by Elle Maxwell
* * *
The next couple of hours crawl by as our little corner of the waiting room fills up. Griff gets here first. I’m shocked speechless when he walks right up and wraps his giant arms around me in a hug that almost completely engulfs me. This is definitely not a normal occurrence—except with Shaina and his kids, Griff is not exactly a cuddly, touchy-feely guy. I get over my surprise quickly and simply lean into him.
“This is from Shaina,” he rumbles quietly after a moment. I just nod against his chest. Sure it is.
Marisa arrives, immediately taking her place by my side and staying there.
Chief Duluth comes, and he has a little more information for us. Apparently, Eli shot at an agent during his attempt to get away and got a bullet to the gut for his troubles. He’ll live, but shooting a cop basically guarantees he’ll never be a free man again. I feel nothing but satisfaction at this news and can’t even summon the energy to be horrified at myself for wishing that bullet killed him.
Any other time, I would really get a kick out of watching my mom sit down beside Griff and try to befriend him. Mom patiently smiles and nods at Griff’s deep, monosyllabic responses to her attempts at conversation; I imagine it’s similar to seeing her try and break through to a difficult second grader.
A bit later, Marisa gets up to find coffee, and my mom takes her place at my side, like they’re my own little support tag team bent on making sure I’m never alone. If I had room for any emotions other than fear for Graham right now, I’d be overwhelmed with gratitude.
“I’m sorry for what I said earlier,” Mom says suddenly.
I turn to look at her face, which is drawn and tired.
“About how your father and I have survived by not lying to each other,” she clarifies. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I’m telling the truth. At this moment, it no longer matters. That conversation seems like it happened years ago. But Mom shakes her head and goes on.
“No, I saw your face and realized after the words were out how you might take them. I want you to know that your father and I weren’t always this solid. We’ve had our fair share of stumbling blocks. I’m sorry if I ever made it seem that trust was something black and white that magically happened from minute one of a relationship. I suppose I never wanted you to have to learn things the hard way like we did. But now I’m thinking that’s the only way it can be done.”
I lean over and rest my head on her shoulder, and she reaches up to stroke my hair like I’m a kid again.
More time passes and with every tick from the plastic clock above our heads, my agitation rises. Eventually, my patience snaps. I stand up, ready to storm the desk and demand an explanation for why this is taking so long, when the doors finally open and a man in scrubs comes out asking for Graham Wyatt’s family. He has a mask pulled down around his neck and his hair covered with a bandana, like those surgeons on TV (only this guy is definitely no McDreamy). The doctor approaches calmly as Graham’s little mismatched cheering squad clusters around him.
I close my eyes and take a breath before he starts talking, but it comes out shallow and my hands are shaking.
Please, please, please …
* * *
“Morning, babe,” I say in a cheerful voice. “I got up early and went for a walk instead of doing yoga. Sorry, I know you love the little show.”
I approach the bed. “That beard is getting out of control. I bet you’ll love it, so I’m going to wait a couple more days before doing something about it. You should probably wake up so you have a chance to appreciate its glory.”
Graham doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t stir when I reach out to pet the light brown beard that’s grown out during his time in the hospital. I gaze down at him and force myself to look past the pallor of his skin, the intubation tube helping him breathe, the beeping heart monitor, and only see the man I love. I kiss his forehead before sitting down with my coffee. I’ve got my own little cot along the wall that the nurses brought me once they realized I wasn’t going anywhere.
“Come on, babe. I’ll give you two days, and then I’m shaving the whole thing off. You’d better wake up and stop me!” My voice sounds a little less cheerful this time, a little more desperate.
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I need to stay positive for him.
I’ve started fabricating reasons he should wake up that I tell him throughout the day, as though all he needs is the right incentive. As more days pass, I find my entreaties sounding progressively more like begging, and it appears I’ve now resorted to threats. Although there isn’t any solid evidence that he can even hear me, I don’t care. I talk to Graham all day long, and at this point I don’t mind admitting that it’s for me as much as for him.
When Graham went into surgery that first night, it should have been a fairly simple procedure, but he’d lost a lot of blood and his body was in shock. His heart stopped twice while he was on the table and they had to resuscitate him. The doctors were worried about oxygen deprivation causing permanent damage to his brain and heart, so they put him in a medically induced coma.
They told me this wasn’t necessarily cause to panic, that it was merely a way to help slow things down and let his body recover from all the trauma—something to do with lowering his body temperature and blood pressure—but honestly, at that moment the only word I could focus on was coma.
They kept Graham in the induced coma for a week before finally taking him back to finish the surgery to remove the bullet from his leg. After the surgery they took him off the drugs that had been keeping him under so he could come out of the sedation naturally. His doctor said he could wake up immediately … or it could take a while. I was at his side every second when they brought him back from surgery, afraid to even go to the bathroom in case he woke up while I was gone. My parents and our friends were at the hospital all day as well, waiting.
