Before long, his anger turned inward. Was he really going to stand by and watch while his patient—whatever else she was to him—got duped by her lying sack of a boyfriend? If Aiden was willing to lie about visiting her, Sam thought, what else was he lying about? Pulling up the YouTube app on his phone, he typed in ‘Aiden Faux Wake for Me.’ The video that came up did indeed have several hundred-thousand hits. He frowned.
As much as he knew it was going to suck, Sam couldn’t help his curiosity. He pressed play on the video, and immediately scowled at the first image of Aiden, sitting alone on a dirty, unmade bed in an abandoned building, staring out the window with a tortured expression on his face. It was almost exactly the way he’d described it, which only made it seem that much more bogus.
Then the music started, and it got even worse. The melody was a blatant rip-off of at least five other mediocre hit songs. And the lyrics, oh God, the lyrics.
“You're flying, I'm falling…You're dreaming, I'm crawling… Through the days, through the nights…in painted halls, with acid lights. I never realized how beautiful, your eyes. Open up for me, love. Let me see you smile, love.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam muttered, stopping the video and dropping the phone on his tray. He shook his head and downed the rest of his coffee. He’d need to start drinking something a lot stronger before he had any hope of ridding his brain of that sugar-coated filth.
How could someone as no-nonsense as Viola fall for a guy like that? It was bullshit. There was no sense in this world.
Just as Sam was getting ready to toss his coffee cup and go back upstairs, Brady plunked into the chair next to him, looking dejected.
Sam pulled his headphones out. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing,” Brady said, poking at a bowl full of chili like it had wronged him in the recent past. “Just watching the last of my workplace prospects circle the drain.” He looked over at Sam’s phone, which was still paused on the image of Aiden Faux’s most tortured emo expression. “I hate that guy.”
“You too?” Sam said, without thinking. He cleared his throat. “I mean, why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Brady gestured at the cafeteria, which was admittedly light on good-looking young nurses at the moment. “From the moment he showed his face, all I’ve been hearing from the ladies is, ‘Ooh, Aiden Faux, he’s so dreamy. Ooh, I love his voice.’ Dude is like an Irish John Mayer or something.” His frown deepened as he considered something. “Damn, I bet he gets so much un-landscaped p—“
“Do not,” Sam interrupted, “finish that thought.”
The thought that Aiden might have been unfaithful to Viola hadn’t crossed Sam’s mind, but now that he thought about it, it was entirely possible. Was it terrible of him to hope that it was true, and that someone would soon document it on the news, where Viola could see it? Yeah, probably. Plus, he really didn’t want to see her get her heart broken.
“You’re right.” Brady looked from side to side. “HR could have spies anywhere. Good call, buddy.”
Sam nodded absentmindedly. Realistically, how many rock stars took their girlfriends on tour? Very few, he was guessing. And now that things had changed for Viola physically, who knew if she’d even be able to join Aiden on tour? Her doctors, that was who. And from Sam’s perspective, the prognosis of tour-going wasn’t looking good at all. Not until Viola had enough strength to slap the shit out of her boyfriend, when the occasion inevitably called for it.
“Well, I’ll see you at evening rounds.” Turning off his phone, Sam wrapped his headphones around it and stowed it in his pocket. He stood up, moving toward the trash can.
“Whoa there, buddy,” Brady jogged after him, stopping Sam with a hand on his arm. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“To Aiden Faux?” Sam glared at his friend, incredulous. “No way!”
“No,” Brady said, as he slam-dunked his still half-full bowl of chili into the trash can. “I meant Viola. I still haven’t officially met her. And since I’m not assigned to her case, I thought it might be weird if I went in and was all like ‘Hey, bebbeh, I’ve been watching you when you were all unconscious and shit.’ You know?”
Sam shook his head, sliding the food debris off his tray as he tried to think of a good excuse not to add yet another man with ulterior motives to Viola’s life.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” he said carefully. “She’s really fragile right now, and with Aiden around…she might be feeling a little bit…over-stimulated.”
