“Thank God,” he breathes. He takes a step forward. “You’re all right? You’re truly all right? Say something,” he demands.
“Wyatt,” I reply. “This is Brian.”
—
MY MOTHER USEDto say that bad luck came in threes, and as usual, she was right.
The results of the DNA test.
The plane crash from Cairo to Boston.
And my heart. There is no way for me to come out of this without it breaking.
I explain to Brian that I flew from London to Cairo; that I found Wyatt; that I told him about Meret; that we were coming back to her on the plane that crashed. I thought I was fine, because I had walked away from the wreckage. I hadn’t even been checked out by a doctor yet, because Wyatt was the one with a cut on his scalp that wouldn’t stop bleeding. I was asking an airline representative about flights to Boston when the whole room spun. After that, I didn’t remember anything.
I watch the two men take each other’s measure. Neither of them speaks. Then Wyatt holds out his hand to Brian.
Brian stares down at it. “Are you fuckingkidding?” he says.
My unlikely savior turns out to be a neurosurgery resident, who comes in to check on me and is delighted to find me conscious. Brian and Wyatt retreat to separate corners of the room while the doctor examines me, shining a light in my eyes and asking me questions and pressing down on my toes to test my central nervous system. He explains that I had an emergency craniotomy, after a CT scan showed an epidural hematoma. Surgeons relieved the pressure by removing the blood between the brain and bone in the epidural space. They drilled a burr hole into my skull, elevated a skull flap, evacuated the clot, refastened the skull with tiny titanium plates, and sutured the scalp. I had youth on my side, and the good fortune to collapse at a Level I trauma center, which meant that I’d had immediate care—all of which boded well for a positive outcome. I’d be monitored for two to three days here in North Carolina, but could do follow-up care at a hospital closer to home.
That word again.
By the time he is finished, I am sitting up, the headache is ebbing, and my voice is stronger.
“All in all,” the resident says, “you have a lot to be thankful for.”
He leaves us in happy oblivion, to write notes on my chart at a nurses’ desk somewhere.
I glance at Brian, and then at Wyatt. I swallow. “Wyatt,” I ask. “Can you give us a minute?”
The stricken look on his face nearly breaks me. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says stubbornly. “Just outside the door.” He narrows his eyes at Brian, as if he does not trust him not to hurt me.
When, clearly, it’s been the other way around.
The door snicks shut behind Wyatt. “Brian,” I begin.
He sits down on the edge of the bed. “Dawn, you have a head injury. This conversation…it doesn’t have to happen now.” He pulls out his phone. “But I know someone who’d really like to talk to you.”
He hits a few buttons and before I can protest Meret’s beautiful face blooms on the little screen. “Mom!” she screams. Her smile is a galaxy.
“Hey, baby.”
“Are you okay? What happened to your head? Do you still have hair?”
I fight a grin. “I’mgoingto be okay,” I tell her, and I realize that I will fight anyone and anything to keep this promise to her. “They drilled a hole in me. And I have no idea if I have hair.”
“For real?”
“I could look like a bowling ball under all this gauze,” I say. “Do you think you could stand to be seen in public with me?”
“When are you coming home?”
I flick a glance toward Brian. “In a few days. When the doctors let me.”
The image on the phone tips and whirls and suddenly Kieran’s face swims into view. “Hey,” he says, peering at me through Meret’s computer screen. “Brian said it was an epidural hematoma with mass effect. Sexy.”
“This is why you’re single,” I say, and he laughs.
