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I pull in a deep breath and roughly blow it out. This is the first time I’ve spoken to her. Or rather, the first time I’ve spoken to her while awake. I always know in my dreams they aren’t real, but this right here is. She’s so real I can actually touch and smell her.
“You always ask me where I am and to help you, but I don’t know what you want me to do. How am I supposed to help you? And why is it my dreams that you visit?”
I look down at the hand I’m still tracing and see the contrast between hers and mine. Whereas she’s pale and soft, I’m tanned and rough. My hand would engulf hers if we were to ever hold hands. I have no doubt an easy squeeze from me would crush her fingers.
“When you scream, as if in pain, I feel it. I feel it all over, Jules, like your pain is somehow mine. Why is that? I’ve never seen you before.” I lift my eyes back to her. “I used to be so angry about the dreams, because they kept me up at night, all because of someone I didn’t know existed. Now, though, I welcome them, because I get to see you. Now that I know you are real, I feel drawn to you. I want to see you, and touch you, and breath in your wildflower scent. I want you to open your eyes, so I can see if they are the same bright amber as in my dreams.”
Flipping over her hand, I trace the light blue lines of her veins barely seen under her skin. My mind wanders to places it has no right wandering to. Places that make me feel like a fucking pervert, because the woman is in a damn coma. Like what it would feel like to have her hands touch me. Or how her breath would feel against my neck. And if her body would mold to mine if I were to wrap her in my arms.
Disgusted with my train of thought, I put down her hand and lean back in the chair. The drawer in the small nightstand catches my eye. I pull it open and find a small bag inside. I’ve got no business snooping, but I do so anyway. Pulling the bag out, I look at the contents through the plastic. It looks like a necklace.
Pulling the bag open, I dump the contents in my hand. A delicate gold chain and locket falls into my palm, along with a ring.
When I open the locket, there’s a picture of Jules and a young child on one side. Jules is younger than she is now, mid-teens maybe, and for the first time since she started appearing in my dreams, she has a smile on her face, deep dimples in each cheek. The picture is small, but her smile is big and natural. Warm-looking, like she was happy at the time the picture was taken. The kid, a girl, looks to be three or four and shares Jules’s smile. They look a lot alike. A sister, maybe? The other side is empty.
Gathering the chain in my fist, I look at the ring next. It’s silver and looks simple and inexpensive, but still beautiful. The front half of the ring appears to be twine woven together with a small diamond peeking out of the knot. The back half is just a band.
Flipping it around, I look at the inside and see an inscription.
Infinite.
It looks like a wedding ring.
I slip it on my pinky, feeling the cold metal against my skin. It only goes to my first knuckle, proving just how small her fingers are compared to mine. I look up at Jules and wonder for the hundredth time who she is. If this ring and necklace were in her personal items bag, then that means she must have been wearing them when she was brought into the hospital. Which indicates she’s married. Where is her husband? Has he given up on Jules in her comatose state? Has he already moved on?
The thought of her husband leaving her here all alone, whether she’d know the difference or not, sends white hot anger rushing through my veins. It makes me want to hunt the bastard down and beat the shit out of him. No matter how many years passed, if my wife still drew breath, I’d never leave her. I’d take my vows of sticking with her through sickness and health very seriously. That’s what you do when you get married. It’s a legally binding contract, but it’s also an emotional one.
I slip the ring from my finger and put it back in the bag along with the necklace, making sure to zip it closed before putting it in the drawer. I’m sitting back in my chair when the squeak of shoes has me turning my head just as a nurse walks into the room.
When she spots me sitting there, a smile stretches her lips. Then she thoroughly confuses the hell out of me.
“Hey, Mr. Hendrix. I didn’t expect to see you today. And, oh my, you’ve cut your hair.”
My brows slash down into a frown. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t you normally come in on the first Tuesday of the month?” she asks, looking confused herself. “Or maybe it’s a Wednesday. This brain isn’t as young as it used to be.” She finishes on a laugh and walks over to the monitor by the bed.
I get up from the chair, taken aback by how she knows my name and why she thinks I’ve visited those days. She makes it sound like I’ve been doing it for a while.
“Who do you think I am?” I ask her back as she disconnects one of the empty bags from a hook at the head of the bed. She doesn’t answer until she’s hung a fresh one.
She turns and looks at me like I’ve lost half my marbles. “Her husband, of course.”
I jerk back.
Say fucking what?
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I tell her gruffly, still in shock she would think I’m Jules’s husband. “But you must have me confused with someone else.”
She frowns. “I don’t understand.”
I point my finger to Jules. “I’ve only met this woman a few days ago.”
Shaking her head before I complete the sentence, she insists, “That can’t be true. She’s your wife and you’ve been visiting her since you had her moved here months ago.” She takes a step closer to me at the end of the bed, a look of concern marking her face. “Are you feeling okay, Mr. Hendrix?”
What the fuck is with her knowing my last name?
“Wait.” My eyes narrow when a thought occurs. “What’s her husband’s first name?”
