by Sarah Grimm
As if Joe gave a flying fuck about bad publicity. All he cared about was the health of the woman who’d finally come to about sixty seconds ago, curling her fingers into the front of his shirt as she did. Her eyes held a mixture of pain and fear, and he couldn’t stop touching her. Stroking her hair away from her face. Reassuring them both.
“What were you doing when she passed out?” the doctor asked. He didn’t yet seem aware that Emma had regained consciousness and Joe didn’t feel the need to tell him.
He kept his focus on Emma instead of the man asking the questions. “I’d just told her I love her. She was crying, trying to tell me something. Something I didn’t want to hear.”
“What—”
“She gets headaches. They incapacitate her.”
“Is she on any medication?”
“For the headaches, yes. She injects it.”
“Do you know the name of the medication?”
He’d read the name once or twice, but couldn’t recall it. “I don’t know.”
Emma remained silent. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, and he brushed it away with his thumb.
“Her arms tremble.” He talked to her as much as the doctor, needing her to know. “They start to shake for no apparent reason. She thinks I don’t notice, but I’ve known all along.”
“How often does this happen? How long do the tremors last?”
“One or two times a day anymore. Thirty to sixty seconds. A few minutes at most.”
Releasing his shirt, Emma linked her fingers with his.
Joe closed his eyes and absorbed. “It started again right before she passed out. Worse than ever before. Her whole body shook.”
“She had a seizure,” the doctor speculated.
Another tear slipped free, sliding down her temple and into her hair.
He lowered his voice, chasing the tear with the backs of his fingers, stroking her cheek with his free hand. “I didn’t want to hear what you needed to tell me, Emma.”
The doctor looked up from his notes. “Ms. Travers.”
Joe kept talking. “If you didn’t say it, I could go on pretending I didn’t see it.”
“Ms. Travers, if you can answer a few questions for me, we can figure out a way to best treat you.”
“My—” She cleared her throat. “My medical charts—”
“Are not here,” the man interrupted.
Her eyes slid closed, and she took a deep breath. Then one more before opening them again. “There’s a thumb drive in my bags. My medical records are on it.”
The doctor shifted closer, clearly shocked. “You keep your medical records with you?”
“I was planning a trip overseas.” Emma closed her eyes again. She turned her head until her face was partially covered by Joe’s hand resting on her pillow. “Can you turn down the lights, please?”
When the doctor didn’t move quickly enough, Joe did. He crossed the room and flicked off the overhead lights.
Emma sighed audibly.
The doctor flipped a different switch and a light beneath the cabinet over the sink flickered to life, keeping the room from total darkness.
“Ms. Travers.”
“Call Doctor Daniel Hollister at the Cleveland Clinic.” Emma linked her fingers with Joe’s the moment he returned to his spot back at the head of her bed.
“I’ll do that. Until then, if you can answer a few questions, I can better decide how to treat your pain.”
“I don’t want anything.”
The doctor sighed. “With your level of pain—”
“No. Call Doctor Daniel Hollister. He’ll tell you.”
“What will he tell me Ms. Travers?”
She ignored the doctor and looked into Joe’s eyes.
“Em?”
“I have cancer.”
Joe went still for a beat as his body struggled to absorb the shock. Then he was on his feet so fast the metal stool he’d been sitting on skidded across the floor with a metallic screech. He barely registered Emma’s jolt of pain as he backed away from her, as if physical distance could soften the blow he knew she was about to deliver. He kept moving, until there was nowhere else to run, the wall literally stopping his escape.
“A brain tumor.”
His knees gave and he slid down the wall.
“Glioblastoma Multiforme.”
The words meant nothing to him, but the doctor shifted his feet and sighed.
Joe rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor as pain burned through him. The sound of someone gasping for breath reverberated in a room otherwise silent. It was a moment before he realized the noise came from him.
“There’s nothing you can do for me. Do you understand?” Emma whispered.
Joe prayed she wasn’t talking to him because he didn’t understand. He never would.
“Nothing except give us some privacy. Please.”
He heard a rustling and knew the doctor had moved. The door opened then swung shut. He remained on the floor, dropping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. Tensed his muscled and waited for the next blow.
“I should have told you,” Emma whispered.
“I didn’t want to know.”
“I was afraid. I’m still afraid. I didn’t want you to pity me.”
She’d said that once before. In the beginning.
“I knew I would love you. I was already half in love with you when I hopped a plane to Baton Rouge. But I never imagined you would love me.”
“What did you think we were doing here?”
“I thought you would get bored and move on.”
He chuffed a laugh. As if he could ever get bored of her. She excited him in every way possible—physically, mentally and emotionally.
“I should have stayed away from you.”
If she had, where would he be? Drunk and buried in some faceless female in a desperate attempt to drown out the darkness.
Instead of filled with panic that, without her, his life might just go back to that. “There are treatments, clinical trials or something.”
“No.”
“I have a fuck lot of money, Em. I can—”
“You can’t,” she said softly, and much too closely. “I’m sorry.”
