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“I suppose I’ll have to punish you for making me wait,” he joked again.
“Okay! If that would help me make amends—then fine,” I said stoically. Then in a more hesitant tone I asked, “What does punish mean to you?”
He curled his lips again, “Ahhh bless Allah above, my female—cease amusing me. It hurts too much.” I kissed his hand again.
“I ache to hold you, my love.”
I studied the small bed and all his tubes and the simple fact his breathing was still incredibly labored. “I don’t see how.”
“Call the doctor. We shall get a larger bed.”
I began to argue the point with him, but he insisted with a quick statement that made my heart swell. “I am King. They will do as I say, or I’ll have their heads.”
My powerful man was still in there, and I knew he was going to be just fine. Eventually.
***
Time passed slowly, but Amir began to get incrementally better. After two more weeks in the ICU, only a nose incubator remained attached to his body. He couldn’t walk on his own, though, and today I was wheeling him around the hospital and to the arboretum. He loved the orchids.
“I do not like you serving me. Why do you insist on this? Let the servants push me.”
“You have to let me be useful or I’ll go insane.”
“I am anxious to walk on my own two feet,” he stated as if it would happen tomorrow. So far the doctors think it will happen, but not for at least a few months, and not without some really intense and, they say, painful physical therapy.
“Your PT starts on Monday,” I told him conversationally.
He grunted and waved his hand. “I learned to walk when I was a baby, this is ridiculous.”
We got to the indoor gardens that I must say are spectacular, and I parked him next to a bench. I sat on the bench and picked up his hand.
“Just do what the doctors say. They think you can make a full recovery if you really work hard.”
He huffed and nodded. “I am not afraid of working hard.”
“I know. But you realize there will be failures along the way? Setbacks and some stuff you will no doubt find humiliating?”
He waved his hand, “We will call it humbling.” Then he grinned, “Nothing could be worse than how I felt when I left you in Boston. I shall survive and endure through this next phase of recovery.” He furrowed his brow and asked, “Are you staying here?”
I froze at his question. I’d been deliberating over whether I should fly home and give birth in the States. My pause made him narrow his gaze. I fumbled through my answer.
“Um, I’ve been trying to decide what to do. I’d like our baby to have dual citizenship, and that won’t be possible if he is born here.”
His face relaxed, “If that is your only concern, I can arrange for a representative from the US embassy to sign off on his birth certificate. At least, I can if we marry.”
“Oh, I had no idea it worked that way.”
“I make it work anyway I please. Or did you forget I rule an entire nation?”
I shrugged again, “I never think of you in those terms. I’m sorry. You realize I’ve never even set foot in your country?”
“This is true. We shall remedy that soon enough. When I have permission to fly home, we will set up in my palace, and I shall do my therapy at home, with you at my side. I am anxious to watch as our child blossoms in your womb.”
I cringed at that statement. “Yeah, there is always that,” I said with a hint of despondence.
“Why are you still anxious about the boy? I consider him the greatest blessing of my life.” He stroked my hair, “To have created a child with a golden beauty such as you? He will be a demi-god.”
I snorted, “He better not be a spoiled brat! If you turn him into a tiny punk, I’ll be really upset.”
