After another two unanswered calls to Candace, a nurse came in with discharge paperwork. She passed me a bag and then went to rouse Brady to have him sign some things.
I looked inside the bag to find his cell phone, keys, and wallet. And, in the corner, nestled in among a handful of pocket change, was the letter D from my keyboard.
My hands shook as I closed the bag and held it to my chest.
Brady was smiling at the nurse, and they were laughing over something. I couldn’t make it out over the beating of my heart.
Finally, the woman met my gaze. “Want to pull your car around, and I’ll meet you out there?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied and stood on shaky feet.
Brady lowered himself into the wheelchair without complaint. He looked tired and sore but kept up the charm for the nurse’s benefit.
We got him settled into my passenger seat. He seemed much steadier as he buckled himself in.
We didn’t speak on the short drive to his apartment. I peeked at him every two seconds to make sure he was breathing, but I couldn’t find any words to say. There were too many bouncing around in my head. Most notable wereI was so fucking scaredandHow dare you get yourself hurt, closely followed byThis isn’t fairandI didn’t know it would feel like this.
Brady was quietly amused as I insisted on supporting him up the stairs. And he looked on as I removed his keys from his bag of personal effects and unlocked his front door.
He took two acetaminophen and drank half a glass of water under my careful supervision. Then, I set an alarm on my phone for every two hours. Not that I imagined I would sleep anytime soon. But just in case the adrenaline wore offand I found myself inadvertently passed out in Brady’s apartment, I wanted to make sure I did my duty to check on him throughout the night.
Brady changed into a fresh tee shirt and sleep pants, and I draped the covers over his body.
He gave me a drowsy grin and snagged my hand before I could pull away. “Thank you for taking care of me, Macklemore.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, giving in to the urge to brush his hair back from his forehead.
“Anytime you want to break out the naughty nurse uniform, that’s fine by me.”
A surprised laugh shot out of me. His smile widened even as his eyes drifted closed and his body relaxed into the mattress.
My amusement quickly morphed into something else—something desperate and relieved as my brain catalogued the variety of emotions I’d cycled through in the last few hours like a children’s flipbook.
My throat closed up, and I had to put my hand over my mouth and leave the room before Brady heard me sob noisily into my palm.
I paced his apartment, examining the pictures on the wall and the books on his shelf. I flipped through his photo album from his summer abroad, the images familiar by now. I traced the edges of his smile as he stood in front of theNike of Samothraceor took a selfie with theMona Lisa.
By the time my phone vibrated in my pocket around two a.m., I’d probably peeked in on Brady thirty-five times.
I woke him gently by rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. I asked him his name and his favorite ice cream.
“You just wanted to make fun of my love for pistachio ice cream,” he grumbled into his pillow. And I smiled into the dark.
I spent the next two hours on what had become my side of the bed. But I didn’t sleep. With my legs stretched out in front of me, I sat up against the wooden headboard and watched the slow rise and fall of Brady’s chest. At one point, he rolled over and draped his arm over my thighs, snuggling his face against my hip.
When I woke him again, I asked him to confirm his birthdate and the name of our high school.
He blinked slowly up at me, and worry had me straightening. Was he getting worse? Did he not remember?
Then he said, “November 22, 1995.”
But instead of answering the second question, he closed his eyes and gave me another loopy grin. “You had these jean shorts. These little cutoffs with the fringe on the bottom."
“Uh, yeah.” The fear I’d been feeling intensified. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table, ready to search worsening concussion symptoms and when to return to the hospital.
But then Brady continued, voice slurred and sleepy, “They used to drive me crazy. I had dreams about them, Mac. Horrible, wonderful dreams. Teenage Brady lived in torment anytime you wore those shorts.”
My eyes drifted from my screen to scan his features. “Does your head hurt? Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”
