“She’ll see it all when she comes home.”
“That could be weeks or months,” I say. “You should talk about all these things with her. And showing her pictures and souvenirs might help make it more real to her.” I stare down at my drink. “You should bring her cappuccino. In fact, maybe I could make her one and take it with me.”
Oliver’s phone rings. He steps away from the kitchen counter and answers it. It sounds like an urgent call.
“Was that about Sara?” I ask.
“No,” he says, putting his cup in the sink. “I have to go. Gallery crisis.”
“Oh,” I say, gesturing to the cappuccino machine. “I was hoping to …”
He looks at his watch. “I don’t have the time. But if you want to, go ahead. Just make sure the front door locks behind you.”
“Sure thing. Where do you keep the travel cups?”
“Cabinet,” he says, waving his hand towards the entire wall of cabinets on his way out. “Later, mate.”
I search through every cabinet and finally find some thermal cups in a drawer underneath the cappuccino machine. Logical spot, I think.
Before I leave, however, I take one last peek at Sara’s studio. I stand in the doorway, taking a longer look at her paintings. And then I have an idea. An idea that I hope will be the answer Joelle was looking for.
~ ~ ~
I walk into Sara’s room, carrying a box so large, I almost drop it on the floor before I can put it down.
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s a woman of few words.
“Well, what do we have here?” Donovan says, walking in behind me.
“I thought she might like to have these,” I say, pulling some of the larger blank canvases out of the box. I go to Sara’s bedside. “I have paints, brushes, basically everything I could find lying around your studio.”
Sara’s mouth drops open. “I … I have a studio?”
“You do. It’s in your apartment.”
“You … went?” she asks.
“I met Oliver there for coffee this morning. Oh, that reminds me”—I dig around in the box, hoping it didn’t spill—“I brought you this. Sorry, it might not be so hot anymore.”
She takes it, looking up at me with questioning eyes.
“It’s cappuccino. Oliver said it’s your favorite.”
She looks at it and then tries to take the tight lid off but can’t.
“Here, let me help. These things are a pain.”
I remove the lid and hand it back to her. She carefully puts it under her nose and smells it. Then she turns her head away, making a face.
Donovan and I laugh.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say, taking it from her and dropping the cup in the trash.
“Your tastes may have changed, Sara,” Donovan says. “It’s not all that uncommon after injuries like yours.” He looks through the contents of the box. “This is fabulous. Just what we need to focus on her manual dexterity. In fact, we were about to get started. Can you help me get everything set up, Denver?”
“I’d be happy to.”
Sara watches in wonder as we get the paints and brushes out. I’m not really sure how all this works, but I’ve seen movies. I squeeze a little color from a few tubes onto the palette while Donovan finds something to cover Sara’s clothes.
I notice she’s in regular clothing and not a hospital gown or robe. I also notice that she’s swimming in them. The doctor said she lost fifteen pounds while she was in the hospital. It makes me want to pump her full of cheeseburgers and fries.
I pull the tray table over to her bed and she stares at the palette. Donovan hands her a brush and smiles. “Let’s see what you can do, shall we?”
Sara smiles when she takes the brush. It’s a beautiful smile, one that tells me I did the right thing by bringing her paints. I sit on the side of her bed and hold up a blank canvas.
“Can you paint a red circle?” Donovan asks.
She dips her brush in the red paint and in the lower corner of the canvas, paints the most perfect circle I’ve ever seen anyone freehand.
“That’s fucking amazing,” I say without thinking.
Sara’s smile gets even bigger.
Donovan laughs.
“Uh, pardon my French. But wow, Sara.” I knock a hand on my hard skull. “My brain is fully intact, and I still can’t draw a circle that well.”
She raises her eyebrows at me.
“Oh, damn. Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know,” she says softly. “Joke.”
“Draw another one,” I say. “Yellow this time.” I look at Donovan. “Oops, I guess I got a little excited. You’re the boss.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here to participate in her therapy. It helps when loved ones are involved.”
Loved ones.
I almost correct him. I’m not a loved one. I’m barely even a friend, and only by circumstance. But I don’t correct him. And neither does Sara.
“Go ahead,” he urges. “Do what the man said and draw a yellow circle.”
She draws one right next to the red one. Another amazing circle of the same size.
“And how about a square,” he says. “Can you draw one of those?”
She does. Over the next few minutes, she fills the entire lower six inches of the canvas.
“Now draw one up here,” Donovan says, motioning to the top.
Sara lifts her arm and tries to paint where he pointed, but her arm goes limp and a jagged line of paint trails down the canvas all the way to her lap. Sara closes her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Donovan says. “Your arms are weak. We’ll do exercises for that. How about your left hand, can you paint with your left hand?”
She puts the brush in her left hand and makes a circle, only this one looks more like an oval on one side and a square on the other.
I reach over and grab a brush and dip it in the paint, making a circle next to hers. “Look, the one you did with your left hand is still better than the one I did with my right.” Then I make an X over mine with the paint.
I study the canvas. “I have an idea,” I say. I turn to Donovan while I pull the canvas onto my lap. “Do you mind?”
“Go right ahead.”
