I Fell in Love with Hope(62)

She said when. When Sam wakes up. That single word could hold such power if only it weren’t a lie. I want to believe, looking at his shut eyes and quiet body that he will wake. But time does not grant me a when. It is not that generous. It grants me an if…

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I find myself crying. A tear, slow and soft, trails down my cheek and catches on my jaw. I hook it with my finger, feel the wetness, taste its salt. Then, more tears well. They fall as I press myself against Sam’s bed and lay my face on his pillow. I used to touch his hair, his nose, his hands, but I can’t anymore. They’re too limp, too lacking of him. Instead, I beg silently through the dark,

“Wake up.” Again, louder, “Wake up, please.” Selfishly, “Wake up, Sam, for me.”

He doesn’t. He’s elsewhere, in another castle, in an enchanted forest, swimming in a sea as the whale circles, circles, circles.

—

“Sweet Sam?” A voice. It’s faint, raspy. The throat that bore it hasn’t been used in some time. “My sweet Sam, wake up.” Again, only this time it’s not a call, it’s a reach.

I open my eyes to a still, dark room. The ventilator hums onward, a machine of endlessness. But when I look up, the mask through which it breathed isn’t on. Sam holds it away from his face.

He is awake. Sam is awake, eyes half-lidded but still brilliant, full of light and life and him.

I shudder, pushing myself out of the chair so hard it falls over.

“I’m here,” I say, grasping the edge of his sheets, pulling the mask off entirely. It catches in his hair, making Sam wince. I smooth it down apologetically, but at the same time, I am relieved. I am relieved he can express anything, even if it’s discomfort. I am relieved his face scrunches up, and his body jumps on reflex. I am relieved his chest rises and falls on its own, the sounds of the ventilator silenced by his breathing.

“My sweet Sam,” he says again, a tiresome curve of his lips revealing a crook of happy teeth. “My sweet Sam, could you hold my hand? I don’t feel my best.”

“Yes,” I say, although it’s more a whisper. His palm meets mine, his fingers slow, his skin cold but radiating. His cuts and bruises healed while he was asleep, but there is still a mark on his wrist, a scar.

“You’re so warm,” Sam says, and like water, his light flows through my veins.

“Look,” I say, lifting our fingers, showing him our tether. “Our hands are kissing.” Sam’s fringe gets in his eyes, so I cast it gently back. He sighs and follows my touch, falling into it.

“Are you in pain?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “My knight is here.”

He’s lying. We both know, but neither one of us says it. He’s been kept alive through various tubes, an IV for liquids, isotonic fluids to keep his blood balanced, and another for nutrients for days. The suddenness of waking up is shocking.

Sam vomits on the floor. I lift his upper body up and cradle it, so he doesn’t get any on himself. His stomach is empty, a fit of acid burning his throat and tongue.

Nurse Ella rushes in to care for him. Two doctors enter too. They waste no time flashing light in Sam’s eyes, asking him too many questions at once. I stand back, against the wall, my other body. Sam looks at me the entire time he is examined.

“Thank you for protecting me,” he rasps after the doctors have gone. I drag the pad of my finger over the scar on his wrist.

“I’ll always protect you,” I say, sitting in my chair now, staring at our hands.

“Did you go see our stars while I was asleep?” Sam asks. “They’ll be sad if no one comes to say goodnight for too long.”

“They aren’t shining today,” I tell him.

“That’s okay,” Sam says. “They’ll shine tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is already here. Dawn washes over the skyline in the distance, blacks becoming blues, easing into the day. I shake, thinking that this would’ve been the fourteenth tally in my head. That if he hadn’t woken up, I would still be in that chair wondering if he ever would.

“Sam?” I call.

“Yes?”

“Could I–could I hold you?”

Sam nods, and when I climb into the bed, he wraps his arms around me. His touch runs down my back, kneading my shirt, feeling my skin, my spine, my flesh beneath.

“My sweet Sam, don’t cry over me,” he says as he feels my tears I don’t know how to control fall to his shoulder. “I’m strong. I’ll make it. We still have so many adventures to go on.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “How do you know that you’ll make it? How did you know the woman would make it?”

“I didn’t know,” Sam says, his chin on my shoulder. “I just hoped she would.”

I wanted an answer. I wanted, as I have wanted since I was born, a solution, a way to defeat the three thieves who encroach upon my home and reap it of its life. But as Sam speaks, he gives me that one thing I can’t fathom. He gives me another lock rather than a key.

“Hope?” The word tastes elder, a truth of the world, yet so young, like a secret.

“Mhm,” Sam hums. “Hope is like…” He shifts, his chin against my ear now rather than my neck. “Hope is like waiting for the sun to rise,” he says, looking through his window, greeting the sky. “We don’t know if the stars will shine or if the sun will be here tomorrow, but I trust the stars. I trust the sun too.”