Last Call (Cocktail #5) (10 page)

“Okay, you got it. You sure you want to—”

“You’re telling me that Simon is unconscious somewhere in the world. What the hell would I be doing right now?” I asked, handing the phone back to Jillian and heading for the door. “I’ll be ready to leave in two minutes. Monica, get me on a plane.”

F
ive hours later, I was on a plane over the Pacific. One seat left. First class. Do you have any idea how much a last-minute first-class ticket to Asia costs? Just start typing zeros, just line those fuckers up.

I sat in my pod, not watching a movie. Did you know in first class on those Asian flights you get your own damn pod? It’s like a minisuite, but on a plane. When Simon and I went to Vietnam awhile back, we flew business class. Sure, it was super nice, but it wasn’t like this.

Monica had to split it over five credit cards. I didn’t care. I was on my way to Simon. Benjamin had been able to get me some additional information before my flight took off. Still unconscious, he was being tested for what they called TBI, or traumatic brain injury. If there was swelling around the brain from a skull fracture, which Benjamin said they had not yet ruled out, he would likely need surgery to relieve the intercranial pressure.

Let me tell you what you should never do. Never go to WebMD and do a search for any of these terms. You will scare yourself silly. As it was, I was trying very hard to stay off the in-flight wi-fi doing exactly this. I kept checking my phone only for updates or emails from Benjamin, who still had nothing new to report.

So I sat in my pod and I thought. About my sweet Simon. Benjamin had called the hospital and spoken with the staff, letting them know that while I was technically
not listed as next of kin or even as an emergency contact (something that would be rectified as soon as possible), that I was his fiancée and should be allowed to see him when I arrived at the hospital. Benjamin had also been given power of attorney when it came to Simon, something that had been established years before, when he was still at Stanford. My sweet Simon, totally alone in the world for years except for Benjamin, as he globe-trotted this way and that, not a care in the world other than his beloved photography. With Benjamin back in San Francisco, managing his finances and his sole contact in case there ever was an emergency, he was truly untethered.

But not anymore. I was his tether. I was his contact. I was his in-case-of-emergency everything, or I should be. I loved him more than any person currently on this planet, and I was terrified that something was going to happen to him before I could get there.

I sat in my pod, high above the ocean, and as my brain kept burning and churning, the thought I kept bumping into was garlic foam. The garlic foam on giant prawns that he wanted served at our wedding, but he couldn’t have them. Somewhere along the line, it was decided that our guests who might be allergic to shellfish were more important than what the groom wanted to eat at his own wedding.

What the fuck? How had this happened? Things become very clear when you’re sitting in a pod over the ocean thinking about your sweet Simon. And the fact
was, I didn’t give a flying fuck about any of that wedding nonsense. I just wanted to say the same words to this man that people had been saying for generations and generations. I wanted to stand up with this man and make sure he knew that he was mine and I was his for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live. And the rest? Bull to the shit.

You can’t pace on an airplane for very long before you start making people nervous, so I sat in my pod and I didn’t watch the movie but I did watch the movie that was playing on the inside of my eyelids. Simon, the first time I saw him. Half naked, covered only in a sheet, standing on the other side of his front door, annoyed that I’d been banging on his door, but not so annoyed that he didn’t check out my legs peeking out from beneath that pink nightie. Simon, the first time I kissed him. Standing on Jillian’s terrace under the moonlight with the waves crashing and the crickets cricketing and my hands full of his stupid awesome-smelling sweater and my lips full of his. Simon, the first time he made love to me. In the most beautiful bed in the most beautiful bedroom in the most beautiful house in Spain, where he held himself above me, shaking with need as he moved inside of me. Simon, the first time he fucked me. Surrounded by raisins and covered in flour as I rode him hard, and we welcomed back my long-lost but not forgotten orgasm.

Simon, the day he asked me to buy our house with him. Sitting with me on his lap in the corner of our
now bedroom, walls covered in hideous wallpaper as he poured his heart out all over the terrible carpet, asking me to make a home with him. Simon, dancing with me to a big band at the opening of my first hotel I’d designed. Simon, devouring my zucchini bread. Simon, searching for hours in the rain for Clive. Simon, sleeping in the corner of our bed snoring louder than anything legal.

