“He’ll wake up by Thanksgiving,” Delilah says.
“And you know that how?”
She shrugs. “If you believe something hard enough, sometimes it comes true.”
I point to Brooks’s machines. “I don’t think this works that way.”
One of Brooks’s many doctors walks in, followed by a nurse rattling off stats. They hover next to a computer in the corner and then move to his bedside.
“How’s he doing today?” I ask as they examine him.
“We’re seeing a little bit of improvement.” The doctor’s hair is the color of pure snow and his nametag reads Ed Sanderson, MD. He seems no muss, no fuss, and he’s clearly not a fan of small talk. I could give two shits about bedside manner as long as the man knows what he’s doing. “We’re going to do another CT and EEG this week.”
“Oh, good,” I say, moving away from Brooks’s bed so they have better access.
Delilah perches in a chair by the window, typing frantically into her phone. If this were any other situation, I’d razz her for it. I’d tease her about texting boys or ask if she has a hot date coming up. An ounce of something normal would be nice right about now. More than likely, she’s updating Daphne in Paris, keeping her abreast of every little thing going on.
The steady beeping from the machines supporting Brooks’s life pulls me smack dab into the center of this new reality.
“You don’t have to stay here all day,” I say to my sister. “If you want to go home after a bit, that’s okay.”
Her eyes squint, and she wrinkles her nose. “I came all the way here from Chicago to be here, and you want me to go already?”
“No, no,” I say. “Of course I want you here. I’m just saying, don’t feel bad if you have other things to do.”
“What’s more important than this?” She squints. “You’re acting like he’s recovering from a ruptured spleen and he’s getting out in a couple of days.”
Am I?
The doctor and nurse leave the room without so much as an update. But I get it. Brenda gets all the updates. I’m not married to Brooks. Lawfully, I can’t make any decisions about his healthcare. Legally, I have no weight.
“I care about him,” I say to my sister, though it feels like a reminder to myself.
Her face wrinkles. “Where’d that come from? No one said you didn’t.”
“You said I’m acting too calm, and that implies that I don’t care. I’m telling you I care.”
She grabs a nearby magazine and flips to the middle. From here, I can tell it’s interior design related, and I’m sure Brenda left it the other day. They’ve been redecorating their Montauk estate, and Brenda treats it like a full-time job.
“I don’t know, Dem. I guess I just remember how you freaked out when Royal left years ago.” She turns a page, eyes scanning an ad for rustic furniture. “I mean, you love Brooks enough to spend the rest of your life with him, and you’re just taking it all in stride. Just expected you to be falling apart a little more than you are, that’s all.”
“Freaking out isn’t going to make him wake up. Nothing’s wrong with trying to stay strong, is there?”
Delilah crosses her legs, shuts the magazine, and tosses it aside.
“I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t come here to critique the way you’re acting. I’m sorry.” She places her hand on her heart. “I’m here for you. And Brooks. And I’ll be here when he wakes up, and I’ll be here when he walks you down the aisle.”
“Thanks.” I take the seat by Brooks and slip my hand into his to see if I feel anything. His palm is warm.
That’s all I feel.
Warmth.
And nothing.
“Sometimes, I think Brooks was the universe’s answer to the whole Royal thing,” Delilah muses from the corner. She chews the inside of her lip and leans forward on her knees.
“What are you talking about?”
“We never knew why Royal left. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe you were always supposed to end up with Brooks, and had Royal stuck around, that never would’ve happened.”
“I don’t think that way.”
“I do.” She sits up. “Everything happens for a reason. Life is one giant row of dominoes.”
Her analogy doesn’t satiate me. I need to know what happened. I refuse to settle for some bullshit cliché.
“Anyway, I don’t think the powers that be would take Royal away and give you Brooks if you weren’t meant to spend the rest of your life with Brooks.”
A bouquet of bright pink daisies rests by Brooks’s window. Not sure how I didn’t notice them before, and I’m not sure where they came from since they don’t allow flowers in the ICU rooms. I bet Brenda snuck them in. Flowers are her weakness. She loves them all. She doesn’t discriminate.
Unlike Brooks.
The daisies remind me of the fight we had months ago while picking wedding flowers. I wanted daisies in bright shades of oranges and yellows and pinks. Brooks said they were too basic. And cheap. He insisted on peonies, which I reminded him were out of season in February. He insisted on having some flown in from Israel to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars.
We fought the rest of the day over the flowers.
And the flower fight led to a fight over our wedding cake the following day. He wanted a classic white with raspberry filling, claiming it was Abbott tradition. I wanted German chocolate with coconut filling. Something offbeat and unexpected. My proposal to go every-other-tier went unaccepted.