Estella hesitates, still not wanting to go, but Julian’s so upset he’s throwing things, so I just kind of drag her from the room. Estella’s eyes are brimming with tears. A nurse comes over to us and Estella ushers her away from me. All I get from the conversation is that the nurse will find Julian’s main doctor. Meanwhile, I go about the business of fetching Estella some water. My hands are shaking so hard the paper cup is folding and the water is sloshing around, wetting my fingers. My cell rings. I know it’s Dad calling to see how things are going, but I can’t talk to him now. I can’t talk to anyone. I give the water to Estella, trying to calm myself down by remembering this guy is a complete stranger to me. That he’s probably on all kinds of drugs. This idea gives me some hope. I turn to Estella, who’s staring helplessly at the nurse’s station.
“Estella?” I say to her. “You know Julian must be in a lot of pain. He’s probably stoned out of his mind and has no idea what he’s saying.”
She takes a small sip of water and looks at me. “That’s true.”
Heh. She almost smiles.
“I’m going back in,” she says.
Yikes. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. You shouldn’t, though. Just wait out here for me. Do you mind?”
“No, not at all,” I tell her, glad to be able to sit this one out. “I’ll either be here or in the waiting area.”
“I’m just going to go in and sit in a chair.”
“Good idea.”
“He can’t mind that.” She hands me her water cup and goes in.
I don’t hear any yelling, but five minutes later Estella is back out in the hall. “We’ll come back tomorrow.” She’s on the verge of crying again. Just holding it in. Barely. Poor woman. This guy is a major jerk, I don’t care how hurt he is. I take her hand and lead her outside for the walk back. The minute she leaves the hospital the waterworks fully unleash.
“Hey,” I say. “At least you know he’s strong enough to speak.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“I mean, think about it. He was hollering pretty good in there. Can’t be too close to death or anything.”
She smiles. Hiccups. I’m scrambling for a fresh tissue for her.
“He’s the sweetest boy. That’s what I don’t get. He’s never yelled at me once in his whole life.”
All the tissues in the world aren’t enough. As soon as we’re in the room she tells me she’s exhausted and taking a sleeping pill for the night. I don’t know how much those pills typically knock you out, but in about half an hour she crawls onto the bed and falls into what I seriously fear is a coma.
I’m not kidding. I fret over her and call Dad, who can’t speak to me because of the dinner rush, and I’m shaking her and I can’t call Luke because he’s working too and she stirs a little and I try to convince myself she’s fine. I call and order a pizza from room service. I realize she’ll sleep through it and it’ll be cold and I cancel the order. Then I realize I haven’t eaten all day and I call back and reorder, adding mushrooms and olives. The room service guy is nice about it.
I flip on the television, turn the volume down low and watch the news and some stupid reality show about a man living off of a pocketknife and pipe cleaner out in the jungle. I read a little of Jacques Pepin’s autobiography—he’s a famous French chef who used to be a hot guy—and the pizza arrives. I sign for it, eat two slices and worry over Estella’s possible coma some more. My phone battery is dead but I already left Dad a message. She did too, I think. I plug the cell phone in to charge it, brush my teeth and wash my face and get into bed.
As I switch off the light, I think of Julian and wonder why he’d tell Estella to leave like that. What could he be thinking? I try to imagine what happened to him—and I have literally no idea. What must it be like to change from a gorgeous, considerate athlete to that mess in the bed?
Poor Estella. I feel rotten for her. She dreamed of life in Vermont, in the country, with a handsome chef husband. I’m not stupid; I know my father’s attractive for an older guy. His brown hair is a little gray, he has a bump in his nose from where it was broken once and a heavy growth of beard he’s always having to shave, but underneath all this, Dad also has the same fine French features as his mother, who was a very beautiful lady. He claims I look just like her, but I’m not sure this is true. I’m five inches taller than she was, for one thing—five foot five, and not as delicate. She was so fragile, she looked like anything would break her.
Dad dated a lot of women after Mom left. Before Estella came into the picture, I’d suspected he’d been intimate with a good number of his mostly-female wait staff as well. It still seems to me like they’re always flirting with him, but then who knows, I could be imagining it.
What would he tell me to do now? He’d tell me to take care of Estella. I think it through. Hope she hasn’t poisoned herself. I switch the light back on, find a blanket and lay it over her. I take off her shoes and she whimpers in her sleep. Thank God, since it means she’s all right.
I climb into my own bed and try to think only of Luke caressing me, his mouth against mine. But images of Julian’s beaten face and those metal rods and bars on his leg keep intruding. Eventually, I fall into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Four
I’m used to waking up early, so I’m already up, showered and changed by the time Estella raises herself back to a state of awareness the next morning. She stumbles into the bathroom after me and I attempt to make coffee in the little coffeepot. I’m not used to making regular coffee—my father never drinks it, he only drinks espresso. He’s a snob, I know, but he’s a French chef so what do you expect? I started drinking it as well when I was in tenth grade and the class load required a few late study sessions. I fiddle with the thing, plug it in, flip the switch and Estella comes out in a towel and gets dressed. I pour her a cup of coffee and she tastes it and drinks it like it’s fine. “I have to go back to see Julian,” she says. “What will you do?”
“I’ll go with you, and stay in the hallway or the waiting room.”
“You’ll be bored there all day.”
I think she’ll be thrown out of the room inside five minutes, but I say nothing about this. I just tell her I have a book and I’ll be fine.
We head downstairs and it occurs to me Estella didn’t touch the pizza. She hasn’t eaten in a long time. “That free coffee in the room was terrible,” I say as we walk to the hospital. “I wonder if there’s a place where we could get a latte.”
She looks annoyed by this, but I convince her to stop at a coffee shop on the way. I get my latte and order two muffins to go with it and hand her one. She takes it without complaint, so I go get a latte for her as well, and then silently offer myself a major pat on the back. For stealth-feeding of the crazed woman.
“It’s probably just the trauma,” Estella says to herself as I steer her toward a table in the back. “They probably have a psychologist he’s working with who specializes in cases like this. I’m sure there are things they can do.”
I want to stay quiet, but my curiosity finally gets the better of me. “So, do you know what condition he’s in?” I try to ask it very gently.
She looks at me and sighs. “He lost his right leg below the knee, of course. His left femur is broken. He has whiplash and a broken nose and a host of other smaller cuts and contusions. There’s talk of possible mild TBI, traumatic brain injury, but that’s unconfirmed.”
“I’m sorry, Estella. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, I had to get it out.” She is almost crying. “I should have told you before we even left.” The barista is staring at us.