Wake for Me (Life or Death Series)

by Irons, Isobel

  Brady crossed his arms smugly. “From the seventh floor doctor’s lounge.”

  “What?” Sam put the bottle down, like it had burned him. Interns weren’t technically allowed in the doctor’s lounge until their second year of residency, and even then he was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to drink alcohol in there. Or steal alcohol from there.

  “I know, right?” Brady didn’t seem to notice Sam’s scandalized expression. “Your coma girlfriend’s dad keeps having whole cases delivered to the DL. It’s like he thinks he can buy his daughter the doctors’ undivided attention, or something. Which,” he added, “he totally can, by the way. I googled these on my phone, and the cheapest bottle here is like five-hundred bucks!”

  “Brady, you can’t keep these.”

  He snorted. “Who said anything about keeping them? I figure you and I can pregame with one of them tonight, and then I’ll sell the rest of them on eBay or whatever.”

  Sam shook his head. “No thanks, man. If you want to get caught sneaking these out of here, that’s your prerogative. I’m going to hit the gym.”

  “What?” Brady put the bottle back into his cache, then closed the door and spun the lock. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Wine? Women? Song?”

  He gyrated his hips slowly in a circle, while raising his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Dude, I need a rain check,” Sam said, his patience almost at an end. “Enjoy the taxi ride home, or hitch one with whatever nurse you’re currently banging. I’m going to jog to 24-7.”

  Shutting his ears to Brady’s final whine of protest, Sam speed walked to the stairway entrance and raced down all three flights, using his abnormally long legs to skip several stairs with each step. When he got to the parking lot, he set out in the opposite direction from where he parked his car, the sudden need to clear his head trumping the impulse to check on his baby. Five blocks down the street, he made a bee-line for the 24-hour mega gym where most of his fellow doctors had memberships. Luckily, though, most of them preferred traditional weight lifting or cardio to Sam’s favorite method of exercise, so he wasn’t worried about fighting his way through the six-thirty crush.

  As usual at this time of day, all of the treadmills and elliptical machines were packed with slender, attractive young women toning themselves after what was probably a long day at the office. There were secretaries, finance workers, actresses, fashion industry types, and many other members of the glamorous New York 9-5 career persuasion. A few of them checked him out as he walked past, but most of them only glanced before turning their gazes straight ahead once again.

  There was a reason Sam never wore his scrubs to the gym, if he could help it. Nobody ever noticed just another marginally fit young guy in baggy sweats. This way, he could get in and out quickly, without being molested for the sole reason of his occupation. Unlike Brady, he wasn’t a fan of being used for his future earning potential and social status.

  Inside the locker room, Sam stripped down and showered quickly, using a disposable razor to rid his chest, back and arms of as much hair as he could. It wasn’t a vanity thing, but more a force of habit from back when body hair equaled a few tenths of a second and timing actually mattered. Even then, it was still probably silly—he’d never been a speed swimmer.

  No, when it came to competition, endurance was Sam’s strong suit. His best event had been the 1500 meter freestyle. He could still swim it in under 25 minutes, but that was hardly anything to brag about.

  With his goggles and swim cap tucked into the waistband of his Speedo shorts, Sam padded out of the locker room and immediately stepped down into one of the three empty lanes. The moment his feet hit the bottom, he folded himself over and submerged. Instantly, the nagging in his head fell quiet. Finally, the Thursday from hell was over.

  After chilling for a few seconds at the bottom, Sam crested the surface, donned his cap and goggles, and started treading.

  Even if he’d never break any records, there was something about the way he felt when he was in the water. Powerful. Sleek. Controlled. Basically, the exact opposite of how he felt on dry ground. Here in the water, Sam was whole. Here, he had no one to disappoint but himself.

  It was almost enough to make him forget how often he felt like he was drowning in most other aspects of his life. Almost.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Loneliness and darkness have just robbed me of my valuables.” –Sigmund Freud

  I walk down a set of brushed steel stairs, dropping my feet in time with the music. My thigh-high leather boots are attached with straps to my elbows. The heels are ten inches high.

