Wake for Me (Life or Death Series)

by Irons, Isobel

  Viola shook her head, blue eyes sparkling. “Sam, this is…my new friend, Julia. She writes books. That’s why she prefers…working nights.”

  Sam tried not to look as out of his depth as he felt. Not knowing what else to do, he reached over the desk and shook the girl’s hand, while trying not to stare. She eyed him speculatively in return, apparently not caring if he noticed how her eyes strayed to, and stayed at, the crotch area of his sweat pants.

  “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Philips,” Julia said. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Really?” Sam glanced over at Viola, who was smiling up at him with cruel glee. “I mean, thanks, I guess.”

  “We’ll let you…get back to writing now,” Viola said, nudging Sam toward the hallway again. “Thanks again for…loaning me…‘Hot…and Bothered.’”

  Hot and Bothered? Wow. Sam refused to let himself think about the kinds of ‘tricks’ Viola was planning to pick up from a book with that title. There just wasn’t enough room in his sweatpants for that kind of thinking.

  “My pleasure,” Julia said, raising an eyebrow in almost perfect imitation of Viola’s ‘I know something you don’t know’ face. “Don’t be a stranger now, Dr. Philips.”

  “Okay,” he said. It was the only response he could think of that wouldn’t make things more awkward than they already were.

  After they’d made it safely down the hall, Sam finally asked the question that he both dreaded and couldn’t ignore. She already knew he’d been eavesdropping. Why keep up the act?

  “So…why does the word ‘dick’ remind you of high school?”

  Viola laughed. “Maybe I knew…lots of guys…who were dicks.”

  “Oh,” Sam nodded. “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”

  She smiled. “Oh…I don’t know…about that.”

  Suddenly they were at the elevator. Sam pushed the call button, but when it opened, he was almost afraid to go in. Viola was clinging to his arm with both hands, and smiling up at him like she had a secret. Or maybe like he had one, and she was the only one who knew about it.

  Either way, it was nerve-wracking as hell, and without his white coat and scrubs, Sam didn’t know if the boundaries of their relationship were quite as clearly drawn as they should be. Stepping inside the small, enclosed space, he pressed the button for the seventh floor.

  “I’ll take you back to your room first,” he said, keeping his eyes glued on the door as it slid closed in front of them. “Before I clock in and change, I mean. You should really get some sleep.”

  “No.” She reached past him to press the button for the tenth floor. “I’m not tired.”

  Sam looked at her sideways. “What’s on the tenth floor?”

  “Telemetry,” she said, very carefully. “Endoscopy.”

  “I know that.” Sam turned his body to face her, challenging her. It was obvious now that she was messing with him. “I meant what’s up there for you?”

  She smiled sweetly. “Roof access.”

  “Oh, no. Absolutely not. You’re not going up there, it’s freezing outside. Also, it’s dangerous.”

  Viola rolled her eyes. “Relax. It’s not like…it’s my first time.”

  Was it his imagination, or did those words carry a hidden message? No, he was imagining things. How could he not, after hearing what he’d just heard? ‘I can’t wait to pick up all kinds of tricks.’ Jesus.

  “You’re telling me you’ve wandered up there by yourself before?” Sam tried to focus on the alarm he felt at her admission, instead of his growing arousal. “Viola, you could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

  “So don’t let me,” she countered, “go by myself.”

  For a few seconds, Sam and his patient stared each other down, each refusing to back away. The air in the elevator seemed to grow warmer with each passing second. Then the elevator dinged, and Sam jumped. The doors slid open at the seventh floor, but no one tried to get on. Without breaking eye contact, Viola reached sideways and pressed the ‘close doors’ button.

  “I’m going up,” she said. “With…or without you.”

