If there was anything at all that kept Mitch from crossing over, it was Violet. She had a silent strength about her; peaceful enough to look at, but her waters were anything but calm.
All of the breathing apparatus was removed at the end of week two, and though Mitch hadn’t woken up yet, he controlled his own functions.
Visiting hours were almost over, and I sent Scarlett, Violet, Mick, and Nino for coffee—it seemed like at any second Scarlett was going to fall asleep and not wake up for a week. Hospitals tended to suck the energy straight from her core. She felt too much.
Violet, on the other hand, seemed to have endless energy, feeling too little, concentrating on getting by minute by minute.
I took the uncomfortable chair next to the bed, facing Mitch, but not looking at him. My head hung low, my hands together.
“It’s time to get up, Lewis,” I whispered. “You’re being an ass, making everyone wait like this.”
He said nothing, and I had the sudden urge to take him by the hospital gown and shake him awake. His face had gone pale, stark against the darkness of his hair, and gaunt with too much sleep and not enough life. Dark circles had formed underneath his eyes, making him seem almost fragile.
I could see the boy he used to be—the one who howled at the moon when we went for midnight rides on our bikes—and it made me want to shake him even harder while my heart fell apart.
My eyes roamed along the expanse of his motionless body, and another piece of my heart dislodged from its place. One leg was longer than the other, the blanket outlining the gaping difference. His left leg ended after the knee. I closed my eyes, not ready to face the reality of it all.
One of the nurses came in and fiddled with the machines. “Fifteen minutes,” she whispered. “Then visiting hours are over.”
I looked up at her—she was young, full of makeup and perfume, and she smiled at me, blinking her lashes.
“You’re very quiet.” She smiled. “I’ll let you stay a little longer, if you want. It can’t hurt.”
“I appreciate it,” I said.
She nodded. “Your wife—is she your wife?”
Maybe I’d missed part of what she said. “Which woman?”
She stared at me a beat too long. “The silver-haired woman?”
“No,” I said. “My wife’s hair is darker. She’s in and out of here, too.” These nurses had seen us all before. This one included.
“Oh.” She paused for a moment. Something crossed her face—embarrassment—and then she flushed. “He’s lucky to have so many people who care.”
I nodded, adding nothing else. After a stretch of silence that seemed to go on too long, she left us in peace again.
“Even—even on my death bed they overlook me for you,” a voice croaked. “How’s that for treatment? Get out of my room so I can get some attention.”
It took me a moment to realize that Mitch had said the words. His mouth worked, but the voice seemed strange, drowsy and hoarse from disuse.
“’Bout time,” I said, reaching out for his hand. He held on to mine with a strength that belied his state. His skin was cold, and it gave me a deep sense of unease. “You made us wait long enough. Selfish bastard.”
He sent me a half-cocked smile. “The sponge baths were worth it.”
“Tell Violet that.”
“She’s here?”
“You couldn’t pry her out with a fucking screwdriver.”
“Shit. Maybe I should let go and die. It’d be much easier than facing her.”
Despite the burning in my eyes, I grinned. Once the initial shock wore off, Violet was going to bust his ass. If it was one thing a woman hated, it was when a man made her afraid by jeopardizing his life—whether intentional or not.
“Hey, Fausti?”
“Yeah, Lewis.”
