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“Absolutely. Be right back …”
Miranda hurries out the door, and I’m alone.
If I close my eyes, the room spins, but I can picture my wife with impeccable lucidity—the square line of her jaw, her heart-shaped lips that flip up in the corners, the candy-apple green of her eyes.
My heart aches, though it isn’t a physical pain, it’s deeper.
More profound.
Like the drowning of a human soul.
I remind myself that the doctor said it’s normal to be disoriented, and I promise myself everything will come back to me once I get my bearings.
The clock on the wall reads eight minutes past seven. The sky beyond the windows is half-lit. I haven’t the slightest clue if it’s AM or PM. I couldn’t tell you what day it is or what month it is for that matter.
“Mr. James, your sister is on her way,” the nurse says when she returns.
She hands me a white paper cup with two white pills.
So much fucking white.
If I never see white again after this, I’ll die a happy man.
* * *
“Oh my God …” Claire stands in the doorway of my hospital room, her hands forming a peak over her nose and mouth. From here, she’s nothing more than a mess of dark waves and shiny, tear-brimmed eyes.
She looks like shit, but I’m in no place to judge. Nor would I tell her that. She’d kick my ass, hospital bed or not. Claire may be pixie-sized, but she’s scrappy.
Her neon green sneakers graze against the tile floor with muted shuffles as she hurries to my side, and she wastes no time sliding her cold hand into mine. Her hands are always cold, but in this moment, they’re icy—a staunch reminder that I’m far from the warmth of the beach and the place I existed mere moments earlier.
“Of course you’d wake up the one time I stepped out.” She forces a smile, but she looks at me the way a person looks at a ghost—uncertain if what they’re seeing is real.
“How long have I been here?”
Her brows meet as she shrugs out of her jacket and drops her bag on the floor. “Thirty-three days. Thirty-three terrifying days …”
“What the fuck happened?”
She retrieves a guest chair and pulls it next to me, only in true Claire fashion, she opts to perch on the side of the bed instead.
“You were on one of your weird little weekend rental car drives where you go God knows where … and we think you were maybe driving back to the Enterprise in Newark on a Sunday night.” She gathers a long, slow breath. “Someone crossed the median on the 495 and hit you head-on—a drunk driver.”
“Jesus.”
“They didn’t live … in case you’re wondering.” Her voice is pillow soft. “Luke is working on getting a settlement from their insurance company for you, but these things take time.”
We wallow in silence, and I let the gravity of the situation take hold. The settlement is the least of my worries at this point.
“It’s a miracle you survived after all of your injuries.” Her lower lip trembles, and she picks at a hangnail. “You lost a lot of blood … your brain was so swollen… they had to put you into a coma … I called Mom and Dad … but I haven’t heard back …”
I place my hand over hers, pain shooting up my shoulder.
Her dark eyes are marred with sadness and relief, but she forces a tight half-smile.
“Have you talked to my wife yet?” I ask.
Claire’s smile fades, and her expression morphs into the same one plastered on the faces of the nurses earlier.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I sniff. “Is she okay? What … was she with me in the car when that happened?”
My stomach sinks as her eyes search mine.
My God.
That’s it.
She was with me and she didn’t survive …
“Cainan, you don’t have a wife.” Her words are careful and deliberate, and her head tilts and her gaze narrows as she surveys me.
“Of course I do.” My hands ball into fists, though the grip is weak, pathetic.
“You’re confused.” She lifts her hand to my forehead, brushing away a strand of hair like a mother comforting her child.
I push her away.
She rises and takes a step back. “You had a head injury …”
“I saw her, Claire. I was just with her.” My jaw is locked, and I speak through clenched teeth. The more I recall being with her, the more it begins to slip away like an elusive dream that fades with each waking minute.
“You saw her where?”
“At our summer home in Calypso Harbor.”
My sister stifles a laugh. “Cain, it’s March. Your accident was in February. And you don’t have a summer home in Calypso Harbor—you make fun of people with summer homes. Like all those assholes at your firm. You always say you’re never going to be like them. Plus, where even is Calypso Harbor? I’ve never heard of it … have you? Whatever you’re remembering … was probably a dream.”