I dip my brush in some more paint and glide it across the canvas several times. Then I turn it around and show it to Sara. “Do you know how to play Tic-Tac-Toe?”
She smiles and picks up her brush. “I’m Xs,” she says, smiling.
“This game,” I say. “Next game, I’m Xs.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donovan looking pleased. I’m glad he approves. This is something Sara and I can do together even when he’s not around. And if he thinks it’s good therapy, all the better. I have a feeling I’ll have to invest in a lot more canvases. But whatever it takes to help her in her recovery.
An hour later, it’s time for Donovan to leave.
“You’re brilliant,” Donovan says, pulling me aside in the hallway. “Bringing the paints was exactly what she needed. I’m not sure why nobody else thought of it. It’s the perfect therapy for her. She’s made more progress in the last hour than she made all day yesterday. And she recognizes sarcasm—that’s a very good indicator of her mental progress.”
“Do you think she’ll start talking more?” I ask.
He nods. “She’ll talk when she’s ready. She’s perfectly capable of it. I just think she doesn’t have much to say yet. It’ll come.”
“See you later?” I ask as he walks away.
“If you’re still here after lunch, you can help me get her walking. Somehow, I think she’ll do much better today.” He winks at me before he goes around the corner.
Why would she do better today? Maybe because she’s in a good mood after painting.
Sara looks tired when I go back into her room. “You did great, champ. You’ve impressed Donovan, and I get the feeling it takes a lot to impress him.”
She smiles.
Then she looks down at the ring that’s still on her left hand.
“How did you get in?” she asks, nodding to the paint supplies we stacked in the corner.
“To your apartment?” I ask.
She nods.
“Oliver let me in. We had cappuccino.”
“He has a key?” she asks.
I scrub my hand across my jaw. “He didn’t tell you?”
She just looks at me, waiting.
“Sara, you and Oliver share an apartment. You live together.”
She closes her eyes and sighs. I take it this is not good news to her.
“Listen,” I say, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Nobody says you have to jump right back into anything you’re not comfortable with. And you have time. You’ll be here for a while. That will give you a chance to get to know him again. Oh, my gosh, Sara, the things you two did together. He should be the one to tell you, but you’ve been all over the world. You’ve seen incredible sights. Done incredible things. He has photographs and souvenirs. Just wait until you hear about all of it.”
She turns her head and stares at the wall. I can tell she’s worn out. I pick up our book off her side table and read to her as she rests. I read until another therapist comes into the room. He exercises her arms and legs, telling us how important it is to keep her muscle tone. Then, with my help, he sits her in a chair for an hour, during which the cognitive therapist and then the speech therapist both have their turns with her.
Before Sara is moved back to bed, a female nurse comes in to help her get to the bathroom.
By the time her head hits the pillow, she’s almost fast asleep. I study her as she dozes off. She’s far too thin. Joelle said they’re even using the feeding tube in her stomach to give her extra calories. I pick up my phone and text in an order to one of my favorite lunch places.
An hour later, when Sara starts to wake up, she inhales a big breath through her nose. “That smell,” she says.
Without seeing her eyes, I can’t tell if she’s offended like she was from the smell of the cappuccino.
“It’s my favorite food,” I tell her. “Pizza.”
She smiles as her eyes flutter open. “Please say pepperoni.”
I laugh, thinking how she’s supposedly vegan.
“No self-respecting pizza lover would order one without pepperoni,” I say.
“Mmmmm,” she mumbles.
I wait until she’s fully awake to open the box and serve us our lunch. While we’re eating, a nurse comes in and congratulates Sara on going an entire day without the vent.
“Seriously?” I say. “That’s fantastic.” I turn to Sara and pump my fist. “Rock star!”
“In fact, we may not have to use it at all anymore,” the nurse says.
“She can get the trach out?” I ask hopefully.
“We’ll monitor her O2 count over the next twenty-four hours, and if it remains stable, the ENT doctor will remove the trach.”
“Does that mean surgery?” I ask.
“Nope. They pretty much just pull it out and slap a bandage on her neck. No stiches. No tape. Just a bandage. I could do it if they’d let me. But they don’t let me—that’s above my pay grade,” she jokes. “The wound will heal in five to seven days, leaving a small scar.”
“Battle wounds are sexy,” I say to Sara.
She smirks and rolls her eyes.
Shit. I hope I didn’t overstep my bounds. I didn’t mean anything by it. But from the look on her face, Sara didn’t mind that I said it.
Donovan comes in as the nurse is leaving. “Twenty-four hours off the vent?” he says. “You rock, girl.”
“See,” I say to her. “I’m not the only one who thinks so.”
“What is that heavenly smell?” Donovan asks.
I nod to the box. “Pizza. We have plenty if you want some.”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he says, pulling up an extra chair next to Sara’s bed. “We’ve got a few minutes before your afternoon session. Let’s gossip.”
I observe him closely as he tells us the dirt on the other PTs and nurses. I guess I never noticed before, but now that I’m paying attention, I think we should introduce him to Davis Martinez. I almost say something to Sara about it, but then I realize she won’t know who I’m talking about.
And for the hundredth time, I try to imagine what it must be like not to remember parts of your life.