Simon, standing in the shower asking me to be his wife. Simon was my world. And I was traveling around this one to get to him. In time.

I landed in Hanoi with a phone full of messages from Mimi, Sophia, Ryan, and Neil, but I listened only to the ones that came in from Benjamin. Simon had woken up, albeit briefly. He was still heavily sedated, and was getting ready to go in for another MRI to determine whether he’d need surgery. Depending on how quickly I could get to the hospital, I might be there for the results. I managed to get through customs without screaming, stuffed my overnight bag into a broken-down taxi, and barked out orders to take me to Hanoi French Hospital, where Simon was being treated.

This entire time, I hadn’t cried a tear. Not when I called my parents to tell them where I was going. Not when I packed a bag in such hurry that I ended up with ten pairs of pants, and only two pairs of actual panties. Not when Jillian dropped me off at the airport, and not when I barricaded myself in the first-class lounge ladies’
room, the first place I could be alone and where I’d already given myself permission to fall apart. But no tears.

And now as I rode pell-mell across the crowded streets of Hanoi, heading toward this hospital, still no tears. But the panic was beginning to build. I’d been running on sheer adrenaline until this point, but since my phone died and I hadn’t been able to get any new information, I was ready to come out of my skin.

We pulled into the hospital and I gave the driver at least five times as much as he needed because I hadn’t yet converted anything over from U.S. currency, but I didn’t care. I raced inside, looking for a directory of any kind. Neurology. Benjamin had said he’d be in neurology. But he also said intensive care . . . so where did I go? Where was he? I spun in place, looking for anyone who might be able to help me.

“Miss?” a soft voice asked, and I turned to see someone sitting at an information desk. “May I help you?”

She had a southern accent, for pity’s sake. I don’t know what I was expecting, racing into a Vietnamese hospital, but a tiny blonde who sounded like Delta Burke wasn’t it.

“I’m looking for a patient, Simon Parker. I’m his fiancée, and he was in an accident. I was told he was here? But I don’t know where, or which floor, or—”

“Simon Parker, yes, he’s here. He’s up on the fourth floor. Would you like me to take you up there?”

I burst into tears, giant, shaking, sobbing tears. I couldn’t help it, my body simply let go all at once and
everything poured out of my eyeballs. “Yes. Please,” I managed as she handed me several tissues, and then finally the entire box.

“Simon Parker, he’s the photographer, right?”

“Yes!” I warbled, letting her lead me toward the elevator. “How did you know?”

“We only have so many American patients here at a time. The staff sort of knows who’s who pretty quick. Took a fall, right?”

“Yes! But I haven’t spoken to anyone since I landed. How is he? Do you know?” I asked, wiping my face as the elevator door opened on the fourth floor.

“I think you better talk to his doctor. Let me get you to his room, okay?” she said, ushering me toward the nurses’ station. Once there, she spoke quickly to the nurses, who pointed us toward a room. Not even bothering to thank her, I raced for the door, seeing his name on the chart just outside.

I prepared myself. I took a deep breath, steeled myself for whatever I might find inside, and opened the door. Strong, strong, strong. I’d be strong. Whatever I found on the other side of that door, I’d be strong for him.

Yeah. Not so much. Because when I saw Simon lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by tubes and machines and buttons and beeping, I almost came out of my skin. He lay there with bandages wrapped around his head—asleep? Unconscious? It didn’t matter, I was grateful for two things. One, that he wasn’t awake to see me fall apart against the doorjamb. When he did wake up—and there
was no “if,” only when—he’d find a pulled-together Caroline. And two, and more important, I was just . . . grateful. Grateful that I was here, now, with Simon. So I allowed myself two more minutes of losing it, said the quickest of thanks to whoever might be listening, then swept his hair back from his forehead, gently, barely touching his skin. His face was covered in tiny cuts and scrapes, butterfly bandages covering the deeper ones on his left cheekbone. Bruises bloomed here and there, and down along his neck and upper torso, surgical tape was wrapped tightly. I let my breath out in a slow shudder, then pressed the tiniest of kisses on a cheek that still smelled familiar even under all the antiseptic. Then I started looking for a nurse, a doctor, anyone with a stethoscope who could tell me what was going on.