But he didn’t wake up that day. Or the next. And now it’s been another week, and he’s still non-responsive. No one can tell me when he’ll wake up or why he hasn’t woken up yet. Every nurse and doctor I talk to tells me “he’ll wake up when he’s ready,” which seems a pretty pathetic bullshit cop-out from people who supposedly work at one of the best hospitals in the country.
I’ve basically moved myself into his hospital room. I still won’t leave for more than ten minutes at a time—twenty max, like this morning when I was restless and needed a walk— in case I miss it when he wakes up. My mom has offered to sit with him while I go and get a good night’s sleep at home, but I’ve politely refused. There’s nowhere else I should or would want to be right now. But that doesn’t mean the situation isn’t wearing on me, that my heart doesn’t break a little more every hour that passes with no change.
A new nurse walks in as I’m brushing tears from my eyes.
“Oh, honey, he’s going to be all right,” the woman says. She’s wearing bright pink scrubs and a name-tag that reads “Glenda.”
“How can you tell?” I ask, voice a little wobbly. These days I’ll take reassurance from anyone willing to give it.
“Oh, I just can. I came in to get his vitals and hang some new IV bags while you were out, so he and I had a couple of minutes. He’s a young man who’s strong and fit with a big life ahead. I’m sure his body can make it through this.”
She finishes fiddling with his oxygen pump and leaves.
I shake my head and feel a real smile break out on my face for the first time in days. Even unconscious, Graham is charming the nurses.
“She was checking you out, babe. You’ll love that. Why don’t you wake up so we can laugh about it?”
* * *
Graham turns twenty-four at the end of his second week in the hospital. Since his birthday is July 5th, he always used to go on and on, bragging that all the Independence Day fireworks and parties were really in his honor. I want to see him be that carefree, cocky boy again, at least a little. When he wakes up, I vow to help him find h
is way back there. (Yes, when, because I refuse to even consider the alternative.)
On the Fourth, I watch the city’s huge annual fireworks display from his hospital window. It’s actually a great view, if you can overlook the reason I’m here. I can’t.
“They’re lighting up the sky just for you, because tomorrow’s your twenty-fourth birthday. The whole city’s celebrating, big and flashy the way you like it. Open those eyes for me and we’ll watch it together.”
* * *
Graham
The first thing I see is a flash of reddish gold. Everything else is white except that beautiful color, exactly the hue of Mackenzie’s hair.
So, this must be Heaven. I wasn’t sure I’d make it here.
“Graham?”
It’s even Mackenzie’s voice I hear. Did God find me an angel that looks and sounds like her to greet me? Dang, dude, you sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.
I blink, and when I open my eyes again, things are a little clearer. I see shapes, hear beeping nearby. My body is heavy. There’s an unpleasant sensation in my throat as though I’ve got a strain of strep that got a little dose of Hulk juice.
So … not Heaven, then?
“You’re awake!”
Mackenzie’s face appears now and takes up my whole line of vision. One soft hand begins stroking along my face, her touch making my skin tingle. I try to speak but suddenly feel like I’m choking.
“No, don’t try to talk. Let me get a nurse!”
While I blink heavy eyelids and try to make sense of what’s happening around me, more people show up. They poke and prod and peer at me, and then they remove the thing in my throat. It hurts like a mother, which wakes me up more.
I’m in the hospital. It feels like I swallowed a shot of lighter fluid and chased it with a lit match. There’s a sensation of lethargy weighing down my limbs.
I’m … alive.
As doctors poke at me and shine lights in my eyes, Mackenzie is there the whole time holding my hand. She’s beaming at me with a brilliant joyous smile that’s at odds with the tears running down her cheeks. When the docs and nurses back up a bit, she caresses my head again.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you.”
As she pulls her hand away, I catch something glinting in the light. I focus on that hand as it rests beside me on the bed. And suddenly I’m livid. How long have I been out?!
“Who put that ring on your finger?” I ask. The words are painful and my voice is completely wrecked, but I need to know.
She laughs a little while still crying. “Well, I guess your brain is fine.”
I frown at her. Waking up to find her engaged to some other guy is not fucking funny.
Maybe this is Hell, after all.
She dashes away tears and holds the ring closer to my face before whispering, “This is my mom’s. I told them I was your fiancée so they’d let me stay.”
“Get me out of here and I’ll make that true.”
She leans down and kisses me between the eyebrows.
“A little lower,” I wheeze, and she laughs again. She can’t seem to stop, and I’m not complaining because it’s a magical sound.