  The room below me is completely black, except for a small circle of deep blue light in the center. The dance floor pulses with angry, writhing life. Bodies crush together so closely, you can’t make out which parts are which. The beat is muddy, dirty. It runs together.

  My feet finally hit the floor. There is no floor. Just a thin line of neon light, stretching away into the darkness.

  I’m a dominatrix, a marionette. My hair falls into my eyes, and I have to keep pushing it back. It’s razor straight, the deep purple of a twilight sky. It isn’t my hair, but someone else’s. I can’t see. The beat shifts, and I can hear the sound of laughter behind it. My heart beats faster and faster in time. Sweat runs down my face, my arms, into my eyes. It stings and splashes the people around me. They sizzle, and burst into flame. I’m surrounded by glowing embers with melting eyes.

  I scream. My voice comes out as a whisper.

  My feet are on fire, my hair is on fire. I beg the waitress for a drink. She looks at me from across the room and shakes her head.

  “You’re not dressed appropriately for this establishment.”

  “These aren’t my clothes,” I tell her. “This isn’t me.”

  But my voice is hoarse and unrecognizable. I cough, and purple smoke comes billowing out of my mouth.

  The music changes again, and I fall.

  “You’re flying,” Aiden’s voice whispers. “I’m falling.”

  I land on my hands and knees, hard. I’m kneeling in a pile of dead, brown leaves. The trees all around me are blood red, with yellow branches. I reach for one of the branches, trying to pull myself up. It turns into a snake and wraps itself around my hand.

  I scream, silently, and run.

  Crashing through the trees, I come to a river. It’s black and wide, and my right foot splashes into the freezing water before I can stop. The current pulls me in, waist high, chest high, neck high.

  I suck in a breath, but it’s too late. I’m sinking.

  A hand swims across my vision, thin and pale. There’s a thick gold ring on one of its fingers. My father’s ring. I reach for it, but my hand passes through. I close my eyes, willing myself to breathe. I can breathe underwater. I can do anything if my will is strong enough.

  I speak one word, séchez, into the river. Heat bubbles from below, and the river boils. I rise with the steam, until I’m standing in the middle of a dry riverbed. My childhood home sits before me, looking like someone has dropped it from a great height. Like Dorothy’s house, I think. In that story…I can’t remember the name.

  I walk carefully across the ground, feeling the parched, fragile mud crack under my feet like eggshells. I misstep once or twice, and almost fall through. Finally, I make it to the front porch of my house. Painted white columns jut diagonally into the sky, and the old bricks look like decaying, mismatched rows of teeth. I open the door, and instantly I am surrounded by tall wooden casks corseted with wide steel bands. They’re twice as tall as I am. I walk through the cedar-scented maze until I reach the dining room.

  The table is set for company. There are three sets of clothes, one on each chair. The fourth chair is empty. I pick up my clothes and put them on. I sit in the chair and wait for my parents to come in from the show room.

  But they never come.

  Instead, I fall asleep at the table, pillowing my head on my arms.

  “Wake for me,” a voice sa
ys, and I do.

  I look up to find Sam sitting at the table across from me. But now, the table is a miniature wine cask. Our knees brush against each other on either side.

  “You’re late,” I tell him. “I was so worried.”

  “I love you,” he says, much too quickly. He’s hiding something, but he wants to see me smile, just once, before he tells me what it is.

  “I know,” I say. There’s something rolling around inside my stomach. I could be pregnant, I think. The thought terrifies me and excites me at the same time. Maybe the baby is Sam’s. He’ll be so beautiful. But we should get married first. Wait, I’m too young to get married.

  No, this is bad news. Everything is wrong.

  “You’re so beautiful.” His hands feel warm around mine. “I never realized how beautiful. Your eyes….”

