by E. L. James
Daddy.
I realize that the tube pulling at the right corner of his mouth leads to a ventilator. Its noise is weaving with the beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor into a percussive rhythmic beat. Sucking, expelling, sucking, expelling, sucking, expelling in time with the beeps. There are four lines on the screen of his heart monitor, each moving steadily across, demonstrating clearly that Ray is still with us.
Oh, Daddy.
Even though his mouth is distorted by the ventilator tube, he looks peaceful, lying there fast asleep.
A petite young nurse stands to one side, checking his monitors.
“Can I touch him?” I ask her, tentatively reaching for his hand.
“Yes.” She smiles kindly. Her badge says KELLIE RN, and she must be in her twenties. She’s blonde with dark, dark eyes.
Christian stands at the end of the bed, watching me carefully as I clasp Ray’s hand. It’s surprisingly warm, and that’s my undoing. I sink on to the chair by the bed, place my head gently against Ray’s arm, and start to sob.
“Oh, Daddy. Please get better,” I whisper. “Please.”
Christian puts his hand on my shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
“All Mr. Steele’s vitals are good,” Nurse Kellie says quietly.
“Thank you,” Christian murmurs. I glance up in time to see her gape. She’s finally gotten a good look at my husband. I don’t care. She can gape at Christian all she likes as long as she makes my father well again.
“Can he hear me?” I ask.
“He’s in a deep sleep. But who knows?”
“Can I sit for a while?”
“Sure thing.” She smiles at me, her cheeks pink from a telltale blush. Incongruously, I find myself thinking blond is not her true color.
Christian gazes down at me, ignoring her. “I need to make a call. I’ll be outside. I’ll give you some alone time with your dad.”I nod. He kisses my hair and walks out of the room. I hold Ray’s hand, marveling at the irony that it’s only now when he’s unconscious and can’t hear me that I really want to tell him how much I love him. This man has been my constant. My rock. And I’ve never thought about it until now. I’m not flesh of his flesh, but he’s my dad, and I love him so very much. My tears trail down my cheeks. Please, please get better.
Very quietly, so as not to disturb anyone, I tell him about our weekend in Aspen and about last weekend when we were soaring and sailing aboard The Grace. I tell him about our new house, our plans, about how we hope to make it ecologically sustainable. I promise to take him with us to Aspen so he can go fishing with Christian and assure him that Mr. Rodriguez and José will both be welcome, too. Please be here to do that, Daddy. Please.
Ray remains immobile, the ventilator sucking and expelling and the monotonous but reassuring beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor his only response.
When I look up, Christian is sitting quietly at the end of the bed. I don’t know how long he’s been there.
“Hi,” he says, his eyes glowing with compassion and concern.
“Hi.”
“So, I’m going fishing with your dad, Mr. Rodriguez, and José?” he asks.
I nod.
“Okay. Let’s go eat. Let him sleep.”
I frown. I don’t want to leave him.
“Ana, he’s in a coma. I’ve given our cell numbers to the nurses here. If there’s any change, they’ll call us. We’ll eat, check into a hotel, rest up, then come back this evening.”
The suite at the Heathman looks just as I remember it. How often have I thought about that first night and morning I spent with Christian Grey? I stand in the entrance to the suite, paralyzed. Jeez, it all started here.
“Home away from home,” says Christian, his voice soft, putting my briefcase down beside one of the overstuffed couches.
“Do you want a shower? A bath? What do you need, Ana?” Christian gazes at me, and I know he’s rudderless—my lost boy dealing with events beyond his control. He’s been withdrawn and contemplative all afternoon. This is a situation he cannot manipulate and predict. This is real life in the raw, and he’s kept himself from that for so long, he’s exposed and helpless now. My sweet, sheltered Fifty Shades.
“A bath. I’d like a bath.” I murmur, aware that keeping him busy will make him feel better, useful even. Oh, Christian—I’m numb and I’m cold and I’m scared, but I’m so glad you’re here with me.