Brady opened his mouth, undoubtedly on the verge of making a joke involving stimulation of a different kind. But then Sam had an idea.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to her, but you have to promise not to make her feel uncomfortable. And, you’ve got to do something for me in exchange.”
“Okay,” Brady said. “I’m listening.”
Five minutes later, Sam walked into Viola’s room with Brady on his heels. He steeled himself against the sight of Aiden, draped across Viola’s bed, one leg hooked over hers as he showed her something on his phone. The muted strains of “Wake for Me” whined through the room as poor Viola was subjected to the same cheesy video Sam had just watched. Jesus, and just when he’d finally started to get the tune out of his head.
“Excuse me,” Sam said, clenching his jaw and smiling in spite of his murderous jealousy. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a few tests I need to run.”
“Oh, really?” Aiden looked up at Sam, then back to Viola. “I guess we want to make sure you’re getting well, don’t we, love? Is it alright if I stay here with you during the tests, as long as I don’t bother these nice doctors?”
Viola hesitated for a split second, but then nodded. “Oh…kay.”
Aiden climbed off the bed, managing to tangle himself in Viola’s IV in the process. Sam winced. He opened his mouth to say something, but Brady beat him to it.
“Please be careful,” his friend said, in his best Dr. Bel-Air voice. “That tubing is vital, man!”
Sam bit the inside of his cheek, as Brady channeled his father’s character from the popular TV show, Borderline Doctors.
“You know what,” he said, waving his hand in the air with a dramatic flourish. “Get out, just get out. You’re upsetting the entire rehabilitative process.”
Eyebrows raised, Aiden held up his hands. Nobody messed with Dr. Bel-Air. Not on the show, and not in real life.
“Alright, man. I’ll come back later. Wouldn’t want to upset the process.” He bent down and dropped another kiss on Viola’s lips, which were tilted into a crooked, knowing smile. “I’ll see you during evening hours, love, alright?”
“Later…see you…Aiden.”
When Aiden was gone, Brady went over and shut the door.
Unsure how to proceed after his colleague’s blatant over-achieving of the mission to ‘get rid of Aiden,’ Sam decided just to pretend as if nothing weird had happened.
“Viola,” he said. “I want you to meet Dr. Brady. He’s one of the other interns working under Dr. Chakrabarti.”
Raising her hand a few inches off her lap, Viola waved jerkily from side to side.
Brady came forward, his expression flirtatious. He reached for Viola’s outstretched hand and shook it. “Conrad Brady,” he told her. “Of the Los Angeles Bradys.”
Viola raised one eyebrow, very slowly and deliberately. She was still smiling, which Brady apparently took as a sign to amp up the charm.
“Can I just say,” he continued. “As pretty as you were in a diminished state of consciousness, you’re even more gorgeous when fully upright.”
Viola laughed, and Sam yanked Brady backward by his coat.
“And that,” he interjected, “is a great example of something a physician would never say to his patient, unless he was trying to get sued for sexual harassment.” He glared back at Brady, who looked fully unrepentant. “Thanks for that demonstration, Dr. Brady.”
Viola,
on the other hand, was still chuckling softly to herself.
“Can’t…sue,” she said, in her very clear, but stilted way of speaking. “Nothing…I…want.”
As Brady looked baffled, Sam laughed.
“I don’t get it.”
“That,” Sam told him, “was you getting schooled in Viola-speak.”
“Oh.” Brady frowned for a second, then rallied, reaching over to give Viola a low-five. “Nice one.”
“Thank…you…Brady,” Viola said, moving her eyes pointedly to the door.
Sam smiled. Even with her speech impediment, she had a way of making ‘Thank you’ sound more like ‘You’re dismissed,’ than ‘I genuinely appreciate your help.’
“Brady,” Sam said. “Aren’t you late for something?”
“No.” He looked at Sam, who gave him a less-than-subtle head jerk. “I mean, yes.”
