“ . . . coma.” I heard the last word Emma uttered, and struggled to catch up. “I spoke to the doctor today—they initially thought CAS, but since he hasn’t responded to any of the protocols, they just don’t know.”
“CAS?” I managed to ask.
“Central Anticholinergic Syndrome. I know, you and I aren’t surgeons, it’s not our lingo. The anticholinergic meds that cross the blood-brain barrier can cause a reaction in patients—pretty rare these days, and usually the result is an agitated, combative patient, but every now and then, it goes the other way. Noah was that case.”
“But . . . but you said now they don’t know what’s going on?” I managed to choke out the question.
“No. They’re running tests. Brain function appears to be normal. He’s on a vent, but everything else looks fine. His surgeons are frustrated.” She let out a long breath. “I sat next to him for a few hours today, yelling at him and then begging him to wake up. The big old stubborn oaf didn’t even flinch. His parents are here, and two of his brothers—his sisters are on their way. The teams been sitting with him in shifts.”
“I . . .” It occurred to me that now was not the time to tell Emma about my brand-new relationship with her friend. “I’m sorry. He’s a wonderful man. This is just . . . awful.”
“It is,” she agreed. “Nico mentioned that you and Noah had been together at the wedding. I’m sorry that I didn’t even think to call you until now.”
“Oh, no, why would you?” I managed to say. “We were just two single people who sat together at your wedding.”
“Oh.” Emma sounded disappointed. “I was hoping that maybe you’d hit it off. But I guess I should be glad you didn’t. The last thing you need is more bad news, right?”
I frowned. “Um, yeah. True. Listen, Emma, I need to go, but would you do me a favor? Could you let me know if there’s any news on Noah? He was really nice to me, and I hope that everything works out—that he wakes up.”
“I will,” she promised. “To tell you the truth, I’m a little worried about what will happen if—when Noahdoeswake up. The surgeon told his parents that there’s no way he’ll ever play football again. The damage was just too bad. I don’t know how he’s going to process that news.”
I swallowed over a lump in my throat. Like I gave a flying fuck if he could play football—I just wanted the man to open his eyes again, to tease me about something or give me that look that melted my panties right off.
“He’s in my prayers,” I blurted out, simply because I needed to say something, anything, to get her off the phone before I broke down. “Call me when there’s news. Bye, Emma.”
I clicked the end button, dropped the phone onto the desk, and then curled my body into its self, weeping with loud, painful sobs. All of the annoyance and anger I’d been harboring toward Noah this week had evaporated, leaving terror in its wake—terror with an unhealthy side of guilt.
I knew that it was senseless, and that no rational person could ever buy into this theory—but what if I really was a conduit for bad luck? Once was a shame, twice was a fluke, but three times . . . three times, and a girl just had to wonder.
I cried until I’d exhausted myself, and then I crawled over to the couch in my office and fell into a deep, troubled sleep, punctuated by nightmares and an unavoidable sense of dread.
* * *
The daysall bled together until another week had passed, and then, slowly and painfully, another few days. I lived for the occasional text from Emma.
No change. Running more tests.
Docs are trying something today—fingers crossed.
Off vent today—yay! His mom says he’s breathing well on his own. Good news.
When Noah had been unconscious for fourteen days, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I left the office an hour early and drove to the hospital, my still-numb mind on autopilot. Once I was in the parking lot, I sat in my car and called Emma.
“Hey—am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Eh—you know what it’s like here.” She sounded slightly harried. “If it’s not one thing, it’s five others. And that’s on a slow day.”
“I vaguely remember.” I tried to inject a little wry humor in my voice. “Have I mentioned that I don’t miss that?”
“Watch it, babe, there’s talk that we’re going to hire another full-time doc after the first of the year. I might be hitting you up to consider coming back.”
“Oh, Emma.” I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the seat back. “I’m happy that you’ll be able to hire help, but it’s not going to be me. I love what I’m doing now, and I’m not going to move. You need someone who’s still hungry for that kind of work.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” she sighed. “Well, if I can’t lure you to the hospital, can I interest you in coming for dinner this weekend? On Sunday, to be exact? Deacon and I are going to cook. Darcy, Jackson and the kids are coming, and so are Anna and Jimmy. We’d love to have you there, too.”
“Oh . . .” I tried to think of a good reason to say no and couldn’t come up with even one. “Ah, I’ll have to check my schedule when I get back to the office. Can I let you know?”
“Alison, I’m talking about dinner on a Sunday. You don’t have office hours on Sundays. There’s no good reason for younotto come unless you have something like a date. Which sounds unlikely, given our conversation at tea a few months ago. Unless, again, you’ve changed your mind on that topic.”
