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“FELICITY! What did you do! WHAT DID YOU DO!” he hollered, lifting me in one hand and taking his phone with the other.
He looked so panicked, his eyes wide, frantically trying to hold me up when in all honestly I couldn’t feel legs anymore. The darkness started to close in, but that was fine; I only saw him because of it. It was like my eyes were zeroing on one thing: him.
“My… n… no... te… book… see.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
So Many Regrets
Theo
Four and a half hours.
That’s how long it’d been since the ambulance brought her to Mercy Hospital. One moment we had been fighting, the next she was in my arms, convulsing. I should have never left that room. I should have—
There were a thousand things I wished I had done differently that night. They had pumped her stomach when she first came in and now they wanted to run some initial test. I honestly wasn’t sure what they were saying. I just nodded to the nurses and waited…and waited. It felt like all I was good for was waiting at this point.
“Mr. Darcy?” I stood up when a young black female doctor no more than five feet tall approached.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Dr. Knight. You came in with Ms. Ford? Are you partners?”
“Yes. Is she all right?”
“We put her to sleep.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, falling back in the chair. Thank god.
“We noticed on her chart that she’s listed as being schizophrenic. Do you know when she was diagnosed?”
“She was sixteen, I believe.”
The woman frowned, taking a seat in front of me.
“Is something wrong?”
“When did she start taking the Clozaril?”
I shrugged. “Three weeks. She started again when she went to Crossroads.”
“Did she have nausea before that or headaches maybe?”
“I don’t know about the nausea, but she complains about headaches. I’m sorry, what are you getting at here?”
“Mr. Darcy,” she sighed. “Felicity doesn’t have schizophrenia. I’m afraid she’s been misdiagnosed.”
“What?” I gaped. “Maybe you’re mistaken. Three weeks ago, she thought she had spent six years living with two roommates that don’t exist. Now you’re telling me she’s fine.”
“She’s not fine. She has a brain tumor. We believe we can operate, and my guess is she’s been living with this since she was sixteen. The Clozaril wasn’t helping but actually further disturbing the chemical imbalance in her head.”
Confusion and anger. That’s all I felt.
“Let me get this straight. No one realized this? How is that possible? She’s been suffering for years from a tumor that could have been taken out?”
“I understand you’re frustrated—”
“I’m not frustrated. I’m pissed off! How did this happen!”
