She smiles at me.
I smile back. Then return to looking at the commotion of the ER, hoping for some sign about how Crash is doing.
Alice doesn’t speak. And I’m glad about that. With how I am, I’m not sure I’d be capable of carrying on anything resembling a conversation without falling into a million pieces.
More time goes by. Patients come and go, doctors converse with nurses who converse with orderlies, and the entire time I feel so alone except for the kind woman at my side.
What is happening with him? Is he alive? Dead? Is he going to make it? What happens if he does die? How do I get in contact with his family? His friends?
So many dire questions race through my mind and I rock harder in my chair, envisioning the worst. So much of my world has fallen apart in just a couple days, I don’t know if I can take losing anyone more.
A hand touches my shoulder.
I look over. It’s Alice. She’s smiling.
“Hey,” is all she says. Nothing more. Just a simple touch and a reminder of her presence.
I am not alone.
I put my hand over hers.
“Hey,” I answer.
For another couple minutes, I sit and watch and feel my anxious heart calm. Then I look back to Alice, who is still watching me with so much care and concern.
“Is he going to be OK?”
“I don’t know,” she says and, just when my heart falls, she continues, “But I can go check on him for you.”
I hug her, then.
“Would you, please?”
“Wait here. I’ll be gone just a few minutes.”
Those few minutes take an eternity. An eternity that passes with my fearful heart in my throat.
Alice returns with a cup of coffee, which she hands to me before she sits down.
“He’s in surgery,” she says.
“And?” I’ve never put so much force and frustration into a single word in my life.
“They give him good odds. I brought you that coffee cause it will be awhile and you look tired as all hell. That’s from the nurse’s break room, and us nurses who work night and swing shift make it strong so we can stay on our feet. It’ll keep you going until they finish.”
“Thank you, Alice.”
“Happy to help,” she says.
We don’t talk any more. Not for the whole four hours that I sit in the waiting room, looking up at every single nurse or doctor who walks within my sight radius. When the doctor finally emerges from in back and gestures for me to come to him, I leap out of my seat.
His face is unreadable, but his eyes look anything but sad. They’re kind, tired, but there’s a satisfaction deep in there that gives me a rising hope with every step I take.
“Is he?” I say.
“He came out of surgery about fifteen minutes ago. We have him under observation, now, but he should make a full recovery. He’s lucky. The knife missed his vital organs.”
I hug the doctor. He hardly reacts — he’s probably has this happen tons of times before.
“Thank you,” I say. “Can I see him?”
“You can,” then he waves to Alice, who waves back and leaves. “Follow me, please.”
He takes me to the room, where I pull up a seat next to Crash. He’s still unconscious, hooked up to IV drips and machines that beep every so often. He’s pale, looks exhausted, and his normally handsome features — while still handsome — look so worn and drawn.
“Try to let him rest. He will pull through, but he went through a lot and it will take a while before he’s recovered.”
“I will, doctor,” I say.
He takes a moment to check over Crash before leaving, but I hardly pay attention to him. My focus is on the man who returned to save me — my man. I can’t count the hours that tick by in his company, the time spent flipping through magazines stolen from the waiting room; the time spent just looking at him, hoping for him to open his eyes of his own accord so I can hear his voice and see that warm smile he keeps hidden so well beneath his icy shell.
I love this man.
When the sun finally rises, and light fills the room, I get my wish. He opens his eyes. Smiles at me, in a way that chases away my exhaustion and sets my heart on fire.
“Hey, slugger.”
I put my hand over his. I’m so careful I don’t even squeeze him, I’m so worried I’ll do something wrong and end up hurting him.
“Hey, Crash.”
He looks himself over, taking in the bandages wrapped around his torso, the IV drip, the monitoring machines hooked up to his fingertips and arms. Shaking his head, he smiles ruefully. “I’m in a fucking state, aren’t I?”
“The doctor says you’ll pull through. The knife missed your organs, so you were lucky.”
“I guess this is what love gets me, huh?” He says, winking.
“It gets you me,” I say, and I squeeze his hand. To hell with worrying about hurting him. “If you still want me, after all the stuff I said to you.”
“Then I’d say it’s worth it,” he says. He squeezes me back. “I’d have to be a fucking fool to turn you down. Though I sure did fucking act like it for a while.”
Not wanting him to blame himself, I give his hand another squeeze, and then I put my hand under his chin and kiss him. “We both did. We were both crazy. And, if it’s worth anything, I’m sorry about how I acted. It’s hard to love someone whose life is so different from your own. And it’s