With that, Brady left, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Sam moved to the side of the bed that Brady had just vacated. “Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m sure you get really tired of all these different people coming into your room, without being invited.”
Viola shook her head. “No…kind of…divert….” She frowned, looking off into space. “Enter…entertaining.”
Sam smiled. “You know, it’s really impressive how much progress you’re making. I’m sure you’ll be back to normal in no time.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his reflex hammer. “Do you feel up do letting me do a few tests?”
She nodded. “As long as…you stop…being…condom.” Her eyes widened, and she blushed. “Not…condom. Condor…damn…condescending. I’m…not…stupid.”
Sam bit his lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. He was starting to think that maybe the first time they spoke wasn’t just Viola having a bad night. She was pretty much a ball buster, which was actually kind of perfect for someone in her current situation. If she’d been any less feisty, he doubted she would’ve survived, or be fighting so hard to recover.
And he definitely wouldn’t admire her as much as he did. Not just from a personal standpoint, but also now—ironically—from a professional one. As he held her hand and ran through the steps of the pin-prick test, he smiled at how well she was doing, feeling proud on her behalf.
When she smiled back, smugly satisfied with her own progress, his heart skipped a beat.
There was no doubt about it. He was in so much trouble.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Flowers are restful to look at. They have neither emotions nor conflicts.” –Sigmund Freud
“Oh, look at the flowers, Étienne!”
Giggling happily like a little girl, my mother tugs at my father’s sleeve, pointing out the window at the passing landscape. I look where she’s pointing, and all I can see is gravestones for miles. We’re passing an old cemetery, and there isn’t a single flower in sight.
“Yes, dear, I see them.”
“No, you’re not looking. Not really. You never look when I tell you to look!”
Rising to my knees, I pull myself forward on the seat and try to bring my head level with my mother’s, as if changing the angle of my perspective will help me see things the same way she does. But to me, the world outside remains a gray and frightening place. I don’t mind it, though. I’m riding in the back of my father’s beloved Rolls-Royce, on the way to our favorite spot on the other side of Seneca Lake. When we get there, we’ll have a picnic.
I always loved picnics, but secretly I wish we didn’t have to invite Uncle Jack along on every single outing.
Pulling my hair back to avoid the whipping strands, I slide back down into my seat, glancing sideways at Uncle Jack’s carefully crossed legs and perfectly fitted gray pants. He dresses almost exactly like my father, and for some reason, it’s always bothered me.
“Get your own fashion sense, why don’t you,” I mutter, but Uncle Jack ignores me.
As he drives, my father is humming a familiar tune. It’s the same one he used to sing to me when I was little, and I smile and start to sing along, forgetting my temporary bad mood.
“Au clair de la lune, mon ami Pierrot…”
Laughing, my father turns to catch my eye. His face is missing, skin hanging from bone. I scream. My mother turns to shush me, and her head rolls sideways, falling from her neck.
***
Viola woke from her latest nightmare with a muffled cry.
As usual, she couldn’t remember any of the details. But it didn’t matter, because the terrible feelings that remained were vivid enough on their own. Fear, paranoia, angst. Regret. And worst of all, that inescapable feeling that she was missing something.
Something important.
The night terrors—as Dr. Chocolate Barbie called them—had only gotten worse since the day they’d finally told her, almost a week ago now, that her parents were dead. It had taken them two entire days to break this news to her. Sam said they’d wanted to make sure she was strong enough. Aiden said he didn’t want to see her cry. But all of them were liars.
They hadn’t told her, because they hadn’t known what to say.
Apparently, “Sorry Viola, but you went to sleep one day with everything and woke up two weeks later with nothing” was too harsh a truth for anyone to put into words. Even Uncle Jack, who had flown back from Paris to see her yesterday after taking care of her parents’ funeral, kept saying, “There are no words,” to her, over and over.
But there were words. There were lots of words.