  When she put it that way, what choice did he have? Sam took a step back and crossed his arms, resigning himself to stick with her, lest she accidentally kill herself. He was beginning to see that, short of throwing her over his shoulder—or otherwise breaking the barrier of ‘appropriate’ patient/doctor physical contact—Viola would get her way, no matter the cost to her own health, every time. Unless of course, he changed his strategy.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “You don’t come up here ever again, unless I’m with you.”

  “Okay,” Viola answered, much too quickly. Too late, Sam realized that she probably thought would expect him to tag along with her whenever and wherever she decided to explore, at all hours of the night.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to babysit you when I’m not on shift,” he told her.

  Viola just smiled. He didn’t scare her, and she wasn’t shy about letting him know it. No, if he was ever going to gain the upper hand with her, Sam realized, he was either going to have to break the rules, or learn how to beat her at her own game.

  But how was he supposed to do that, when he wasn’t even sure what her game was?

  When the elevator opened on ten, Sam stepped out into the hallway first. Viola followed, looking like she’d just stepped off the podium after winning Miss America. Her smile was triumphant, and a little bit gloating, to be honest.

  “Wait here,” Sam told her. “I’m going to find you some blankets.”

  He took a few steps in the direction of the nearest supply closet, but then turned back to point at her with his best warning glare. “If you move, our deal is off.”

  Folding her arms across her chest, Viola rolled her eyes. But she didn’t move. Sam figured that was kind of like progress.

  When he came back, though, laden with blankets, he could’ve sworn she’d moved about eight inches to the right, just to spite him. But the way she smiled at him, so innocently, he wasn’t certain enough to call her on it.

  After wrapping her securely in at least three blankets, Sam put his arm around her and helped her shuffle carefully up the stairs and onto the roof. There was a small lounge area up there, just below the Air Med helicopter pad, with a tiny Zen garden that had been donated by a wealthy patron some time ago. Viola lowered herself carefully onto a bench, then looked around critically.

  “It’s no…vineyard,” she said, with a loud sigh. “But at least…it’s nature.”

  Sam smiled. “No, I guess you’ve been kind of spoiled when it comes to scenery. Me, I’ve never even been to a wine tasting, let alone visited a vineyard.”

  Viola looked at him like he’d just confessed to being raised on another planet.

  “What’s…wrong with you?”

  “Lots of things, probably,” Sam told her, turning to look out across the city. From where he stood, it looked like the city was a pale but unending reflection of the stars. Off to the east, the sky was beginning to turn a light purple color.

  “Hey,” he said, glancing at his watch. It was almost five-thirty. “If we stay up here for another ten minutes, we might be able to catch a bit of sunrise. Of course,” he turned back to look at her. “I don’t think I can stay past….”

  Sam trailed off when he caught sight of Viola’s face. She was staring at the ground by her feet, clutching the blanket around her like her life depended on it. Her eyes were gigantic. She looked absolutely terrified.

  “Viola?” Sam went to stand in front of her, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Viola, what’s wrong? Is it your head? Are you breathing normally? Do you feel pain anywhere?”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

  Crouching down in front of her, he put his hands on either side of her face. She was extremely pale, and her pulse had skyrocketed. Her skin was cool to the touch.

  “Viola, I’m going to pick you up now
,” he told her, trying to keep his voice as calm and as measured as possible. If she was in shock, he didn’t want to startle her and make things worse. But he had to get her inside, as soon as possible. He reached around her, and slid an arm underneath her knees.

  “Do you see it?”

  “What?” Sam turned his head to look out across the rooftop. “See what, Viola?”

  “The bird,” she whispered, trembling fiercely. “Dead bird. Do you see it?”

  Sam followed her gaze, but all he could see was a crumpled up paper towel on the ground. He guessed he could see, from a certain perspective, how it might look like a dead bird. But what he didn’t understand was how, even if it was a bird, it could cause her to get so upset.

  “Are you afraid of birds, Viola?”

  Letting go of her, he walked toward the piece of trash, intending to pick it up and show her that it was nothing but paper. But when he got close, she made this little sound in her throat, like a scream but in reverse. Sam decided it might be better to just let the thing stay where it was, and just remove Viola from the situation.