“Enough chit-chat,” Donovan says. “Time to put your dancing shoes on.”
He gets Sara’s shoes out of the closet, and we each put one on her. Then Donovan brings in a wheelchair and wheels her out into the hallway where a few others are waiting in the same formation as they were the other day when she took her first steps.
“You,” he says to me, pointing to the end of the hallway. “There.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, thinking he’s rather optimistic having me stand so far away.
He nods at me as if he knows she can do it.
“Are you ready, Sara?”
She nods and he lifts her up, holding on to her like he did the other day. And like the other day, someone is on the floor helping her move her feet while another follows her with the wheelchair.
She looks at me, twenty feet away from her, and I can tell she thinks I’m too far away.
“Come on, Sara. You can do it. You’re a rock star, remember?”
She takes two steps with help from the guy on the floor. Then I notice on the third step, she picks up her right foot all by herself, without any help. And then her left. And then she does it four more times before she loses her balance and falls into Donovan’s arms.
He sits her down. “You’re doing great, honey. Let’s go again.”
He helps her up and she starts again, this time without needing to be told which foot to move. She inches closer and closer to me, but I can tell she’s getting tired.
“Sara, make it all the way to me and you can have whatever you want. I’ll even watch The Bachelor with you, and you know I hate that show.”
She smiles. “Burger,” she says.
“You want me to bring you a cheeseburger for dinner?” I ask.
She nods.
“You walk all the way to me and I’ll bring you two.”
She smiles and then closes her eyes as if to muster the strength. Then I watch her take at least ten more steps. The last few steps, she doesn’t even have to look at her feet. She stares at me. I stare at her. And something seems to happen between us. Something that feels wrong, but at the same time—so fucking right.
Donovan and the others give her a standing ovation after she sits back down. “I think she should also get a milkshake after that,” he says.
“Chocolate,” she says.
“You got it,” I say, my smile about splitting my face in two. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”
“Oh, you thought we were done?” Donovan says.
Sara looks a bit scared.
Donovan laughs. “We’re done with walking for the day. But you’ve impressed me so much, I thought we’d get you on the bike.”
“Bike?” I say incredulously, looking at the shock on Sara’s face.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s a three-wheel bike. It’s perfectly safe and low to the ground.”
“Outside?” Sara asks hopefully.
“No. Sadly, it’s raining this afternoon, so we’ll do it in the therapy room. Perhaps we can get you outside tomorrow.”
Sara’s been trapped indoors for over two weeks now. Her only fresh air came when she was transferred to and from the ambulance. Hardly an exhilarating experience.
Later in the afternoon, after all her therapy is done, Sara and I are back in her room playing cards. And every time she calls for a card I have, I hold it over her head, making her reach for it.
I catch Donovan smiling at me from the doorway. He moves aside when Oliver walks in, his arms full of takeout food.
“You’ve got quite a
load there,” I say, hopping up to help.
“Nothing’s too good for my girl. Right, luv?”
Something about the way he says that to her makes my spine stiffen.
He pulls out a bottle of champagne. “I even brought us some bubbly.”
Donovan comes walking into the room, eyeing the champagne. “I’d be happy to keep that on ice for you until the doctor clears her to drink.”
“She can’t drink?” he asks.
“She shouldn’t,” Donovan says. “It’s still very early in her recovery.”
Oliver waves him off, pulling two glasses from his bag. “One glass can’t hurt.”
“Actually, it can,” Donovan says. “Sara is working very hard to reestablish the connections between her neurons. Alcohol can and will affect her ability to do that, even temporarily. You don’t want any setbacks in her progress now, do you?”
Oliver looks at the bottle in his hands. “Well, bullocks. I guess it’ll have to wait, hun.” He hands the bottle to Donovan. “For the day she gets to come home.”
Donovan nods. “I think we’ll all have a drink on that fine occasion.”
Oliver proceeds to retrieve a large spread of food from his bag.
“I brought all your favorites,” he says. “Tofu-spinach lasagna with a side of stuffed peppers. And for dessert, black bean brownies.”
Sara looks anything but excited about the food placed in front of her.
Oliver feeds her as he tells her about their travels together. I begin to feel like a third wheel, as I often do when Oliver is here. But for the first time, I realize I’m not okay with it.
“I’ll see you guys later, then,” I say. “I’ll make good on those burgers another day. Okay, Sara?”
She nods sadly before taking the bite of lasagna Oliver is shoveling into her mouth.
“Bye now,” I say on my way out the door. But what I really want to tell him is that he doesn’t need to feed her anymore. If he’d been paying attention, he’d see she’s getting back a lot of her fine motor skills. But I keep my mouth shut because there’s the whole stepping-on-toes thing.
“Thanks for filling in when I can’t be here, mate,” Oliver says.
Filling in.
The way he says it is like he thinks I’m doing him a favor. I can’t quite figure him out. He acts like he wants to be here, but then he only bothers showing up for an hour or two at a time. I get that he’s busy and he has a job he needs to keep, and I even get that some people just hate hospitals and being around sick people. But there’s something about him I just can’t put my finger on.
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 42
