“And her ongoing recovery is likely to be challenging with fatigue, emotional episodes, possible headaches. However, we’re in a wait and see situation. Some patients experience very little; others, it takes more time.”
“Whatever she needs,” I mumble. All the time praying that when she does wake up, Katie even wants me here. That she doesn’t immediately ask for him, the bastard who’s controlled her for months. “I’ll be here for her.”
“None of this means she won’t recover,” the doctor adds. “We expect progress, not perfection. And right now, from the scansand tests, we see progress. It’s good news.” He made for the door then, no doubt off to see his next patient. As he reached the threshold, he stopped and turned back to face me.
“The hardest part often comes after the hospital,” he said, voice soft but firm. “When everyone expects her to be fine, but she isn’t yet.”
Then he left, his white coat swishing behind me, one click of his polished shoe at a time.
I’ve seen men come home from war with physical injuries that they recover from. But it’s the mental anguish that’s hard to heal. The fear of mortality thrust upon them when they least expected it.
Every inch of me hopes Katie can cope with whatever lasting issues this accident leaves her with. And I’ll plead with her until she lets me be the support she may need. This time, I won’t allow her to push me away. I’m here to stay—however she’ll have me.
According to the police, who keep appearing at the hospital to get updates on her, the driver had been five times over the legal alcohol limit. Katie had been pulling her case across the road toward a cab sitting on the other side. He’d swung round a corner at high speed and plowed straight into her.
Witnesses said she had been flung onto the hood of the car, traveling a few meters before falling onto the road. Her lack of visible injuries on her arms and face is bizarre. Somehow, she protected herself or got lucky. If luck can even be considered part of any of this crisis.
The panicked driver reversed and then took off in the opposite direction. Police chased him for twenty minutes before he crashed into a lamppost. The nurses told me she wasn’t expected to survive the ambulance ride, but she did.
My Katie is a warrior. My warrior. And I’m here to support her every step of the way. Whether she wants my support or not.
Chapter forty-one
Katie
He’s talking to me. His voice soothes the nightmare—this is my happy place, with Lance. I know it’s fantasy; I must be dreaming. He sounds real though; he feels it. The heat from his palm, the security of his fingers twisted between my own.
“Do we know if we are any closer to her waking up?” he asks.
“She’s showing more signs of being alert,” another man replies. “But nothing’s ever concrete in these situations. I’m sorry, sir. It’s just a case of being patient.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s been three weeks. I hoped by now she would have at least woken up.”
“She will,” the kind voice assures him. “The body needs time to heal.”
Footsteps recede, then the door clicks shut, but the warmth stays. My eyes refuse to open, cemented closed. There’s light behind my eyelids. Where am I? Am I dead? Is this some sort ofhalfway house between life and death, where I can feel the living but not interact?
A baby cries. The heat disappears.Come back. Then a chair screeches across the floor. Lance speaks again, this time as if to a small child. The sound of a father comforting his son. It’s sweet and loving. Unable to see the interaction, I imagine the scenario playing out: him holding the baby boy in his arms, rocking him gently as he sings quietly.
“Are you hungry, little man?” he asks. A wail confirms his suspicions. It all goes quiet, and I hear him settle back in the chair as I imagine the baby drinking his milk hungrily.
I try to open my eyelids again. I concentrate hard on the movement, willing them to move. Even a crack would be better than nothing, anything to prove to me I’m not dead. They stay stuck in the same place, as if they are glued shut. My inability to undertake the most basic task of opening my eyes infuriates me. Time passes, and the tiredness returns. I drift off again into a peaceful sleep, my mind empty of anything other than him.
***
My eyes release wide of their own accord. The nightmare disappears. Brad. His fingers tight round my throat. The venom. His hatred spewing from his lips.You idiot. Bitch. Nothing but a gold-digging whore.I pray he’s not here.
I’m in a white room on a large single bed surrounded by pillows. My head hurts, but I’m surprisingly ravenous. My gaze darts around, wary of who’s here.
I’m in a hospital.
What happened?
Machines beep at regular intervals; the needle in my hand itches badly. Nothing comes forth except fear. A vague recollection of running, leaving with my suitcase, then it allgoing blank. Again, I scan in search of Brad, ready to scream if needed.
Then I see him.
He’s sleeping in a chair in the corner. His head is thrown back, mouth open, and snoring loudly. A crib sits next to him with a small bundle wriggling in its blankets. A gurgle of happy baby noises drifting upward, a child lying in their own company, happy in their surroundings. I calm instantly.