Even if Viola had trouble saying them out loud, that didn’t mean she couldn’t think them. Disbelief. Shock. Confusion. Anger. Suspicion. Helplessness. Guilt.
And the most unbearable word of all: orphaned.
A big part of her wanted to feel sorry for herself, to confess to someone—anyone—how afraid she was. But the part of her that kept her going, the part that was her father’s daughter, told Viola she was stronger than that. She wouldn’t ever let anyone know how beaten down she felt.
And she’d never, ever let them see her cry.
When Nurse Bouchard came into the room, Viola forced herself to smile in welcome. Just as she had smiled when Aiden had come barging into her room earlier in the day, and when Phyllis the trauma counselor had visited after. It seemed that Viola’s days had become an unending parade of people who expected her to crumble at the drop of a hat. Every waking moment was a lie, and every bit of sleep was torture. If things continued this way much longer, Viola was going to lose her grasp on what little shred of sanity she had left.
“How are you doing, baby girl?”
“Good…thanks…” Viola gestured to the phone on the wall. “Can…you…help…call Jack?”
Nurse Bouchard looked at her watch. “It’s kind of late over there, don’t you think?”
“No…” Viola told her, feeling frustrated that she even had to explain herself at all. That she couldn’t even make a simple phone call by herself. “Still…in…New York.”
“Alright, then,” the nurse said, reaching into the pocket of her latest eyesore uniform—bright green with hot pink flowers. “Since it’s a local call, why don’t we just use my cell phone?”
Viola nodded. She wished she could just make calls by herself, but the phone in her room didn’t stretch to the bed, and her own cell phone was somewhere at the bottom of the river. Just thinking about it made her shudder, and she focused on Nurse B. instead, who was dialing the number off of the new emergency contact information listed on Viola’s chart. Seeing it made Viola’s eyes tear up, and she looked at the ceiling, counting silently to herself until they dried up again.
“Yes,” Nurse B. said when the call had connected. “I’m calling from Our Lady of Mercy Hospital for Jacques Gosselin. Tell him it’s his niece, Viola.”
Uncle Jack wasn’t really Viola’s uncle, but most Americans didn’t seem to know that. Even though he looked nothing like her father, he spoke with the same accent, and they’d always been so close that most pe
ople just assumed they were related. Except Viola, who used to tease Uncle Jack about changing his last name to Bellerose so he didn’t have to keep explaining to everyone that he was just a family friend. Now, though, he was pretty much the closest thing to family Viola had left. And she was grateful for him.
“Bonsoir, mon chouchou,” he said, when Nurse B. put the phone up to Viola’s ear. She was still having trouble holding her hand up for long periods of time, but her fingers were getting stronger every day.
“Hi…Jack…” Viola said, happy for the sound of his voice, which was a poor substitute for her father’s, but still sounded like home. “How…are…you?”
“I’m well.” His voice sounded tired. “How is your speech therapy coming along?”
“Good…” Viola pursed her lips. She’d been toying with an idea since he’d visited her, and she wanted to bring it up to him before he left town again. “When…can I…be home? Terri…said…she’ll call someone……to refer…to come…to…maison.”
Nurse B. raised her eyebrows, and Viola shrugged. Sometimes, when she couldn’t grab the right word in English, her mind compensated with French. Who cared? It wasn’t like Uncle Jack didn’t understand her.
There was a long pause, and Viola almost asked Nurse B. to take the phone away so she could check if they’d been disconnected. But then she heard some voices in the background, and Uncle Jack sighed.
“I’m sorry Viola,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea just now. There’s a lot of financial mess going on right now, and I’m dealing with it as best I can. I don’t want you to be concerned. Just devote yourself to getting better, and I promise, everything will be here waiting for you when you are back on your feet.” Another commotion sounded in the background, and Uncle Jack called to someone. “Yes, I’ll be there in a moment. I’m sorry, mon chouchou, but I’ve got to go back into a meeting. Lord knows how your father handled all of this, and was still able to golf. He truly was an exceptional man.”
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