“Good to see you awake and talking. Just take it easy. Your throat will be sore for a while from the intubation,” the doctor says. “You’ve been unconscious for almost three weeks, Mr. Wyatt. And this lady here hasn’t left your side the whole time.”
My mind clears a little more.
“Does this mean we’re back together?” I ask Mackenzie.
Now her laughter turns a little hysterical, on the edge of sobbing. She leans in and rests her forehead against mine, and wetness cools my skin as some of her tears drip onto my face.
“I’m yours. Always have been, always will be.”
Look at that, I’m in Heaven. And I didn’t even have to die.
42. INCORRIGIBLE
Graham
“You gave us quite a scare, son.”
Quick, someone check Twitter to see if anyone’s spotted some flying pigs, because Mike Thatcher just called me “son.” I have a sudden urgent need to grab my cup of water and take a long drink. (I’m not crying, you’re crying!)
“You should be satisfied that you accomplished your mission. Eli Markum won’t be hurting Mackenzie, or you, or anyone else ever again. Ed Duluth told me that because of your recording, they started digging up the area around that old building and they’ve already found two bodies. So in addition to going down for trafficking and assault, they’ve got him for multiple murders.”
Mr. Thatcher’s voice turns a little stern now, once again the army commander. “But there’s a fine line between heroism and stupidity, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. I don’t have plans to do any more hero-ing.”
“Good. You’re needed here alive.” His eyes cut toward the door that Mackenzie and her mother left through only minutes ago.
I nod. She needs me here alive, and I need to be here just as badly, living for her.
Right about now, I’d like to get started with that whole living thing. It’s been almost a week since I woke up, and I’m still in this damn hospital room. The doctors haven’t discharged me yet because they wanted to keep an eye on me and do all kinds of tests on my heart and my brain. The last few days I’ve felt more myself, and I’m going more than a little stir crazy.
I am so ready to be out of here.
Things aren’t all bad. I get visitors every day—the Thatchers, Doc Shady, Marisa, and Griff have all been here a few times, and Griff and Shaina even brought the kids the other day. Chief Duluth came by once too. The whole thing is surreal. It reminds me of that kid Tom Sawyer—or was it that other rascal Huck Finn? —who staged his own death so he could attend the funeral and see who came. Almost dying sure made me popular. Who knew?
And of course there’s Mackenzie, who still refuses to go home. She’s here, loving me and planning our future again. Sometimes I have the thought that maybe I’m in Heaven after all. I mean, getting this much love and forgiveness seems nothing short of a miracle.
It’s not Heaven—for one, in Heaven I can’t imagine I’d be stuck in this hospital bed with my girl so close yet unwilling to touch me because of doctor’s orders. This is our epic reconciliation moment … We should be naked! There should be all kinds of wildly passionate make-up sex happening. But no, the only action I’m getting is when the docs feel me up to check on my ribs.
Leave it to me to get a miracle with a cruel sense of humor.
* * *
That evening after Mackenzie’s parents leave, Doc Shady pokes her head through my open door and smiles at us.
“Hey, Doc!”
She explained the whole situation to me and apologized for sharing the letter with Mackenzie, but I forgave her. That letter was essentially the reason Mackenzie changed her mind about us, so really, I should be thanking the doc for breaking some rules.
“I have something for you,” Shady says, rummaging in her purse.
“Burger and fries from Wahlburgers?” I ask hopefully.
Doc and Mackenzie both roll their eyes at me—because that’s not something Shady would do and there’s also clearly not enough room in her purse. But a guy can dream, right?
She produces an envelope and hands it over to me. It only takes me a second to recognize it, because it’s the same one I gave her a few months ago.
“You didn’t even open it?” I ask. There’s a check for five grand in here!
“You’re a patient, Graham. I can’t accept your money. I’ve been holding onto it for you, and now that you have the foundation set up I’m returning it so you can put that money toward your project.”
“I was trying to thank you.” I might be sulking a little. I thought that was a super nice thing to do!
“I appreciate it. But I’d rather if you show your gratitude by never scaring me like that again.”
I nod, guilt an uncomfortable weight on my chest. Until Mackenzie made me re-r
ead my email, I didn’t realize it sounded like I was about to off myself. I hate knowing I put them through that on top of everything else.
I hand Mackenzie the check to keep safe in her wallet. She tries to leave to give me and the doc privacy, but we both encourage her to stay. I’ve already had a couple of one-on-one chats with Shady while I’ve been here, and while I agreed to continue seeing her for regular therapy, I’m not up to being shrunk right now.
The three of us chat for a while before Doc says she has to go. She gives us a warm smile—damn, they need to bottle that shit up and figure out how to get it into an IV bag, because I swear she’s natural Xanax.