The Story Of Us Part 30

"But not gone, right?"

"I don't think so."

"Dull colors we can work with. No colors ... well, let's hope we can pull her out of this before it gets that far. We need to get her out of bed."

Maverick hesitates. "She's mourning, Finley."

"I get that. But the miscarriage happened a month ago, and if we don't do something, she's going to slip further into herself. Mourning is fine; depression isn't. You called me here to help, so let me help."

Maverick lets out a long breath. "All right. Just bring her back to me."

"I'll do what I can, but Maverick, you're the one who woke her up before."

A few minutes pa.s.s before Finley gets into bed, facing me from Maverick's side. I see her there, but at the same time, I don't. She's like a ghost, someone who represents the me from before.

"I sent Maverick to the store for some supplies," she says. "The only thing in your fridge is salt. Who puts salt in their refrigerator?"

I remain silent. We've been through this routine before-with Chris. But this is different, because she's wasting her time.

"I'm ordering junk food tonight. Mozzarella sticks, hot wings, chili-cheese fries, and your favorite: fried mushrooms. How delish and life-threatening does that sound?" Finley's wide-eyed, nodding, and trying to get me to agree.

I want to tell her I'm not hungry. I'm never hungry anymore. But unlike Maverick, Finley will shove food down my throat if I don't eat. I hate that I'll have to nibble to keep her happy. Why can't they just leave me alone?

d.a.m.n Maverick for calling her.

"I told Maverick to get iced tea. You still like the super-sugary stuff, right? If not, I can text him."

I blink, then roll onto my other side to get away from her. She doesn't understand.

Finley groans. "You're not going make this easy on me, are you? b.i.t.c.h."

The old me would have laughed. Maybe even slugged her. This me, though, just clutches the blanket tighter to her chest and closes her eyes. The grays surrounding me are exhausting.

I feel the mattress lighten, and a moment later, minty-scented breath wafts over my face. I'll have to open my eyes, I think. If I don't, she'll keep blowing on me. I'm too weak to scream at her to leave me the f.u.c.k alone. G.o.d, she's annoying.

Instead I look her in the eye and attempt telepathy. How can she not see that I'm not in the mood?

She stares back. "I know you don't want me here, but like it or not, you're stuck with me." Finley cups her hand over mine. "We swore we'd never let each other fall too far. We swore we'd always be there for each other. That's why I came, and I'm not leaving."

What I hear is that if I make an effort, she'll go home. So when Maverick arrives with dinner, I let Finley drag me to the sofa. I avoid meeting Maverick's gaze. For weeks he's tried to do what Finley's accomplished in an hour, the pain in his eyes evident. What he doesn't realize is that I can't face him. I can't look at him and wonder if our baby would've had his eyes, his smile, his dark hair. I can't look at my husband and picture my son.

Maverick had been so excited, and now, come September, there will be no nursery, no little booties, no cries at 2AM.

No tiny football jersey.

"Here you go." Finley shoves a plate of food at me. "Eat."

Her lips are pursed, and she's watching me like I'm going to spontaneously combust. She's thinking I've lost too much weight. I haven't been drinking enough water. I haven't seen sunlight in days. She isn't wrong.

I pick the crust off the smallest mushroom and stick it into my mouth.

"Dip the next one into the sauce. It's delish," she says.

I do, but after, that I'm done. I sink lower into the cus.h.i.+on and cover myself with a blanket. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maverick with his fist to his mouth, studying me. I'm breaking his heart, I know, but how can I mend his when mine is in a thousand pieces?

"Try this next." Finley has a crusted something on her fork and she's sticking it in my face.

I shake my head.

"Do I need to feed you? Because I will." She has that look in her eye, so I open my mouth and force myself to swallow. I want to throw it up.

And then, unbidden, the tears begin to flow. Finley doesn't notice right away, but Maverick does. He reaches for me, but I turn away from him before he touches me and get up.

"Ali," Finley starts.

"Let her go," Maverick says, the husk in his voice breaking me more.

I go back to my room, lock the door, and cry until I fall asleep.

The next morning, I wake up to Finley snoring in bed beside me. Maverick's working, of course, and it seems that my bestie is my babysitter. If I want any time to myself, it has to be now.

I sit in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, gazing out the window as the sun pulls up over the horizon. There's a sketchpad at my fingertips. Maverick left it for me a few weeks ago, but it holds no persuasion for me this morning. The sky is a dull shade of gray.

When Finley pads in, I excuse myself to take a shower. She doesn't protest, and I lock myself in the bathroom. I stand under the spray until the water turns cold. Then I step out and dress in my bedroom. Normally I don't examine myself in the mirror, but I do today. The sleeves of my s.h.i.+rt hang off me, and the neckline plunges lower than it's supposed to. I tie the drawstring of my pants that makes my b.u.t.t sag. My face too shows my pain-sunken eyes and cheeks. I barely recognize the woman in the mirror.

She's sick. She's been through h.e.l.l and doesn't know how to escape. Maybe she doesn't want to.

A picture on the dresser catches my attention. I pick it up. The man is Maverick. But the woman beside him? It's not me.

She's beautiful, brown hair falling over one shoulder. Her eyes are alive, pewter in color, and filled with love for the man she's gazing at.

I touch my own cheek as I compare it to hers. Mine are dreary, whereas hers have a natural pink tint. The white dress she wears fits her curves, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s fill out the top, leaving a slit of cleavage under her necklace. Her skin is sun-kissed, glowing in the twilight.

She's happy. She's found heaven, and she belongs there. She should never want to leave.