“Bath. Good. Yes.” He strides into the bedroom and out of sight into the palatial bathroom. A few moments later, the roar of water gushing to fill the tub echoes from the room.
Finally, I galvanize myself to follow him into the bedroom. I’m dismayed to see several bags from Nordstrom on the bed. Christian reenters, sleeves rolled up, tie and jacket discarded.
“I sent Taylor to get some things. Nightwear. You know,” he says, eyeing me warily.
Of course he did. I nod my approval to make him feel better. Where is Taylor?
“Oh, Ana,” Christian murmurs. “I’ve not seen you like this. You’re normally so brave and strong.”
I don’t know what to say. I merely gaze wide-eyed at him. I have nothing to give right now. I think I’m in shock. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to keep the pervading cold at bay, even though I know it’s a fruitless task as this cold comes from within. Christian pulls me into his arms.
“Baby, he’s alive. His vital signs are good. We just have to be patient,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes my hand and leads me into the bathroom. Gently, he slips my jacket off my shoulders and places it on the bathroom chair, then turning back, he undoes the buttons on my shirt.
The water is deliciously warm and fragrant, the smell of lotus blossom heavy in the warm, sultry air of the bathroom. I lie between Christian’s legs, my back to his front, my feet resting on top of his. We’re both quiet and introspective, and I’m finally feeling warm. Intermittently Christian kisses my hair as I absentmindedly pop the bubbles in the foam. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders.
“You didn’t get into the bath with Leila, did you? That time you bathed her?” I ask.
He stiffens and snorts, his hand tightening on my shoulder where it rests. “Um . . . no.” He sounds astounded.
“I thought so. Good.”
He tugs gently at my hair knotted in a crude bun, tilting my head around so he can see my face. “Why do you ask?”
I shrug. “Morbid curiosity. I don’t know . . . seeing her this week.”
His face hardens. “I see. Less of the morbid.” His tone is reproachful.
“How long are you going to support her?
“Until she’s on her feet. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Why?”
“Are there others?”
“Others?”
“Exes who you support.”
“There was one, yes. No longer though.”
“Oh?”
“She was studying to be a doctor. She’s qualified now and has someone else.”
“Another Dominant?”
“Yes.”
“Leila says you have two of her paintings,” I whisper.
“I used to. I didn’t really care for them. They had technical merit, but they were too colorful for me. I think Elliot has them. As we know, he has no taste.”
I giggle, and he wraps his other arm around me, sloshing water over the side of the bath.
“That’s better,” he whispers and kisses my temple.
“He’s marrying my best friend.”
“Then I’d better shut my mouth,” he says.
I feel more relaxed after our bath. Wrapped in my soft Heathman robe, I gaze at the various bags on the bed. Jeez, this must be more than nightwear. Tentatively, I peek into one. A pair of jeans and a pale blue hooded sweatshirt, my size. Holy cow . . . Taylor’s bought a whole weekend’s worth of clothes, and he knows what I like. I smile, remembering this is not the first time he’s shopped for clothes for me when I was at the Heathman.
“Apart from harassing me at Clayton
’s, have you ever actually gone into a store and just bought stuff?”
“Harassing you?”
“Yes. Harassing me.”
“You were flustered, if I recall. And that young boy was all over you. What was his name?”
“Paul.”
“One of your many admirers.”
I roll my eyes, and he smiles a relieved, genuine smile and kisses me.
“There’s my girl,” he whispers. “Get dressed. I don’t want you getting cold again.”
“Ready,” I murmur. Christian is working on the Mac in the study area of the suite. He’s dressed in black jeans and a gray cable-knit sweater, and I’m wearing the jeans, the hoodie, and a white T-shirt.
“You look so young,” Christian says softly, glancing up, his eyes glowing. “And to think you’ll be a whole year older tomorrow.” His voice is wistful. I give him a sad smile.
“I don’t feel much like celebrating. Can we go see Ray now?”
