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Lost him.
This was when I noticed her. Coming into the waiting room—coming back into the waiting room—holding a tray of insipid cafeteria food. And looking worried in the way only a mother could when her child was in danger.
Emily.
She drilled me with a look. She drilled me with such a look of consternation that when she remembered herself enough to give me a small smile, I knew that not only wasn’t everything forgiven between us, maybe none of it was.
And still, she cleared her throat. “We’ll be here when you come out,” she said.
It was all I could do not to rush her right then, and collapse into the tears that I refused to let come.
“I appreciate that,” I said. Then I turned back to Cheryl and Jesse. “Which way?”
Jesse pointed, and I went.
Griffin woke up slowly, and I moved from the chair where I had been sleeping to the side of the hospital bed.
He opened his eyes, trying to focus. Until he was looking at me, confused. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey . . .”
I bent down—half kneeling, half standing—an awkward half position, so we were exactly at eye level.
“They called you?” he said.
“Yes,” I said, talking low, matching his voice, trying not to look too hard at him. It felt like its own betrayal to look too hard, especially this close, at how he looked lying there. More than the tubes or the other tubes or the oxygen mask. More than the heartbeat of a machine, connected to him. His skin so pale, his green eyes weak and wrong. And I started to understand it then—what made Griffin, Griffin. That light coming off of him. What happened when it went missing.
He closed his eyes again. “I told them not to call you,” he said.
I felt that in my chest, like a punch. I got it, of course. He didn’t want this to be the reason I was back. He didn’t want this to be how I decided anything. Was this the right time to tell him it wasn’t? That I’d already decided? I didn’t think so. Because it wasn’t just about that. Maybe he’d already decided he wanted something else himself.
“Do I still get to get in?”
His nodded. “Sure.”
I slipped into bed beside him, lying down, holding closely there, my face against his chest. Listening to his heart, which seemed slow to me. But what was my basis of comparison? Why hadn’t I paid attention before, so I’d have one? This seemed, suddenly, like the most brutal thing of all.
“Do you remember what happened?” I asked.
“Some of it,” he said. “Like . . . I do remember the best and the worst thing.”
I looked up toward him, my chin still resting right there—resting on his chest again. “Really?” I said.
He nodded. “I went to the restaurant early Monday morning. A little before seven A.M. To try to do some inventory.”
“So that’s the worst?”
“That’s the worst,” he said.
“And what’s the best?”
“I didn’t have to do inventory.”
I felt myself start to smile, turning so my cheek was resting against his chest. Almost lost him. Cheryl’s words echoing in my head, loudly, making it hard not to turn the smile into tears. Right there. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I wasn’t going to let myself cry.
“That is a good thing,” I said.
“I definitely thought so.”
