I think… Ihope…I did.
Chapter Eighty-eight
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Luc
Fear and heartache have a way of aging a person more quickly than the passage of time.
Maggie May looks like she’s aged ten years, thanks to the tired lines around her eyes and the tight look of her mouth as she stares down at her phone and sips what has to be her sixth cup of tepid hospital coffee.
About three o’clock this morning, while we waited outside Cash’s hospital room, she excused herself to the restroom to wash off the face paint and remove her wig. Now the latter is sitting on the floor between her feet, along with my top hat and bow tie. (Strange how things that seemed so fun and festive a few hours ago have now turned tawdry and garish.)
I say we waitedoutsideCash’s hospital room, because the doctors and nurses refused to let us in or tell us anything about his condition on account of us not being his family.
I’m not too proud to admit that my anger got the better of me at one point, simply boiled to the surface and erupted. I ended up shouting at the attending physician, “Maggie May and I are the only fucking family he has!”
It might’ve turned ugly. That damned doctor had a Texas-sized chip on his shoulder. But thankfully, a seasoned nurse was on duty at the time.
She was able to calm me down by assuring me that as soon as Cash’s doctor arrived (apparently, Dr. Beckett was at a medical conference in Atlanta), we’d get our questions answered. She told me Dr. Beckett was catching the first flight out this morning, and we wouldn’t have long to wait.
It was enough to keep me from knocking heads together and probably finding myself in jail. Or, rather,backin jail. But it meant Maggie and I spent the night in hard plastic chairs outside Cash’s room, only getting glimpses of him when the nurses came and went.
This much I know to be true: He hasn’t regained consciousness.
That scares me shitless.
Especially when I think back on how he thought that woman was his mother. How he went down like a ton of bricks and couldn’t seem to move or talk. How he started convulsing and foaming at the mouth.
When the paramedics arrived on the sidewalk and opened his flannel shirt to attach some doodads to his chest, I saw for the first time how skinny he’s gotten. How his ribs show beneath his skin like keys on a xylophone. How his clavicles create divots deep enough to hold a cup of soup. It’s like he lost twenty pounds in the past week. But I’ve been so caught up with Maggie May, so radiantlyhappy, that I haven’t seen how far and how fast he’s fallen.
Guilt is a dog, and it’s been gnawing on me all night long until I feel raw. Ravaged. Until every heartbeat hurts, and every breath is a struggle.
There’s a window at the far end of the hall. Ever since the sun rose, it’s framed a sullen, overcast sky. But now the clouds part, and sunlight streams in through the glass. That golden glow seems out of place considering the dark turn our Carnival celebration has taken. Considering the dark turn Cash’slifehas taken.
“Dr. Beckett called and said he’s on his way up,” a nurse at the station tells us. Her voice is officious, her expression annoyed.
She tried three times to get us to go home, since there was no chance we were getting in to see Cash without Dr. Beckett giving us the all clear (I reckon she didn’t like two folks sitting out in the hall and clogging up the thoroughfare.) But Maggie and I refused to budge. Eventually the nurse got the point and left us alone, although she never stopped sending us dirty looks.
Now Maggie drains the last of her coffee, and I swear what little color remaining in her face drains with it. After stuffing her empty cup in the sleeve of empty cups beside her chair, she takes my hand. Her fingers are icy cold and clutch mine in a desperate grip.
“We’re finally gonna get some answers,” I tell her, trying and failing to smile encouragingly.
“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Her voice is hoarse. “I’m worried we won’tlikethe answers we get.”
She hasn’t cried all night. Not a single tear. But now her eyes are filled with wetness, and I hate that there isn’t anything I can do to stop it from falling. I hate not being able tofixthings.
I pull her into my arms. That’s the only thing Icando. And when I cup the back of her head and turn her face into my neck, I feel the heat of her shaky breath and the warm wetness of her tears.
Her hands curl into the material at the back of my shirt. Even as she clings to me, I cling to her. Neither of us wants to, but we’re both imagining the worst.
Alcohol poisoning? Overdose? Liver failure? Brain hemorrhage?
“I’m so sorry, Maggie May,” I whisper.
“What areyousorry for?” Her voice is muffled.
“I hate seeing you hurting.”
