy water through a straw.
"Mr. King, come on over," Dr. Sluder waves toward my recently vacated bedside seat. Krissy is so weak, so groggy, she doesn't... or can't... turn her head to look for me. I wonder sadly when she'll notice the flatness of her abdomen, and hear myself choke back a sob.
Krissy closes her eyes, breathing somewhat laboredly, but the slow opening and closing of her pale, chapped lips tells me she's still awake.
Dr. Sluder and Three exchange acronyms and statistics for a minute, and then she tells me she'll be right back.
"Mrs. King, I'm going to make you a little more comfortable, all right?" One tells Krissy. I see her name badge, Sharon. Anyone who makes my wife comfortable is worth remembering.
"Who..." Krissy rasps, eyes opening, barely slits.
"What's that, Mrs. King?"
"Who's... Mrs. King..." Krissy whispers.
The air leaves my lungs.
"That's you, honey," Nurse Sharon's cheerful demeanor replaced with instantaneous and dutiful concern. Her eyes flit to mine, gauging my reaction, or lack thereof.
What the fuck just happened?
"Krissy, baby..." I say softly, leaning in toward her, picking up her good hand.
Her eyes take me in, brow furrowing a bit, lips parted in a small, confused 'O'. She pulls her hand weakly from mine.
My heart plummets.
"Mr. King, may I see you outside?"
My head turns mechanically. Dr. Sluder's hand is extended toward me. It appears she's been back long enough to assess the situation. I turn back to Krissy. Her eyes... is that, no... fear? I shuffle slowly, swallowing the rising sawdust from whatever Mia has fed me this morning and back out from the room. Krissy's eyes remain locked with mine only seconds more, and then she looks away. Nurse Sharon adjusts her pillows. I can't hear what she tells Krissy, but she looks frightened. My Krissy...
"Memory loss was always a possibility, Mr. King," Dr. Sluder tells me, but I'm at once distracted by the form of my mother jogging toward me up the hall.
"Mom... she's..."
"Awake?" my mother interrupts. "Yes, Taylor just paged me."
"No, listen... Mom, she's, she's..." I can't form the words. I don't want to. I can't accept it. I'll fall apart again. I've done that enough in the last thirty days to last ten lifetimes. I'm Edward King, CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation, I. Do. Not. Fucking. Lose. It. I clench my jaw, steeling my soul.
"Krissy doesn't know me."
My effort holds for a moment suspended in time, but in the end, it's worthless. And again, in as many weeks, my world comes crashing down.
CHAPTER 3
~ KRISSY ~
I was supposed to have a midterm today. I was supposed to get up, fight with Kate over who ate the last of the cereal and should go to the market, and then I was supposed to go to class, write a brilliant essay, meet with my academic advisor, and then come home in time to get ready for 'Merlot and a Movie' at the arts center. Jose's been excited about it all week. Now I have doctors hovering all around, asking me what day it is, what my name is, to follow the flash of a penlight when all it does is hurt my eyes. Why won't they tell me what's going on? My head hurts.
"I want my Dad."
My voice sounds awful. The one in pink scrubs, with 'Sharon' embroidered on the breast pocket, nods and walks away.
"Krissy?" This doctor has light blue scrubs and sandy blonde hair. She looks kindly at me. "How are you feeling?"
"Tired... and confused," I whisper. Whispering is good, it hides the fact that my voice sounds so terrible.
"Are you feeling any pain?" she takes my left hand... ugh, what happened to my right arm? I'm never going to get any writing done with this thing. And it does hurt a bit, I realize. So does my pounding head.
"My arm hurts... my head a little more."
She nods, readjusting the bag of fluids dangling above me. The relief is almost instantaneous. My eyes roll back before closing.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Whatever you need, we'll see that you get it," she tells me. "Can we talk for a bit?"
I open my eyes, and she's seated herself next to me. Where the copper-haired angel was... why was he so sad? Was he even real? He felt real…
"Krissy, do I look at all familiar?"
My eyes are busy adjusting, but I'm pretty sure I've never seen her before. It feels... wrong, to let her down.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She nods, kindly, but looks saddened. "That's all right, dear. I'm Dr. Trevelyan, but you can call me Grace. Would you mind telling me the last thing you remember?"
I think, hard. It sends my thoughts out of focus, like the second-guessing I feel on multiple-choice tests. I hate those. "Um... I remember I'm supposed to have midterms
today. Can I go soon? I need to make sure my professors know I'm not skipping class. I'm graduating in a couple months." I swallow, my throat now dry from the exertion of forced speech. Grace looks at me, sadly.
"Krissy, you don't have to worry about that, all right?" she reassures me. I'm not the best at reading people, but I know when someone's holding back. What is it?
I look toward the cup of water at the side table. Dr. Grace expertly understands and retrieves the cup, bringing the straw to my lips. The water tastes stale and antiseptic, but it's thoroughly quenching. "We'll have something better brought to you soon, when your specialist clears you."
"Um... does my Dad know? He's my emergency contact. He lives in Montesano." I just want my Daddy. I need a familiar face. There's a sudden itch on my cheek, and my arm is too weak to lift my hand to scratch. It's terribly disarming.
Dr. Grace must sense my unease. "Your parents are both on their way up, they should be here in about ten minutes." she promises.
Mom too? How did she get here so fast? Unless... oh no. My bottom lip quivers. "How long did I sleep?"
"About a month," she tells me, her voice full of sympathy. "We're all very happy to see you awake, Krissy. You sustained a terrible head injury, and we weren't sure you'd come back to us."
A month? Is she serious? Oh... graduation is so not happening now. I want to cry, but I don't think my body has the strength. "Why is it so hard to move?"
"Your muscles are in a state of pre-atrophy," she explains. "You didn't use them for a long time, so it's going to take a bit of therapy to get you back to where you were before." There's still something she's not telling me.
"There's more... isn't there," I ask. I don't want to know, but I need to know. But I don't want to. Shit, I'm scared. It must show on my face, because Dr. Grace picks up my hand again. I swallow, hard.
"Some time has passed from what you last remember. Quite a lot more than a month, actually," she explains, speaking slowly, carefully. "The head injury you sustained seems to have caused some memory loss. It's called retrograde amnesia, and it's incomplete, meaning you respond to your name and remember specific details, but there seems to be a period of about three years that you're missing."
The Billionaire's Marriage: A Romance Novel Page 2