He opened his eyes and she was there. Kneeling in front of him in that damn hospital gown that made her seem even more pale and fragile. The hand with her I.V. in the back of it was curled around the I.V. stand, her other pushed his hair back away from his face. Wiped away tears he hadn’t realized he was shedding.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated softly.
As she crawled between his knees and curled up against his chest, he wrapped his arms around her and sighed. Even gutted, her touch managed to bring him a bit of peace.
“I was afraid to be alone, too weak to stay away from you. You make me feel like I did before my diagnosis. Before there was a monster in my head slowly killing me.”
“God, Em.”
“I tried to tell you in Chicago.”
Her tears soaked the fabric of his shirt. “I know.”
“Then again in—”
“I know. I wouldn’t let you.”
“I should have anyway. I should have told you I’m dying.”
A giant weight pressed down on him. Breathing became impossible.
“Please,” he begged. “Please stop talking.”
His ears rang. His fingers went numb.
There was no escaping the cold hard reality any longer. Emma wasn’t just sick. She was dying.
As gently as he could, Joe wrapped her tighter, pulled her closer.
He buried his face in her hair and broke.
Thirty minutes later, Joe still sat on the floor, Emma on his lap, asleep in his arms. A nurse had come in about ten minutes earlier, shot him a disapproving glance then answered his questions. She hadn’t been back.
He should probably think about getting Emma onto the bed but he didn’t move. The risk of waking her or, worse, hurting her,
was too great. He was so physically and emotionally drained, he wasn’t sure he could stand with her in his arms.
“I’m not staying here,” she said softly.
The whisper of her voice startled him. He hadn’t realized she was awake.
“No one can make me. Not even you.”
The body beneath his hands tensed. Her breaths quickened. Panic sounded in her voice. “They’re going to want to admit me, lock me in a room and—”
“They want to make you comfortable,” he soothed.
She trembled, crying. Once her tears started, they hadn’t stopped, even as she dozed. The nurse said it was from the pain. All he knew was it tore him in half. He had to make her feel better, help her in whatever way he could. If that meant letting them give her something, he would. Not that he had the power to make any medical decisions for her, but he could allay her fears. Do his best to keep her calm while he helped her to see that she needed the pain medication. He couldn’t stand her suffering.
“They want to pump me full of drugs.” Her hand fisted his shirt. Her voice bordered on hysteria. “You don’t understand. They’ll turn me into a drooling mass of human flesh with no idea what day it is or even where I am. I’m not going out like that, Joe.”
“It’s okay, Sunshine.”
“It’s not. I don’t want to die here. I want to go home. I want to be in my own bed.”
The door swung open and the nurse stepped in, a small tray in hand. She set the tray near the sink then slipped a pair of nitrile gloves from the box hung on the wall. Once the gloves were in place, she approached them, reaching for Emma’s wrist—the one with the identification bracelet they’d given her upon arrival.
“I don’t want this.”
When the nurse walked away without comment, Emma’s hand tightened on his shirt. She locked her gaze with his. “I don’t want this. They can’t—”
“Em.”
She couldn’t get any closer but she tried anyway, grasping at his arms, his shirt. “No,” she whispered. “No. Please, I don’t want this.”
Fuck. He wasn’t strong enough for this. She was nearly out of her mind with fear.
“What are you giving her?” he asked the nurse as she swiped an alcohol swab over a hub about half way up the I.V. tubing, then inserted the needle of the syringe and pushed the medication into the line.
“She needs rest.”
“NO!”
Joe cupped Emma’s face and looked into her eyes. She was terrified, softly begging him to not let them drug her, but it was already too late. The medication was doing its job. Her limbs grew lax, her breathing leveled out.
Her panic remained. “I don’t want this,” she whispered.
Then she was out cold.
“It really is the best thing for her.” The nurse stated, disposing of the needle and her gloves. “I can’t imagine the amount of pain she must be in.”
There was physical pain and there was emotional pain. The doctor was focusing on the physical. But watching Emma panic over the thought of being knocked out and made comfortable had Joe focusing on the emotional. “Is my friend still outside the door?”
“You mean your bodyguard? The younger nurses are whispering about you being pretty famous.”
He didn’t comment.
“Yes, he’s still there.”
“Send him in please.”
Joe tried to snug Emma closer, hold her as she rested, but it was near impossible. Whatever she’d been given, she was like a rag doll. Even asleep, she was never this limp. They’d done exactly as she’d warned they would—drugged her out of her mind. Turned her into a drooling mass of human flesh.
Gary stepped in and leaned against the closed door. He took one look at Emma and scrubbed his hand over his face. “What did they do to her? I could hear her begging… Fuck.”
Visibly uncomfortable, Gary paced. Something Joe had never seen him do in all the years he’d known him. He was always too controlled for such a show of emotion.
“She doesn’t want to be here,” Joe told him.
“Who would?” He rolled his shoulders, shook out his arms, all the time moving back and forth in the confined space, his actions reminding Joe of how he loosened up before sparing. “Is this really what you want for her?”
