Henry Franks(59)

On the bed, Patient X could barely be seen, buried beneath a mass of IV tubes snaking into each arm and leads to the electronic monitors. An implanted defibrillator was the only wireless device in the room; nothing was allowed to interfere with its activities.

As she reached the bed, his eyes opened.

“Hi,” she said, resting the back of her hand on his forehead before letting her fingers trail down his face. “Need to shave you again.”

“I thought—” He coughed, his frail body shaking in the bed. “I thought you liked the beard?”

“Mary says it itches,” she said with a smile. “Me too.”

“Makes her sneeze.” He shrugged. “Then she laughs.”

“Speaking of Mary,” Justine said, “I thought she was in here with you.”

“Just left,” he said, then coughed again. “Sorry.”

“Feeling any better today?”

“Yes,” he said, shaking his head to lessen the meaning. “Maybe?”

She leaned down, resting her face against his cheek. Her voice was soft in his ear. “I love you, Henry.”

Farther down the hospital bed, his fingers fluttered in vain, trying to rise up far enough to stroke her hair, to hold her close. With a harsh sigh of frustration, he dropped his hand back to the bed, hardly having moved it at all.

“I love you too,” he said.

When she looked at him, his eyes were closed, a single tear hanging on one of his few remaining eyelashes. A trail of blood ran from his nose to his lips, the color stark red on his pale skin.

“Your nose is bleeding,” she said, wiping his face with a tissue.

“It’s the medicine.” He laughed, once, the sound weak and faint. “They give me nightmares, too.”

“Liar,” she said. “They do not.” She smiled, and then kissed him. When the kiss ended, she gave him a long look, studying his face. “Though, yes, they do sometimes give you nosebleeds still. I’m working on that.”

“Anything you’re not working on?” he asked.

She pushed herself up until she was leaning over him. Her smile was gone and her warm honey eyes were determined. “I couldn’t save your mother, Henry. I can save you.”

“You already did.”

She shook her head, sending a lock of hair flying out of the surgical cap.

“Yes, you did, Justine,” he said. “When you married me, when you gave birth to our daughter; you saved me.”

Her tears splashed onto his face as she kissed him. Again, his fingers fought to rise up and she stopped the kiss to reach back and pull his arms around her.

“Mary needs her father,” she said. “I need you.”

He smiled. “I’m here.”

“You’re dying,” she said, wiping the tears off her face with the sleeve of her gown.

“I’ve died before,” he said with a hollow laugh.

Justine slid her fingers down to his until they were holding hands, the IV tubes twisted around them.

Outside the window, the sun slowly disappeared into the marshes. Long shadows of skeletal trees stretched across the bed. Stirred by the wind, a branch skated across the window. The sound, almost a hiss, was drowned out by the softness of her breathing in his ear as she lay down next to him.

“Henry,” she said, her voice welcoming and warm. “I can save you.”

From the edge of sleep, he forced his eyes back open. “How?” he asked.

“We just need to find another donor.”





Acknowledgments

This book would not exist at all if not for the assistance and support of so many people who were always there to answer random questions, or read out-of-context chapters, or, really, just always there for me. I will try not to leave anyone out of these thank you’s!

As I struggled to write convincingly of medical and psychological processes, much is owed to Dr. David Alexander and Dr. Robert Bachner. Any errors are mine alone.

Special thanks to my wonderful alpha reader and editor, Terri Molina (a fantastic author well worth looking up), as well as my beta readers: Meg Stocks, Jon Cohen, and Staci Carson. Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention two other early readers who read numerous versions of this book and never wavered in their encouragement, enthusiasm, and very constructive criticism: My uncle Ken Salomon and my sister’s mother-in-law (yes, really) Elaine Steinfeld.

This writing career of mine simply would never have been possible without the steadfast support of my parents, Robert and Claudia Salomon, and my sister Shayna Steinfeld (as well as her husband, Bruce, and my nephews Justin, Zachary, and Dylan).

Most of all, so much is owed to the encouragement and support of my wife and children! Thank you so much, for everything. I love you more than words.

I also want to recognize Darin and Kate Martin for web and computer support above and beyond the bonds of family (and to thank Kate for blessing me with her daughter’s hand in marriage). To Jillian Boehme: you helped start this ball rolling down the hill and I wish you the greatest success. You do a great good in this world. And to Jeannie Mobley, fellow debut author, who has unlimited karma on the way.

To my wonderful agent, Ammi-Joan Paquette: thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you. Thank you as well, of course, to my editor, Brian Farrey-Latz! To the Gango and the EMU’s Debuts, thank you for the never-ending support, encouragement, and incredible capacity for putting up with my personal brand of insanity. To Authoress and the rest of the Miss Snark’s First Victim community (and Success Stories): Never stop helping others learn that dreams come true!