  He turned back toward her, and went to pick her up again, but she reached out and grabbed the front of his sweatshirt, clutching it tightly in her hand. She pulled him down until his face was level with hers. For a single, crazy second, Sam thought they might actually kiss.

  “Do…you…see…it?” she asked again, through gritted teeth.

  “Yes,” he told her, confused by the abrupt change in her demeanor. “I see it.”

  Immediately, she let go of his clothing. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hugged herself. Sam was close enough to see a single, fat tear escape and slide down her cheek. He immediately felt like a jerk for even letting his mind go to a sexual place earlier. She was his patient, and she was in pain. Maybe even sick, or broken, in spite of the brave face she wore.

  “Sometimes,” she whispered, “this feels like a…bad trip. Acid, or something. I never did drugs…in my life. How’s that for…irony?”

  Squeezing her shoulder lightly, Sam stood. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he knew it wasn’t a good sign. It almost made him want to cancel his trip home, and stay with her. But he couldn’t. Not with the anniversary tomorrow.

  “Come on,” he told her, pulling her carefully to her feet. “I think that’s enough nature for now. Let’s get you back into bed.”

  ***

  Thirteen hours later, after saying goodbye to Viola and listening to Traci Tanner promise, once again, that she’d take extra-special care of Sam’s favorite patient—and keep Brady out of her room at all costs—Sam got into his car and headed for Syracuse.

  Traffic was an absolute bitch, yet the silence of the drive seemed disturbingly peaceful compared to his usually chaotic surroundings. Sam soon discovered that he couldn’t be trusted alone with his thoughts, so he popped in an audio book and listened to some Yale cardiologist talk about osteopathic plaque reduction for the next five hours.

  By the time he pulled into the driveway of his childhood home, it was well past dark.

  Sam turned the engine off and spent a few minutes just staring at the old place. The ranch-style brick house looked brown in the porch light, but when the sun rose it would be red. White plastic shutters flanked each of the windows, chosen because they were a material that would never peel. The garage door, on the other hand, was one of those old-fashioned wooden ones. It needed a new coat of paint.

  Sam sighed, thinking of how little time he had, and how much he needed to do while he was here. He alternately loved and hated spending time in this house. It wasn’t all that big, by most people’s standards. But the volume of memories it held—both good and bad—seemed incredibly disproportionate to its size.

  Grabbing his backpack from the passenger seat, Sam got out of the car and locked it behind him. On the drive up, he’d almost considered calling and asking his mom to park her minivan in front of the house so he could stash his baby in the garage, but then decided it would be too much trouble. At any rate, the neighborhood was a pretty safe one, at least compared to where Sam lived in Brooklyn.

  Using his key, he let himself in through the front door, as quietly as possible. His mom was a high school English teacher, and she tended to go to bed by 9:00pm, even on the weekends. When he passed through the dining room, Sam noticed a note on the table.

  Welcome home, Sammy. There’s leftover pot roast in the fridge if you’re hungry. See you in the morning. Love, Mom. Sam smiled. She was the best mom ever. Then he noticed that there was an arrow on the lower corner of the page. He turned it over. PS – I told Caroline you would take her to lunch tomorrow. I hope that’s okay.

  Well, shit. Dropping the note back on the table, Sam shook his head. He loved his mom, and he would do almost anything for her, but she really had to stop doing this. The last time he’d visited, the setup du jour had been Mom’s hairdresser, a girl named Fay who had spent two hours trying to convert him to veganism. Sam had been so close to telling her that veganism was a leading cause of impotence in males, just to see the look on her face.

  The worst part about the perennial Set Up Sam project was, it wasn’t even about him getting married or providing his mom with grandchildren.

  It was because she worried about him.

  No matter how many times Sam told her that he was okay living by himself, that he was taking care of himself just fine, his mom couldn’t seem to convince her.