“Sure. I wish you’d eat something. You barely touched your food.”
“Christian, please. I’m just not hungry. Maybe after we’ve seen Ray. I want to wish him goodnight.”
As we arrive at the ICU, we meet José leaving. He’s alone.
“Ana, Christian, hi.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“He was too tired to come back. He was in a car accident this morning,” José grins ruefully. “And his painkillers have kicked in. He was out for the count. I had to fight to get in to see Ray since I’m not next of kin.”
“And?” I ask anxiously.
“He’s good, Ana. Same . . . but all good.”
Relief floods my system. No news is good news.
“See you tomorrow, birthday girl?”
“Sure. We’ll be here.”
José eyes Christian quickly then pulls me into a brief hug. “Mañana.”
“Goodnight, José.”
“Good-bye, José,” Christian says. José nods and walks down the corridor. “He’s still nuts about you,” Christian says quietly.
“No he’s not. And even if he is . . .” I shrug because right now I just don’t care.
Christian gives me a tight smile, and my heart melts.
“Well done,” I murmur.
He frowns.
“For not frothing at the mouth.”
He gapes at me, wounded—but amused, too. “I’ve never frothed. Let’s see your dad. I have a surprise for you.”
“Surprise?” My eyes widen in alarm.
“Come.” Christian takes my hand, and we push open the double doors of the ICU.
Standing at the end of Ray’s bed is Grace, deep in discussion with Crowe and a second doctor, a woman I’ve not seen before. Seeing us, Grace grins.
Oh, thank heavens.
“Christian.” She kisses his cheek, then turns to me and folds me in her warm embrace.
“Ana. How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. It’s my father I’m worried about.”
“He’s in good hands. Doctor Sluder is an expert in her field. We trained together at Yale.”
Oh . . .
“Mrs. Grey,” Dr. Sluder greets me very formally. She’s short-haired and elfin with a shy smile and a soft southern accent. “As the lead physician for your father, I’m pleased to tell you that all is on track. His vital signs are stable and strong. We have every faith that he’ll make a complete recovery. The brain swelling has stopped, and shows signs of decreasing. This is very encouraging after such a short time.”
“That’s good news,” I murmur.
She smiles warmly at me. “It is, Mrs. Grey. We’re taking real good care of him.”
“Great to see you again, Grace.”
Grace smiles. “Likewise, Lorraina.”
“Dr. Crowe, let’s leave these good people to visit with Mr. Steele.” Crowe follows in Dr. Sluder’s wake to the exit.
I glance over at Ray, and for the first time since his accident, I feel more hopeful. Dr. Sluder and Grace’s kind words have rekindled my hope.
Grace takes my hand and squeezes gently. “Ana, sweetheart, sit with him. Talk to him. It’s all good. I’ll visit with Christian in the waiting room.”
I nod. Christian smiles his reassurance, and he and his mother leave me with my beloved father sleeping peacefully to the gentle lullaby of his ventilator and heart monitor.
I slip Christian’s white T-shirt on and get into bed.
“You seem brighter,” Christian says cautiously as he pulls on his pajamas.
“Yes. I think talking to Dr. Sluder and your mom made a big difference. Did you ask Grace to come here?”
Christian slides into bed and pulls me into his arms, turning me to face away from him.
“No. She wanted to come and check on your dad herself.”
“How did she know?”
“I called her this morning.”
Oh.
“Baby, you’re exhausted. You should sleep.”
“Hmm,” I murmur in agreement. He’s right. I’m so tired. It’s been an emotional day. I crane my head around and gaze at him a beat. We’re not going to make love? And I’m relieved. In fact, he’s had a totally hands-off approach with me all day. I wonder if I should be alarmed by this turn of events, but since my inner goddess has left the building and taken my libido with her, I’ll think about it in the morning. I turn over and snuggle against Christian, wrapping my leg over his.
“Promise me something,” he says softly.
“Hmm?” It’s a question that I am too tired to articulate.
