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“Who?”
“The baby,” I snapped. I followed her through a double set of doors to the exam room hallway.
“I’m so sorry, Josh.” Ashton stopped, turning to me. “We did the best we could.”
I nodded, my knees threatening to give out under the weight of the sadness. We did the best we could. The words played on an endless loop in my mind. Did we? Was there more we could have done? I should have stopped her from walking out on me. I should have listened when she told me she was upset instead of dismissing her as irrational. My life with Avery was everything I’d ever dreamed of, and I had let it slip through my fingers.
My feet stopped shuffling, and I realized Ashton had guided me to one of the doors that lined the hallway, each hiding a tragedy behind it.
“It’s going to be all right,” Ashton reassured me.
I nodded, knowing it was a lie. I’d uttered that phrase to so many fathers and husbands. They were just words staff felt compelled to say to relieve our own guilt. It wasn’t easy to feel helpless when helping was the primary function of our jobs. If we couldn’t help, what good were we?
I pushed open the door to where Ashton had led me. Words wouldn’t change the outcome.
Avery lay on the bed looking as if she’d fallen asleep. Her blonde hair splayed against the white pillow, a purplish bruising marring her skin just below her hairline.
Monitors beeped around me in a steady rhythm as I wrapped my hand around hers, squeezing her fingers gently as if she were so fragile, she would crumble and slip from my grasp. The first of many sobs racked through my body as I let my tears fall onto the white blanket covering her.
“I should have never let you leave.”
I pressed my lips to the back of her hand before holding her soft skin against my cheek, letting my eyes fall closed so I could picture her smiling on our wedding day.
“I hate seeing you like this. I hate seeing you in pain. I’m going to add it to the list, okay?” I attempted a smile, feeling as broken as the rest of me. I combed away a few wayward hairs from her face.
My life with Avery had slipped from a dream into a frightening nightmare, one from which we couldn’t wake up. It was as if we were in limbo, suspended in purgatory. Her eyes moved behind fluttering lashes that never batted open. Her heart rate spiked at whispered I love yous, but never jolted her from her deep slumber. I couldn’t let go of us. I refused to walk away.
I went to her every day and waited. Waited for the impossible, for a sign, for her to look at me … hoping sinners were granted miracles, too.
My eyes felt puffy and raw as I stared out the window. My lunch sat on the table uneaten, and Deb sat in her chair, pretending to read a magazine.
After a knock on the door, two women in white lab coats walked in, attended by a skinny male nurse.
Deb stood. “Avery, these are the doctors I told you about.” She pointed at a brunette with shoulder-length, kinky hair. Her full lips were glossed with a nude shade, complementing her dark, warm skin. “This is your neurologist, Dr. Livingston.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
Deb gestured to a short, squat woman with warm hazel eyes and silver hair. “This is Dr. Brock.”
Dr. Brock was the first to speak, her smile lighting the room. “I’m so happy to meet you, Avery. I’m sure your situation has been very upsetting, but if you don’t mind taking the time to explain, we’re hoping maybe we can help.”
“You can’t help me,” I said, sullen.
Dr. Livingston stepped forward. “We’d like to try.”
Deb checked my monitors and then nodded to me once.
“Yes,” I said to her, waving her away. “You’ve been here for hours. Go find Quinn.” As soon as I spoke the words, I bit my lip.
Both doctors looked over at my monitors and traded glances.
“I mean,” I said, trying not to cry, “take a break.”
“Who is Quinn?” Dr. Brock asked.
I shook my head, unable to answer.
Deb returned to my side, holding my hand. “Quinn was Josh Avery’s partner before the accident. She remembers Quinn and me having a relationship.”
“Have you?” Dr. Livingston asked.
Deb shook her head and spoke quietly. “No. Never.”
Something about being in a hospital made anything personal impersonal. Bad breath, sexual partners, foot fungus, vaginal odor, gastrointestinal noises, even past relationships and bad habits were no longer private, they were health history. In a hospital, doctors were priests, and anything less than cleansing your soul was an act of aggression against your wellbeing. Or, in this case, Deb must have felt she would be acting against mine.
Dr. Livingston gestured to her nurse. He left for a moment and then returned with two chairs. The doctors took a seat at the end of my bed.
“It would be interesting to ask her questions during a MEG,” Dr. Livingston said.
Dr. Brock nodded, still staring at me with that deceivingly warm smile. “And your memories of Josh span back nearly two years?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling more like an experiment than a patient.
Dr. Brock was trying hard to seem interested in helping me, but I could see them planning their articles in The New England Journal of Medicine. I had been guilty of the same excitement and curiosity the doctors had in their eyes. We were healthcare professionals, and day in and day out, we saw many of the same ailments. Seeing something atypical was exhilarating. That interest didn’t mean I couldn’t empathize, but it was a struggle to balance one against the other—a struggle the doctors were losing.
