Every Note Played(68)
She sits until her coffee is stone cold, the cup still full. It’s almost eleven o’clock. Time to face the music. She tosses her cup in the trash, rides the elevator to the ICU, and takes a deep breath before entering Richard’s room.
The back of his bed is partially reclined, so he’s sitting up. He’s awake, looking at her with round, alert eyes. He looks smaller than he did yesterday, his emaciated body disappearing beneath the hospital sheets like a magic trick, the breathing tube and ventilation machine overwhelming his modest mass. The machine clicks and whirs, and Richard’s chest forcefully rises and falls about every three seconds. She eyes the letter board on the table next to his bed and then quickly returns her gaze to Richard’s chest, pretending she didn’t notice it.
She tries to smile. “Has Kathy been here yet?”
He does nothing but stare wide-eyed back at her, and she wonders whether his lack of response means no, he didn’t hear her, or he’s ignoring her.
“Are you still waiting for Kathy?”
He blinks.
“Okay.”
She could wait for Kathy to find out if he’s made a decision. She doesn’t have to ask him. Kathy can do it. That’s Karina’s plan. She sits in the visitor’s chair next to his bed and intends to stay busy on her phone until Kathy appears. Karina scrolls through her newsfeed on Facebook without interest. She’s sitting to his right, and Richard can’t turn his head, but she can feel his eyes on her. She glances up, and his eyes lock onto hers, desperate, begging for communication.
“We’re going to wait for Kathy, okay?”
He stares at her, unblinking.
“Do you want to tell me something before she gets here?”
He blinks.
Shit.
“Do you know what you want to do?”
He blinks.
Her stomach hollows out, and her heart beats in her throat. Reluctantly, slowly, she picks up the letter board. She turns back toward the door, trying to will Kathy’s appearance. No one is there. She turns back to face Richard and holds up the letter board.
“Is the first letter in the first row?”
She waits. Nothing.
“Second row?”
He blinks.
“Is it E?”
“F?”
“G?”
“H?”
He blinks.
“H.”
“Is the second letter in the first row? . . . Second? . . . Third? . . . Fourth?”
He blinks.
“Fourth?”
He blinks.
“Is it O?”
He blinks.
“Okay, H-O. Is the third letter in the first row? . . . Second? . . . Third?”
He blinks.
“M?”
He blinks.
“Home?”
He blinks. A tear falls from his right eye. She pulls a tissue from her coat pocket and blots his face.
“You want to go home?”
He blinks.
But does that mean he wants to have the surgery and go home on a vent or be extubated and go home?
“Do you want the surgery?” she hears herself ask.
He stares at her, eyes wide, tears welling out of both now. He doesn’t blink them away.
“You want them to take the tube out and go home?”
He blinks through wet eyes.
“My God, Richard. You understand what that means, right?”
He blinks, and she is simultaneously relieved and devastated. She bursts into tears, crying hard, alternately mopping his face and hers with the same pathetic tissue.
“I’m so sorry, Richard.” She searches her pockets for another tissue, not finding one. “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to call Grace?”
He blinks.
“Okay. She’ll be here. Who else? Your brothers?”
His eyes remain steady.
“Bill?”
He blinks.
“Trevor?”
He doesn’t blink.
“Okay. Me, Grace, and Bill. Anyone else?”
He stares through his shiny, wet eyes straight into hers. She wipes her nose with the damp tissue and sniffs.
“Are you scared?”
He blinks.
“I am, too.”
She sits on the edge of his bed and holds his bony, lifeless hand in hers. She pulls out her shirtsleeve and gently wipes the tears from his eyes and cheeks and then does the same to hers.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
He blinks.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Grace still hasn’t taken her coat off. She’s standing at a remove from the end of his bed, her suitcase by her side. She arrived about an hour ago, coming straight from the airport. Her face is drawn, her eyes steeled, her expression flat and unfamiliar to him. She feels so far away. This is not her normal face. He wants to tell her to come closer and smile, an absurd request even if he could make it given the circumstances, but he wants to see her face the way he loves it most—bright eyes, rosy cheekbones perched high atop each side of an easy smile, happy. He supposes his face, unshaven with a tube inserted into his mouth and taped to his cheek, looks unfamiliar to her, as well.
Karina asked her many questions about classes and her boyfriend when Grace first arrived, but they’ve run out of conversation. Everyone in the room is quiet. Karina is sitting in the chair next to him, her arms crossed tight in front of her chest as if she’s cold. She looks tired, serious, vaguely alert. Kathy is standing by the ventilator, reading something on her phone. Bill sits at the foot of the bed, rubbing Richard’s feet and calves with his warm, strong hands. God bless Bill.