  “I wish you would just say it. You know how much I hate surprises. They make me feel…” I search for the right words “like you’re taking advantage of me.”

  “Let me see you smile,” he says.

  His face makes me want to cry. He loves me so much. He’s the only thing that feels real to me anymore. The candle on the table sputters and dies. I can’t feel his hands on me anymore.

  “I’m never going to wake up from this, am I?”

  Arms surround me in the dark. It’s so warm, so quiet. Finally, for the first time, I can breathe. I inhale deep. The smell of chlorine and freshly washed laundry fills my lungs.

  “I promise you, you’re going to wake up,” he tells me. “But when you do, things will never be the same.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I demand, pushing away from his embrace. “Why are we here? Why have all the voices stopped?”

  But he doesn’t answer. I’m alone.

  I fumble for the candle, for anything that will shed some light and bring him back to me. But my grasping hand only meets an empty pile of clothes. Something rattles. Pearls. A watch. Cufflinks.

  It’s so quiet. Too quiet.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Words have a magical power. They can bring either the greatest happiness or deepest despair; they can transfer knowledge from teacher to student. Words enable the orator to sway his audience and dictate its decisions. Words are capable of arousing the strongest emotions and prompting all men's actions.” –Sigmund Freud

  Exhausted. Defeated. Angry.

  All apt words in their own right, but not one of them could come close to the way Sam was feeling. All three of them combined gave only the vaguest description of what it felt like to stand by and watch as the world piled one screamingly unfair event on top of another, and another. This was why people developed substance abuse problems. This was why people stopped believing in a higher power.

  Senseless. Tragic. Unfair—no, that word wasn’t nearly strong enough. Torturous.

  His footsteps dragged as he made his way down the hall toward room 714. He hadn’t shaved in two days. People he passed either avoided him instinctively, or recent experience had taught them that post-Thursday Sam wasn’t as fun to be around. Either way, no one addressed him. Curious or sympathetic eyes darted briefly toward his hunched over form, before immediately seeking a less disturbing visual.

  He had to tell her. She deserved the truth, even if she couldn’t hear it. Even if it killed him to say it out loud, because it would mean admitting that he’d failed her. Again.

  When he finally got to her side, the room was pleasantly dim. He lowered himself into the chair by her bed, slowly, wincing at the soreness in his muscles. He’d done laps for hours the night before, until finally he’d started throwing up and had to stop. Lactic acidosis had set in, rendering him stiff and out of breath. He’d been walking like an old man all day. That was fine. He felt like an old man.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long to come see you,” he said. “I guess I was too busy trying to avoid reality. But then again, that’s not really true. I think I’ve been afraid.”

  Sam shook his head in disgust, forcing himself to look at her sleeping face for the first time since he’d entered the room. Something out of place caught his eye, and his frown deepened.

  “What the hell?” He moved a strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. There was a thin black cord hidden among the brown curls. Sam tugged at it gently, and a tiny headphone came free. It was one of those expensive, custom-fitted earbuds that went all the way into the ear. After removing the earbud from her other ear, he followed the cord with his fingers, and found that the headphones were attached to an mp3 player that someone had tucked under Viola’s pillow. It was still playing, the same album over and over again on a loop. Aiden Faux, Unplugged. The mp3 player was almost out of juice. Sam winced as a fresh current of anger and disgust flowed through him.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Sam leaned closer to Viola, smoothing her hair back. Tears burned at the back of his eyes, making him feel sick on top of exhausted. “Have you just been lying here all night, forced to listen to this crap?” He lowered his voice to a whisper, out of respect for her undoubtedly tender eardrums. “I’m so sorry. That must have been torture.”

  For about twenty minutes, he just sat there, with his hand on top of hers.

  “I’ve been wrestling with my conscience, trying to figure out how I should tell you this. If I should tell you this. It seems so surreal, like lightning striking twice. No one should have to deal with so much at once, and I don’t want you to wake up and feel blindsided. But you probably will, no matter what. There’s no right way to do this. I know that.”

