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She shakes her head. "Tomorrow we're closed for therapy."
"What do you mean?"
"We have a physical therapist come twice a month. She's coming to this hall tomorrow."
"Only twice a month?"
The nurse shrugs. "I have to go but I'll be watching on a monitor." She points to something over my head, and I struggle with the urge to grab her arm and hold her until she tells me something I want to hear.
Somehow, I force myself to turn around and face Cross’s bed. I step over to it, starting to quietly cry as I scan the machines, analyzing the numbers I came to know so well during the first few weeks after the accident.
I check his blood pressure—136/95—and then his pulse—102. The ventilator is taking 24 breaths per minute for him, which means he's hardly breathing on his own at all. I wonder why that is. Maybe they gave him sedatives, so his body can rest and recover.
I stretch out my arm to touch his face, vowing to do something to make this situation better. As I do, the door behind me opens and I turn.
Standing in the doorway is a middle-aged Hispanic woman with her hair pulled into a tight French braid. She's shorter than I am, but everything about her exudes power. "You must be Pushy." She sticks her hand out. "I'm Frankie. And I know this SOB doesn't have a sister."
I balk. "Did you just call him a son of a bitch?"
She shrugs. "Governor's son, hurt himself riding a motorcycle drunk. I could call him worse things, but I'm sorry all the same. You need to get off my floor. Visiting is closed today."
I shake my head. "Not until you tell me what happened."
"I can't do that. What I can do is promise that if you don't leave now, I'll be sure you see the inside of a jail cell."
I put my hand over my chest, unable to believe that this is happening.
"I'll leave," I rasp, "but I have one last question."
She presses her lips together, like a disapproving teacher.
"Do you have N-therapy?" I sound composed, and Frankie's expression loosens a little as her mouth turns down.
"N-therapy?" She looks like she's never heard of it. Of course she hasn't.
"They call it N-therapy. I don’t remember the full name. It stimulates the brain and makes them want to wake up.”
"Neurostimulation therapy." She shakes her head, still brisk but not quite as stern. "I know it helps, but we can't afford to purchase those machines. This is a county treatment facility. Just the basics."
I nod, looking at Cross, and I can feel her hand close around my elbow. "I'm sorry, but visiting is closed. You need to leave."
I nod absently as I step into the hall, vowing Cross will leave soon, too.
Chapter Eight
~ELIZABETH~
It takes me almost an hour to drive to Napa, and the whole time, I feel like I'm in a trance. It's early afternoon on a chilly, gray day when I park my car in the cul-de-sac at the end of Brison Way and walk half a block to the massive gray stone home behind the pointy, black iron gates. Surprisingly, the gates are open, so I walk down the long, cement drive and up the pale staircase Cross jumped off so many times when we were kids.
I hold my fist over the door, wanting to knock with all my might, but decide to ring the bell instead. Seconds pass before one of the massive doors swings open and I find myself staring into the eyes of an unfamiliar, gray-haired housekeeper.
I stand up a little straighter and pretend I'm wearing a designer business suit. “I'm here to talk to Derinda Carlson.”
The housekeeper frowns at me, then puckers her lips and shakes her head. "Mrs. Carlson is unavailable."
I press my lips tightly together. There's no way in hell I'm leaving here without speaking to Cross's mother. "Look, ma'am, I'm a family friend.” I nod behind me. “I recognize her BMW and I know she's here this weekend. Tell her it's one of Cross's friends. I have something of his."
I don't, of course, but I'm hoping curiosity will draw Derinda to the door. I haven't seen much of her since I left for college, but I remember she used to be a vibrant, funny woman—if a little cowed by her powerful husband.
