Page 25 of Go Back to December

But I’ve spent enough time in hospitals to know that if I tell them we’re not related, I’ll get no information on Baz’s condition. And there may be no one to advocate for him.

“How is he?” I twist my right hand over my left to hide my empty ring finger.

“He has a mild concussion, but everything looks fine on the CAT scan.”

The relief makes me feel nauseous.

“He has a dislocated kneecap,” the doctor continues. “We want to ensure there are no torn ligaments or tendons. He’s next in line for an MRI. We’ll have more information about treatment when we get the results.”

“Can I see him?”

The doctor glances down at the chart. “Given the late hour and concussion, we’re going to admit him. Once we get him a room, I’ll have someone take you up.”

He tilts his head. “I understand you were also a victim of the assault.”

Another inappropriate giggle rises from my throat. Even though it was in Baz’s defense, I inflicted the most harm against him tonight.

“It can help to talk about it. I can call someone,” the doctor adds.

“I’m okay, really. Baz took the bigger hit.”

“We’ll get you to him as soon as we can.”

When he leaves, a stillness descends, one of those eerie lulls that’s so creepy, I want to run outside into the chilly night.

A nurse finally informs me they’ve assigned Baz a bed and offers to escort me there. With each floor we pass in the elevator, cold seeps further into my bones.

She turns down a dark corridor and guides me into a vacant room. It has all the obligatory hospital internment features: an ancient TV mounted on the wall; yellowing curtains to separate patients; high-backed plastic chairs. When I get a glimpse of the empty, white-sheeted adjustable bed, the shivers seize hold of me.

“Oh, honey, let me get you a blanket.”

At her urging, I sit. The plastic chair squeaks beneath my weight.

“I bet your blood sugar’s taken a dip,” she says. “I’ll get you some crackers and tea.”

It’s a small kindness, but I wrestle back tears. I hate being here, hate this uncertainty that presses on my chest, reminding me of the horrors of my father’s illness. Struggling to sleep while drowning out the sound of other people’s conversations and wet coughing. Eating nothing but the occasional packet of empty calories from the vending machine. Ruminating over home care plans that were never put into place. Because my father never made it out of the hospital.

The nurse returns with a thin blanket and a cup that is equal parts sugar and lukewarm mint tea. I can only manage a sip before the scent makes me think of Baz and cold evergreens and what will happen if this endless night ever turns into morning.

My heartbeat trips around. I need to take my mind somewhere else. Away from the memories of empty hospital rooms.

I dig out my phone and charger, pull up an ocean sounds app, and slip in my headphones. My eyelids grow heavy, and the sound of the ocean pulls me down into the dark.

A beam of light falls warm on my face before a pulsing rattle forces me to open my eyes.

I blink at a nurse wheeling a cart over to a dark corner, where Baz occupies the bed. The nurse takes his blood pressure and checks the other machines attached to him. She glances over at me and mouths, Pain meds, with a smile, as some explanation for why he hasn’t moved.

In the dim light, I clock a scratch and a slight bruise on the side of Baz’s temple where his head hit the landing. Relaxed in medicated slumber, the contours of his face are soft and alluring. Dark stubble outlines the perfect shape of his jaw. His broad shoulders strain beneath the thin hospital gown. A NASA-level brace locks his right knee in place, and two moon boots strap his feet together around a foam cone. It’s a lot of complex orthopedic technology just to immobilize him.

As I anticipate the expression that will cross his face when he wakes and discovers his entrapment, a deep ripple of joy runs through me.

But as my attention drifts back up to the bruise on his forehead, the absence of tension on his beautiful brow, I want to brush his hair back and have him grab onto my hand, like he did last night. The tenderness of the thought eats at me.

Now that I’ve seen him, and he’s as well as I could hope for, I can leave. Escape this place and the terrible memories it stirs, and the repercussions of what happened between us at the station.

As I reach for my bag, the light from the flimsy blinds slices through the window. Baz’s eyes creep open. His gaze is foggy at first, but it focuses quickly.

On me.