Fidelity (Infidelity #5)(36)
“Yes,” the angel said, “I’m sorry. You’re going to be sore.”
“Sore?” I was sore in heaven?
She encouraged me to drink. “Drink slowly. Only a little. We need to take it easy. Your stomach hasn’t been accustomed to anything for a while.”
I nodded as I sucked and listened, enjoying her gentle tone.
When she pulled the straw away, she smiled. “Ms. Montague, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Eva Rossi, your doctor.”
“M-my doctor?” I tried to recall. Dr. Beck was my doctor and then the other one… Dr. Mills or Miller. I couldn’t remember. “You’re not an angel?”
She laughed a joyous melody. “No, thank goodness, we kept you here on Earth with us for a little while longer.”
As she checked the monitors, I truly looked at the room around me. It was beautiful with beige walls and lovely woodwork. There were wooden shutters over the large windows, opened slightly, allowing sunshine to enter between the slats. There was even another bed, a big one and chairs. It was a suite, not like any hospital room I’d ever seen. When she came back around to me and nodded, I asked, “Where am I?”
“Ma’am, I think I’ll let your husband explain that to you.”
The beeps near my bed accelerated. “My husband? Where has he taken me? What’s happening?”
Dr. Rossi reached again for my hand. “Ms. Montague, no. I’m sorry. I know you’re not married. It was our story. I’ll let him explain. Before I get the others, who I’m certain will be happy to see you awake and talking, can I ask you some questions?”
“My husband brought me here?”
“No, not really. How are you feeling?”
I took a deep breath and winced. “I hurt.” Although I did, a smile crept over my face. I was talking. My mind and lips were working together in a way they hadn’t done in what seemed like weeks. I went on, “I’m sure you know from my records that I have a history of migraines, but it isn’t my head that hurts.” I tilted my head toward the windows. “Even the sunshine isn’t bothering me. It’s my sides, my ribs. They’re tight.”
“Ma’am, what do you remember?”
I pursed my lips, trying to fill in the blanks. “I was talking to Jane. That’s the last thing I remember… Oh, they made her leave.”
“Jane? Was she someone at Magnolia Woods?”
I scrunched my nose. I’d heard that name before. “I’m not sure what that is, but it sounds familiar. No, Jane is my…” I suddenly worried what had happened when they made her leave my room. “…she’s my friend. I want her. Can she come here?”
The doctor shrugged. “I’m sure she can.”
I shifted on the bed. “My mind seems clearer.”
“Clearer than…?”
I shook my head, recalling the memories of Oren. “I think I was hallucinating or recalling a time long ago, but now things aren’t as fuzzy.”
“That’s very good to hear,” she said as she reached for her phone and typed. “I’m also not surprised you don’t recall anything more recent. That’s very common.”
“More recent?” I asked. “What happened?”
“Ma’am, during transport from Georgia, your heart stopped.”
From Georgia? My heart?
“I-I… I’m not in Georgia?” I reached for my chest. “My heart. I died?”
Dr. Rossi’s smile widened. “You’re here. There are different definitions of clinical death. While your heart stopped, your brain continued to work. We shocked your heart and performed CPR; that’s why you’re sore.”
It was so much to comprehend. “This is real? If I’m not in Georgia, where am I?”
The door opened. In that second, my reality and fantasy collided. Dreams became real as the most handsome blue eyes I’d ever known met mine. In less time than could register, his expression went from urgency to adoration and finally to anguish.
“O-Oren?” His name fell from my lips as I prayed I wasn’t hallucinating.
Hesitantly he took a step toward the bed. He seemed real. The doctor was still there, but then he asked her to leave us. His deep voice reverberated through the suite. I sighed as Dr. Rossi answered him, confirming he wasn’t in my mind.
She answered questions and nodded toward me. Their words weren’t registering as I fought to understand and then the door shut and we were alone.
“Amore mio, I’m sorry.”
My sore chest clenched, not only at his endearment, but also at hearing the voice I hadn’t heard in years. Just as it always had, the timbre rumbled like thunder from his lips to my soul.
“Oren, is this real? Are you really here? Where am I?”
He took another step closer and stilled. In his characteristic gestures, he motioned about the room. “It’s not what you’re used to, but this is my home.”
I tried to comprehend. “Your home? I haven’t seen you—”
He came closer, each step slower than the one before as if he were afraid I would tell him to leave. “I’ve seen you,” he said, “every night in my dreams, every night since we parted.”
I again looked about the suite. “H-how did I get here?”