  Taking a deep breath, Sam held her hand between both of his, and started again.

  “Your parents…they passed away, Viola. They were driving home after visiting you the last time. Your father had a heart attack and crashed the car. The paramedics brought them back here, and the ER doctors did everything they could, but they didn’t make it. I am so, so sorry.”

  What would it feel like, he thought, to wake up and find out that everyone you loved was just suddenly gone? It had been bad enough losing one member of his family at a time, and watching it happen. But two at once, and all while you were sleeping? Sam couldn’t imagine.

  Behind him, someone cleared their throat, and Sam jumped. Straightening in his chair, he let go of Viola’s hand and turned toward the door. “Oh, it’s you.”

  Nurse Bouchard raised an eyebrow at him, and promptly flipped on the overhead light.

  “Now, I know you’ve had a rough couple of days, Dr. Philips, but is that any way to address your elders, and a lady to boot?”

  “No,” Sam shook his head, ashamed. If his mother had been here, she would’ve kicked his ass for being so disrespectful. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright.” Her expression softened slightly. “But did I just hear you tell that poor comatose girl that she’s an orphan? What in the hell is the matter with you, boy? Even if she could hear you, that bit of knowledge ain’t going to do her a lick of good in her current state.”

  Her current state? She was still alive, goddamn it. Sam gripped the arms of the chair and forced his body into a standing position, until he towered over the bossy and opinionated nurse.

  “I disagree,” he said. “As someone who’s been in the same position, I think it’s far worse when people try to keep things from you. I don’t know about you, Nurse Bouchard, but if you love someone enough, there’s no such thing as too much information. Or too soon. You need to know exactly why that person can’t be a part of your life anymore. But then, that’s just my opinion.”

  For a few seconds, there was a tension in the room, like a bow string waiting to be released. Sam braced himself for the inevitable backlash of his out of character tirade. He’d never argued with Nurse Bouchard before, or even really stood up to her at all, until now.

  Slowly, she nodded. “You know, you just might make a halfway decent doctor someday.”

  Sam opened his mouth to say ‘thank you,’ but she cut him off befor
e he could even form the first word.

  “Someday, I said. Not today, though. Today, you forgot to order labs for Mrs. Bronson in 725 again.”

  “Oh.” Well, he could officially add ‘sheepish’ to his list of shitty adjectives for the day. “Sorry, I’ll do that right now.”

  Nurse Bouchard turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

  “You’re lucky I reminded you, you know. Instead of just sitting back and watching you fall on your ass. If I’m being honest, it would’ve been much more fun for me the other way.”

  Sam couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile. “Thank you for telling me, Nurse Bouchard.”

  “It’s Lucinda,” she threw back, before leaving the room. Then she muttered something that sounded a lot like, “Dumb ass, bleeding heart interns.”

  “Bitchy geriatric nurses,” Sam muttered quietly.

  He took a step toward the door, then turned back. After glancing toward the door to make sure no one else was around, he leaned over Viola’s bed and gently kissed the top of her head. It wasn’t meant to be a creepy gesture, but anyone watching might not have understood. Viola was his patient, first and foremost. But the way he felt about her had grown complicated. Somehow, at some point, he’d become her self-appointed guardian inside the hospital. Now that she had no one else, that job seemed more important than ever.

  “I’ll be back soon,” he told her, giving her hand a quick goodbye squeeze.

  Her hand squeezed back.

  “Oh, my god.” Sam stared down at Viola, afraid to move. Maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, but he could’ve sworn that it was more than an involuntary reflex. But he couldn’t sound the alarm until he knew for sure.

  “Viola,” he said excitedly. “Can you hear me? If you can hear me, I need you to squeeze my hand again.”

  Nothing happened.

  “Come on,” Sam said, growing desperate. “Squeeze my hand, Viola. I know you can do it.”

  After waiting a few more seconds, Sam let go of her hand.