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“How long has it been?” she asked.
“It’s the twenty-ninth of October.” He eyed her cautiously. “You disappeared September thirtieth.”
A month had passed, and she had little recollection of it.
“They had you for two weeks,” he said. “The other two you have spent recuperating here.”
“Where’s here?” Exhaustion crept in fast as numbness overtook her body.
“We’re in Chicago at my sister’s house.”
“Chicago,” she said, vaguely recalling a man telling her that before. She had no energy to make sense of it, especially considering she had already forgotten what she wanted to say in the first place.
* * *
The dim hospital corridor smelled strongly of antiseptic. The suffocating stench of misery hung in the air, thicker than the night before. The feel of death was stronger, the desperation greater. It was a sensation Vincent still hadn’t gotten used to.
The sound of his footsteps bounced off the sterilized walls as he made his way to room 129. Pushing open the door, he stepped inside the darkened ICU room. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he saw his sister curled up in the gray chair. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. Quietly, he grabbed an extra blanket from the cabinet and covered her up. Waking her was pointless—she never went home when he told her to.
He turned to the bed, his blurry, tired eyes inspecting the numerous machines. The steady hum of the ventilator drowned out almost every noise, but the tube that had been taped in Corrado’s mouth the past two weeks was no longer there. He had gotten a tracheotomy overnight, a tube now running straight into the front of his throat. The sight of it made Vincent’s stomach sink.
More complications, one after another. Corrado couldn’t catch a break.
He’d been dead on arrival, but a young ER doctor refused to write him off. After a valiant attempt, they had managed to get Corrado’s heart beating again. It had remained steady since then, but he was in a coma, his body giving no indication it ever intended to wake up.
Vincent watched for a while, feeling helpless and entirely to blame. He couldn’t bear to think of what would happen if Corrado never regained consciousness. But even if he did, Vincent was plagued with the possible side effects. There could be massive brain damage, seizures, or paralysis. If he woke up, he may never be the same.
And that terrified him more than the possibility of the man dying.
Celia stirred, her eyes opening and meeting Vincent’s right away. She sat up, stretching. “How long have you been here?”
“Just a few minutes,” he said. “I would’ve come sooner, but the girl woke up.”
Optimism shined from Celia. It was out of place in the dismal hospital room. “How is she?”
“She’s . . . alive. She has a long road of recovery ahead of her.”
“I bet Carmine’s relieved.”
“He doesn’t know,” Vincent said. “He was at Sal’s.”
Celia cringed. “How did you explain that to her?”
“I didn’t. It’s time for Carmine to handle things on his own. Time for him to be a man.”
“You sound like Dad,” Celia said.
It was Vincent’s turn to cringe, but he kept his opinion to himself. “It’s after seven. You should go home and get some sleep.”
“I already slept.”
Stubborn woman. “Dozing in a chair doesn’t count. If you keep it up, you’ll end up in a bed on the floor below, committed for exhaustion.”
Celia climbed to her feet and pressed a kiss on Corrado’s forehead. “I’ll go home when he can.”
Vincent’s chest constricted as he watched his sister care for her husband, lovingly smoothing his hair and fixing his hospital gown. “What if that doesn’t happen?”
Celia’s shoulders stiffened. “Don’t say that.”