Gary’s anger was unmistakable, as was his intent. His fist was going to connect with something. Joe wondered who the winner was going to be—his face or the wall.
“I don’t want any of this for her.” He gave his friend complete honesty, knowing Gary cared for Emma, too. “If I could trade places with her, I wouldn’t hesitate.”
“Goddamnit.” Gary let out a slow, careful breath then leaned against the door again. His gaze returned to Emma. “When I go, I want my eyes wide open so I can stare death in the face while I flip him the bird.”
“Christ, Gare.”
“I don’t want to be so stoned that I never see him coming. No way Emma wants that either. This isn’t about you, Joe.”
“How the fuck isn’t it about me? I only just found her and now…” Now he had to let her go. Her way. Even if it meant he had to watch her suffer. “I need some air. Is the car still here?”
“It is.”
“You’ll stay with Emma?”
“Yes.”
They both looked down at her and Joe’s gut tightened. He traced the backs of his fingers over the tearstains on her cheeks and frowned. “Take her.”
Gary scooped her up and gently placed her on the bed. He covered her with the blanket then held out a key card. “Kirk had Marvin check us into a hotel for the night. The car service knows which one.”
Joe took the card. “I have to speak with her doctor then make a few calls. Someone should let her friend Alison know what’s happened.”
Gary nodded.
“Stay with Emma. She’s going to want to leave.” God, he wanted out of this damn tiny box with no windows. It was suffocating. No wonder Em didn’t want to stay here. But she needed to, at least for now. “I don’t care what you have to do, she stays here.”
“Joe.”
Joe stopped with his hand on the door. He turned to Gary. “She is the only thing that matters.”
Gary tipped his head in acknowledgement. “I agree.”
“From now on, your job is to protect her. Even if that means keeping her here when she wakes up and tries to leave. Got it?”
“You realize I have zero chance of getting her to listen to me. And I won’t use force.”
Of course, he wouldn’t, but Gare was right. No one made Emma do anything she didn’t want to do. It was one of the things Joe loved most about her, even when it frustrated the hell out of him. “Let her know I’ll be back. I have to…”
“Make some calls. I got it. Try to get some rest will you? You look as bad as she does.”
Joe glanced at Emma. He wanted to crawl into the bed with her, wrap his arms around her and hold her. But that wouldn’t help her. He had to find some way to help her.
“Joe?”
“Yeah?”
“Go. She won’t miss you. Not until the drugs wear off.”
“I have to help her,” he whispered.
“Go.”
May 19
There are a lot of things about being diagnosed with cancer that make you feel like you have no control.
Death is not one of them.
I can choose the way I die.
At the very least where I die.
Whether it’s in a sterile, lifeless hospital room or, my own home.
I choose home.
In my own bed.
Centered in my glass room.
My gaze on the world I leave behind.
Number of days since I decided to live: 89
Number of days since I met Joe: 46
Current level of panic: 6/10
NINETEEN
May 21
“I’m sorry,” the emergency department doctor said softly.
God, Joe was sick of hearing those word
s. Emma was sorry, the doctor was sorry. Hell, even the damn nurses were sorry. If one more person told him they were ‘sorry’ he was going to beat the shit out of them. “There has to be someone, somewhere who can help her. An operation?”
“Mr. Campbell, surgery is not an option. The disease is too advanced. I’m sor—”
“Will you stop saying that? Stop telling me how bloody sorry you are and tell me what I can do to help her!”
In direct correlation to Joe raising his voice, the doctor lowered his. “You can convince her to stay here, were we can manage her pain.”
“She doesn’t want that.”
“I’m not sure we should be considering her wishes at this time.”
Unable to summon even the most basic of manners, Joe stared at him and snarled. “Why the fuck not?”
“Her disease is most likely impairing her judgement.”
The man had no idea how close he was to having his head taken off. “And what is to blame for impairing yours?”
“Mr. Campbell, I understand this is a stressful time for you—”
“Believe me, you have no idea.”
“—but making threats against me is not a good idea.”
He hadn’t made any threats against the man. Not yet. “Did you call her regular doctor?”
“I did.”
“What did her doctor tell you?”
The emergency room physician sighed. “That she would never agree to remain here.”
“She won’t.” At least the guy in Cleveland seemed to have a decent understanding of Emma and her wishes. “She wants to go home.”
“Back to Cleveland Clinic.”
“Home. She wants to go home.”
“I really don’t recommend that. Glioblastoma Multiforme is said to be excruciatingly painful.”
As if Joe hadn’t already figured that out. “How long does she have? Is managing her pain going to make the time she has any longer?”
“No, but it will make her more comfortable.”
Joe thought back to the condition she’d been in as he’d walked out of her room. “You mean you’ll knock her on her ass. Pump her full of enough drugs to render her unconscious. That’s your plan for pain management?”
The doctor pulled back, clearly shocked.
“How much time does Emma have?” Joe repeated.