I checked in at the nurses’ station. Benjamin had already made sure that I was cleared as a visitor, and that I could speak with the doctor as fully as he could. Since Benjamin retained power of attorney, he’d have to be the one to communicate with the hospital staff if any decisions needed to be made. I knew that any decision would be made with me, but my brain could only accommodate this thought in the abstract, not as something that would actually happen.

I spoke with the doctor who was caring for Simon, and he explained more about what Benjamin had told me. They were waiting for the results from his most recent MRI. Simon had been waking up intermittently all morning, and if I wanted to catch him when he was
awake, I could stay in his room, and the doctor would come get me when the results came in.

So I did just that. I checked in with Benjamin back home, plopped my bag down, sat in the chair next to Simon’s bed, and watched him sleep. I held his hand, marveling once more at the length of his fingers, the strength in his hand, the handsomeness of just his forearm. I ran my fingertips up and down his arm absently as I held his hand, watching as his eyelids fluttered a bit. Was he dreaming? What did he dream about? Likely the photo he was getting when he took his fall . . .

As I was thinking these random thoughts, I felt his hand squeeze mine, as it had done a thousand times before. I looked from our hands to his face, where those sapphire eyes were open and blinking at me.

“Hey,” I whispered, and watched as his eyes wandered confusedly for a moment, then focused on mine.

“Hey, babe,” he whispered back, and my eyes filled with tears.
Hey
and
babe
were now officially the most beautiful words in the English language. “You look pretty.” Go ahead and add three more words to that list.

“I’ll grab your nurse, okay?” I said, reaching for the call button.

“So glad you’re here,” he murmured, and was back to sleep before the nurse even left her chair at the station. But that was okay.

Simon slipped between asleep and awake the rest of that day, and most of the night. The last round of scans showed that although he had suffered a significant concussion,
the effects would not be lasting and he’d have a full recovery. Benjamin spoke with the doctor as well, confirming that I’d be staying with Simon at the hospital until he was ready to be released.

Simon finally began to really wake up around three in the morning, preceded by the funniest twenty minutes of my life. Wallbanger on pain meds isn’t like any show I’ve ever seen. Starting with:

“Hey. Caroline. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“All the time, babe, but I never get tired of hearing it.”

“I’ll say it more often.”

“Sure, Simon. You can tell me whenever you like.”

“Hey. Caroline. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“You sure did, about two minutes ago.”

“What’s a minute?”

This also happened . . .

“And at the bottom of the cave, it was like, the world opened up, and there were stars . . . but it was like . . . we were the stars . . . there were stars everywhere, but like . . . we were the stars . . . and you know what else?”

“What’s that, Simon?’

“We were them.”

“What?”

“Them.”

“Them?”

“The stars. . . . we were them . . . the stars . . .”

And if you liked that, you’ll love
 . . .

“Babies. I want to fill you up with babies. Like, make you pregnant with babies. And have some of the babies. Babies. Babies. Caroline? Babies.”

And finally . . .

“Caroline, I’m so glad you’re here. But why’d you bring so many leprechauns?”

M
y stomach hurt from trying hard not to laugh at how silly he was on pain meds. But as they wore off into something a little more manageable, he began to make a little more sense. He sipped at some water that I held, nodding when he was through.

“Go ahead and lay back; you shouldn’t sit up so straight,” I said, urging him back against his pillow. The doctor said he might be dizzy for a while.

“I’m good right now, actually.” He frowned, watching as I stretched my back out. “How’re you feeling? Don’t you want to get some sleep?”

“I slept on the plane.”

“You did not, you never sleep on planes,” he corrected.

Caught, I smiled ruefully.

“I’m fine—really. Tell me how you’re feeling. Are you super sore?’