  It was understandable, but also a little insulting; like a hug followed by a slap in the face.

  Creeping along the familiar path to his old bedroom, Sam dropped his bag inside and then continued to the guest bathroom at the far end of the hall. He brushed his teeth and splashed warm water on his face, hoping to mellow himself out enough to sleep. It had been forever since he’d tucked in before midnight, so tonight was going to be a rare treat.

  On the way back to his room, Sam’s footsteps slowed, then stopped. The door to his older brother’s room was closed, as usual. He put his hand out for the doorknob, but then took it back. Turning away, he continued a few more steps to his bedroom and shut the door.

  Tomorrow, he would go out to lunch with his mother’s friend Caroline, and he wouldn’t complain about it. Not once. Not even if she had a lazy eye and smelled like an Alaskan trucker. When his mom asked him later how things had gone, he’d tell her everything was great. He’d probably even agree to a second date with Caroline. Anything it took, basically, to help his mother forget about the anniversary of everything she’d lost.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Our memory has no guarantees at all, and yet we bow more often than is objectively justified to the compulsion to believe what it says.” –Sigmund Freud

  Viola stood in front of the bathroom mirror, slowly unbuttoning the front of her pink silk pajamas—the ones her mother had brought her the last time she’d visited. The day she died.

  Biting her lip, she slowly parted the fabric to reveal her abdomen, inch by painful inch. Her pale, creamy skin was slashed vertically from belly button to chest bone by an angry red scar, which ended just below where her bra would be, if she was wearing one. The scar looked like a sideways mouth, she decided, like something from a Tim Burton movie. Twisted and wrong, it marred the part of her she’d once been the most proud of.

  All those two-piece swimsuits she owned, all those midriff-bearing blouses—even the Zac Posen cutout dress she’d ordered in advance of his runway show a few months ago—they’d all have to go. What was the point of being young, she asked herself, if you had to hide your body from the world?

  Angrily buttoning up her shirt, not caring whether it was off by a button or two, Viola left the bathroom and started pacing her room. It had been a whole month now since she’d woken up. Her coordination was much better, her stamina was improving, and her speaking skills were almost completely back to normal. She was starting to feel like a caged animal. It was time for her to go home.

  And yet, every time she called U
ncle Jack about being discharged from the hospital to stay at the Seneca Lake house or her grandfather’s estate in Bellemonte, he would tell her how much better it made him feel to have someone looking after her around the clock. Unfortunately, the doctors agreed with him. They wouldn’t discharge her early unless she had in-home care. When she’d asked Uncle Jack about hiring a part-time or full-time nurse to come stay with her, he’d made an excuse about the family finances still being a mess after her parents’ death.

  “Am I still rich?” Viola had asked, testily.

  “Of course, mon chouchou,” Uncle Jack had sighed. “All of the company’s assets are right where Étienne left them. But the legalities of transferring the shares into your name, of executing all the finer points of his will…estate law is quite complex, Viola. And we aren’t dealing with the laws of just one country, but two.”

  “Okay, well, what about my trust fund? Can’t we use some of the money from there to pay for a nurse?”

  “Unfortunately, your father never gave me access to that fund,” he’d told her. “But there may be something we can figure out. Let me look into some possibilities, and we will speak about it when I visit tomorrow, yes? Just know that it will most likely take some time, and you will have to be patient.”

  “Right, I understand,” she’d said, even though she didn’t.

  It was bad enough that her father was gone. That her mother was gone. But not being able to be home, where at least she’d be surrounded by their things, their clothes, by the memories of them…it made their deaths seem that much less final. That much less real.

  According to the trauma counselor, and every stupid person she spoke to who offered her unsolicited advice about grief, coming to grips with reality was apparently the first step toward ‘moving on.’ Which was ridiculous, because if there was one thing Viola didn’t want to do, it was move on.