Book Lovers(85)

“I know it’s scary, being here,” he says. “But this is a good hospital. They know what they’re doing.” His fingers move in soothing, rhythmic circles against the nape of my neck. “This is where my dad came.”

The words sweet guy sear through my mind, like the afterimage left behind by the pop of a camera’s bulb.

That’s what Charlie called his father. A sweet guy. The best person I know.

“What happened?” I ask.

After a protracted silence, he says, “The first stroke wasn’t bad. But this last one . . . he was in a coma for six days.” He watches the progress of his thumb running back and forth over mine. His brow tightens. The day we met, I mistook this expression for surliness, brooding, proof he was as warm and human as a block of marble.

Now all it does is bring out the lost look in his eyes. “This huge, handy guy who can fix anything, build anything. And in that hospital bed, he looked—” He breaks off. I twine my free hand into the hair at the base of his neck.

“He looked old,” Charlie says, then, after a fraught silence, “When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to be like him, and I wasn’t. But he always made me feel like it was okay to be the way I am.”

I cup his jaw and lift his gaze. I wonder if he can see every word in my expression, because I feel them tunneling up from the lowest part of my gut. You’re more than okay.

He clears his throat. “My dad’s alive because of what they were able to do for him here. Between them and you, Libby’s going to be all right. She has to be.”

As if on cue, the doctor, a balding man with a Salman Rushdie goatee and brow, walks out of the exam room. “Is she okay?” I lurch to my feet.

“She’s resting,” he says. “But she gave me permission to speak with both of you.” He nods toward Charlie, who stands, tightening his grip on my hand, anchoring me.

“What happened?” I ask.

In an instant, my mind cycles through every ailment it knows of.

Heart attack.

Stroke.

Miscarriage.

And then it snags: PULMONARY EMBOLISM.

The words repeat. They echo. They reach back to the beginning of my life and forward to the end of it, this outstretched Slinky of a phrase, looping through time, fucking with everything, warping my life in places, ripping through it in others. Pulmonary embolism.

The doctor says, “Your sister is anemic.”

The words slam into a wall. Or maybe run off a cliff—that’s how it feels, like I’ve stepped off a ledge and am hovering before the drop.

“Her body is lacking in iron and B12,” he explains. “So she’s not manufacturing enough healthy red blood cells. It’s not uncommon during pregnancy, and especially unsurprising for someone who’s already dealt with this issue in a previous pregnancy.”

“Libby hasn’t had this before.”

He studies the clipboard in his hands. “Well, it wasn’t as severe, but her levels were definitely low. I spoke with her ob-gyn, and apparently your sister was a bit more stable in her first trimester, but they’ve been keeping an eye on this since the beginning.”

My fingers are tingling again. My brain works to clear the smoke and start a checklist, but it’s just not happening.

“What do we need to do?” Charlie asks.

“It’s pretty simple,” the doctor says. “She’ll need to take an iron supplement, and eat more meat and eggs, if possible. She’ll also want to do the same with B12. We’ll get you a printout on the best sources for those, though I assume she’ll remember from last time.”

Last time.

This has already happened. I didn’t just miss it once, but twice.

“She’ll possibly have to deal with nausea, but having more, smaller meals throughout the day should help. I’d like to see her next week, to make sure she’s doing better, and then after that, she’ll need to have regular checkups with her doctor until delivery.”

That’s manageable. It’s fixable. List-able.

“Thank you.” I shake his hand. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” He smiles, a remarkably warm, patient smile. “Just give her time to rest. The nurse will let you know when you can see her.”

As soon as he’s gone, I feel exhausted, like a thousand-pound weight just lifted off me, but only after hours of carrying it.

“You okay?”

When I look at Charlie, he’s blurry; my vision is distorted.

“Breathe, Nora.” He grips my shoulders, taking an exaggerated inhale. I match it. We stay in sync for a few breaths until the pressure releases. “She’s okay.”

I nod, let him pull me into his chest, wrapping me up tight against him.

I try to tell him I’m just relieved, but there’s no room for words— for logic, reason, arguments. My body’s decided what to do, and it’s this: nothing, in Charlie’s arms.

He buries his mouth against my temple. I close my eyes, letting the waves of relief crash over me.

Gradually, they draw back, and I’m left floating, drifting in a current of Charlie: his faintly spiced scent, the heat of his skin, the fine wool of his light sweater.

A picture of my apartment flickers across my mind. The yellowy-red streetlights catching raindrops on my windowpane, the sound of cars slushing past, the radiator hissing against my socked feet. The smell of old books and crisp new ones, and the cologne whose cedarwood and amber notes are meant to conjure up the image of sun-soaked libraries. The creak of old floorboards, the shuffle of footsteps, half-drunken singing as revelers make their way home from the tequila bar across the street, stopping for dollar slices of pizza dripping with oil.