“Promise me you’ll eat something tomorrow. I can just about tolerate you wearing another man’s jacket without frothing at the mouth, but, Ana . . . you must eat. Please.”
“Hmm,” I acquiesce. He kisses my hair. “Thank you for being here,” I mumble and sleepily kiss his chest.
“Where else would I be? I want to be wherever you are, Ana. Being here makes me think of how far we’ve come. And the night I first slept with you. What a night that was. I watched you for hours. You were just . . . yar,” he breathes. I smile against his chest.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, and it’s a command. I close my eyes and drift.
I stir, opening my eyes to a bright September morning. Warm and comfortable between clean, crisp sheets, I take a moment to orientate myself and am overwhelmed by a sense of déja vu. Of course, I’m at the Heathman.
“Shit! Daddy!” I gasp out loud, recalling with a gut-wrenching surge of apprehension that twists my heart and starts it pounding why I’m in Portland.
“Hey.” Christian is sitting on the edge of the bed. He strokes my cheek with his knuckles, instantly calming me. “I called the ICU this morning. Ray had a good night. It’s all good,” he says reassuringly.
“Oh, good. Thank you,” I mutter, sitting up.
He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “Good morning, Ana,” he whispers and kisses my temple.
“Hi,” I mutter. He’s up and dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans.
“Hi,” he replies, his eyes soft and warm. “I want to wish you happy birthday. Is that okay?”
I offer him a tentative smile and caress his cheek. “Yes, of course. Thank you. For everything.”
His brow furrows. “Everything?”
“Everything.”
He looks momentarily confused, but it’s fleeting and his eyes widen with anticipation. “Here.” He hands me a small, exquisitely wrapped box with a tiny gift card.
In spite of the worry I feel about my father, I sense Christian’s anxiety and excitement, and it’s infectious. I read the card.
Oh my, how sweet is that? “I love you, too,” I murmur, smiling at him.
He grins. “Open it.”
Unwrapping the paper carefully so it doesn’t tear, I find a beautiful red leather box. Cartier. It’s familiar, thanks to my second-chance earrings and my watch. Cautiously, I open the box to discover a delicate charm bracelet of silver, or platinum or white gold—I do
n’t know, but it’s absolutely enchanting. Attached to it are several charms: the Eiffel Tower, a London black cab, a helicopter—Charlie Tango, a glider—the soaring, a catamaran—The Grace, a bed, and an ice cream cone? I look up at him, bemused.
“Vanilla?” He shrugs apologetically, and I can’t help but laugh. Of course.
“Christian, this is beautiful. Thank you. It’s yar.”
He grins.
My favorite is the heart. It’s a locket.
“You can put a picture or whatever in that.”
“A picture of you.” I glance at him through my lashes. “Always in my heart.”
He smiles his lovely, heartbreakingly shy smile.
I fondle the last two charms: a letter C—oh yes, I was his first girlfriend to use his first name. I smile at the thought. And finally, there’s a key.
“To my heart and soul,” he whispers.
Tears prick my eyes. I launch myself at him, curling my arms around his neck and settling into his lap. “It’s such a thoughtful present. I love it. Thank you,” I murmur against his ear. Oh, he smells so good—clean, of fresh linen, body wash, and Christian. Like home, my home. My threatened tears begin to fall.
He groans softly and enfolds me in his embrace.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” My voice cracks as I try to hold back the overwhelming swell of emotion.
He swallows hard and tightens his hold on me. “Please don’t cry.”
I sniff in a rather unladylike way. “I’m sorry. I’m just so happy and sad and anxious at the same time. It’s bittersweet.”
“Hey.” His voice is feather soft. Tipping my head back, he plants a gentle kiss on my lips. “I understand.”
“I know,” I whisper, and I’m rewarded with his shy smile again.
“I wish we were in happier circumstances and at home. But we’re here.” He shrugs apologetically once more. “Come, up you go. After breakfast, we’ll check on Ray.”
