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His eyes shut, and I bite my lip—but again, they flutter open. The blue of his irises looks faded. "I'm sorry," he rasps.
"For what?" My voice cracks, so I have to swallow. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."
His eyes roll back slightly, but his arm is tugging me closer. Still sweating and hardly able to breathe from shock, I lean down and wrap my arms around his shoulders.
"It's okay," I whisper against his cheek. I'm rubbing his back, wanting to be sure that he knows someone loves him. Someone misses him. "I'm sorry, too. We're friends again. You're my best friend. Stay here with me, please."
I hear him swallow. Then his eyes are fluttering again, his eyelashes like butterflies against my face. They're closing as he says, "Stay…”
The soft word is the last thing that I hear before a nurse bursts into the room, and Cross is gone again.
*
The rest of the week passes slowly. I'm spending a lot of my time in mandatory group study sessions, which I definitely don't need in order to understand and apply our class material. If I wanted to spend all my time with other people, I'd have joined a think tank, not signed on to become an Ethics professor.
I'm grouchy and tired when I come home from campus Friday afternoon, toting a little brass scale for a presentation my Plato & Aristotle group is making to a high school honors class next Wednesday. The project is twenty percent of our grade, and I'm already looking forward to talking to the little twerps.
The driveway at Crestwood Place is almost half a mile long, taking me through a beautiful apple orchard and then around several fields where horses graze. The horses belong to Suri's parents, who are so seriously amazing, at times I pretend they are my own. Trent Dalton is the most modest big-wig computer software dude you could ever meet, and Gretchen is an elementary school counselor, working every day of the work week entirely pro bono. Suri has two sisters, Rachel and Edith, and I spot Edith's white horse, Samson, as I pull into the circle drive directly in front of the house.
I toss my leather pack over my left arm and scoop the scale up in my right. The columned brick home has a wide, stone staircase, and it takes me forever to drag my tired self up it. I press my thumb against the keyless entry and the door pops open immediately—so quickly, in fact, I worry that it wasn't locked. Which is strange since Suri always uses the kitchen door.
I wiggle my cell phone out of the pocket of my baggy Lucky jeans and quickly pull up the emergency services phone number, conveniently stored as No. 2, in honor of the bullshit usually going down with Mom when I have to use it. I'm not sure what scares me most as I slowly step inside: the idea of Crestwood being burglarized like the Dalton's city home has been a time or two, or the images that resurrect themselves inside my mind: visions of my mom lying in a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs or passed out in a pile of Oxy.
Thinking of Oxy—or any drug, for that matter—makes me think of Cross, which makes my heart ache. Really, it's a sharp pain, like I imagine a knife stab would feel like.
After the miracle of Wednesday, I skipped my classes Thursday to be at the hospital with him, convinced he would finally wake up. He squeezed my hand when I asked if he was glad to see me, but that was all. This morning when I called, Nanette sounded weird. When I prodded her about what was up, she said he'd had another N-therapy session and during it, he said my name.
Amazing.
I'm wondering if I can slip in during Nanette's shift tonight when the scent of cinnamon rolls hits my nose.
I race through the foyer, past the spiral staircase, through the formal dining room, and into the massive kitchen like a kid hot off the school bus.
I come to a stop on the rug that spans most of the kitchen with a satisfied smile. Suri, in a pink and green paisley apron, has her back to me. Her curly brown hair is locked away in pigtails, and she looks like she just stepped out of Martha Stewart Living.
My smile disappears when she turns to me.
I hold up my hands, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. "Remember what we said last time with Mom. Just spit it out, Sur. No sugar coating, ‘cause that makes it worse."
I bite down on my lip when Suri's eyes tear and she steps over, closer to me, fiddling with the oven mitt and meeting my eyes with a deep frown. "You're going to be so upset, Lizzy. I am, too."
"Suri, spit it out!"
She wrings her hands and starts speaking on fast-forward. "My mother told me today. She heard from their new housekeeper—she cleans Cross's family's house, too." My stomach takes a nose-dive. "They've dropped him off their insurance. They're not going to pay for his healthcare anymore. They've moved him, Lizzy. This morning, to a state-run place in L.A."
"What?"
Suri's eyes are wet. "Sunshine Acres Assisted Living. It's part of the Los Angeles County Public Hospital System."
"Is that the one my mom went to when she was sentenced for violating her parole? The one with no visiting hours and those shitty double rooms and that bad pee smell?"
Suri bites her lip. "I looked up the hours. Noon to three p.m. Except on Saturday." I feel like I've been punched. Suri sniffs. “It’s closed Saturdays.”
Chapter Five
~ELIZABETH~
I don't know if it's the thought of Cross locked up where I can't get to him or the knowledge that he'll never have the super special come-out-of-your-coma N-therapy again, but something hits me in the chest and a sob slips out my lips.