Still holding the photo, I look back into the mirror. How had I gone from heaven to h.e.l.l so quickly? From a dancing stare, to eyes that hold more tears than music. From full, pink lips that smile wide, to a mouth that rarely moves. Where did all of my color go?

I put the picture back on the dresser, and when I turn, Finley's standing in the doorway. I don't know how long she's been watching me, probably long enough to know I've hit rock bottom. Deep down, I knew I was losing myself again. Sinking into the corners of my mind where Chris lives to torment me, to tell me I deserve the darkness I'm in.

And again, I've let him.

Tears rim my eyes. "Finley," I breathe. "Who am I?"

She knows the answer I need, the same one she gave all those years ago.

"You're Alieya Mae Silverstein Tavare, my best friend. You love drawing and painting and sappy chick flicks. You still hang onto the possibility that mermaids are real and the moon is made out of cheese. You dance in the rain and catch snowflakes on your tongue. You like the beach, the mountains, and the change of seasons. You're scared of spiders and snakes, clowns and purple elephants. You don't like popcorn, but love the little half-popped kernels. Sunrises and sunsets calm you. You laugh like a kid. You're smart. You're funny. You're as talented as h.e.l.l. And when life throws you a s.h.i.+tstorm, you know-you know, Ali-how to scatter the clouds."

Yes. Yes, I remember now.

I nod. "I need to draw."

"Maverick bought new paints and set up an easel in the living room," she says.

I follow her out, to where my husband has prepared a works.p.a.ce for me. In the corner, he's even given me something to draw.

I set to work, Finley sitting silently behind me. I begin with painting the whole canvas with charcoal. Slowly, I fill in the background with a texture that only exists in my mind. Then long brush strokes form the outline of the roses. The stems are simple, and even though the flowers Maverick left don't have thorns, life does. They're sharp and cut deep, so I add them. Lastly, I frame the edges in black, because darkness is always there, pus.h.i.+ng its power in over us.

But light breaks through the darkness, robbing the power it has. That's what I'm doing now: s.h.i.+ning light.

I step back to study what I've created.

The roses are lying in a bundle on the floor. Loose petals form a line down the linoleum, becoming longer and thinner until they turn into a stream of blood. Color changes from crimson to gray, gradually fading into the black. At the end, no color remains.

"Ali," Finley whispers.

"There's color," I say.

"It's heartbreaking."

I bite my lip as a tear rolls down my cheek. "It's me."

Chapter 49.

Present day 7:32 p.m.

I nibble on the food Finley brought up from the cafeteria. It's an actual meal with meat and sides and a slice of carrot cake, but I don't know why she got so much. Most will end up in the garbage.

I swirl the p.r.o.ngs of my fork into the mashed potatoes, not even looking at them. The crimson has dulled, but it's still there, waiting patiently for its next flare-up. Dr. Santos should be here any minute.

Finley distracts me by stealing a bite of my cake.

"You know, everyone says hospital food is the s.h.i.+ts, but this carrot cake is halfway decent." She takes another forkful and holds it up to my mouth like I'm an infant. "Come on, try it."

I shake my head. "No, thanks. You can have it."

"Normally I'd force your mouth open and stuff food into it-I've done it before. I'll do it again-but this time I'm gonna say 'your loss.'" She scoops up what's left of my dessert and eats it in two bites.

"Here," I say, scooting my plate toward her. "You can have it all if you want."

"Nope. All I wanted was the cake. You get to eat the rest of it. Sustenance, you need some." She pushes my tray back at me. "Eat."

"I'm not hun-"

"Please don't make me manipulate you by reminding you that Maverick would want you to take care of yourself. I really, really hate doing it." She points a finger at me, eyes wide with sternness. "But I will, so..." She blinks, a half-grin telling me she's serious. I don't like serious Finley.

"Remind me again why I called you?"

"To remind you that you haven't called Maverick's parents yet."

I groan. "I'm not going to. Not yet. Not until ... until I have to."

"And when's that?"

"I don't know. When I have more to say than-"

Knock, knock.

I look up as Dr. Santos lets herself in. Laney comes in behind her and stands behind the computer. I stand up too.

"We're at almost nineteen hours. We need to wait out the remaining time. I've ordered another CT scan at that time. Depending on what the scan shows, will determine our next steps," Dr. Santos explains.

My heart sinks. That isn't what I'd expected to hear.

My gaze roams over my husband. "Okay, um. So what are you looking for on the CT scan?"

"Cognitive brain activity, bleeding, swelling, anything that looks abnormal."

"I'm sorry. Ah." I suck in a breath and focus on her. "Walk me through this. What if those abnormal things are present?"

"If there's swelling and it's pus.h.i.+ng up against his skull, we may need to go in and relieve that pressure. If there's significant bleeding, if there's increased damage to his frontal lobe, he may require another surgery. There are many factors we look at. Best case scenario is limited cognitive activity and we keep him sedated longer, allowing for ample time for the brain to heal itself."

"And if those things aren't present ... ?"

"Then we'll bring him back here, turn off the Propofol-the medication keeping him sedated-and see what happens."

See what happens?

I shake my head. That's not a good enough answer. "So you don't know what will happen?"

"I'm sorry, but no. The brain is complicated. Think about hoops, or milestones, in a line to consciousness. The brain begins on one end and has to move through each hoop, creating new connections that pave the way to the next hoop. When all of those have been reached, then the brain returns to a conscious state. Each individual will move through those hoops at a different pace."

"Like hours difference?"

"Days, weeks, months. Years."

"Years?"

"Sometimes the brain trauma experienced damages one of those hoops. Sometimes, given enough time, those hoops can repair themselves. Sometimes they can't. Sometimes there's a break in the chain and the patient can't move on to the next hoop."