Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [123]
chapter 26
I spend the better part of the next two weeks at the hospital, becoming a semi-permanent fixture first in the ICU and then later in Richard’s regular room, which he shares with an older-looking asthmatic man named Jonas.
Richard’s progress is slow, and it’s only because I’m here every day that I can gauge his progress at all, watching vigilantly as gradually his body begins responding, first to light and then to noise. Then, one day, almost two weeks after the accident, there’s a faint pressure at the squeeze of my hand and a fluttering of his eyelids at the sound of my voice. The doctors don’t say much, and when I press them, they concentrate on the positive, telling me things like that his incisions are healing nicely and he’s lucky to be alive, and that his splintered sternum was millimeters away from piercing his heart. I want them to tell me when Richard will wake up, but this they don’t seem to know. All they seem willing to say is that head injuries take time, and it’s still too early to tell.
As far as I know, Nate hasn’t stopped by to see Richard, as he said he would. Even so, when I first felt the slight pressure in Richard’s grip and what I thought might be a smile at my calling his name, I called Nate and left him a message. Since then, I’ve called every couple of days, leaving upbeat, yet business-like updates on Nate’s answering machine. Not that I really expect him to show up.
One day, Richard opens his eyes, looks at me, and groans.
“Hey,” I say, coming around the side of the bed to grasp his hand. The muscles of Richard’s face struggle to arrange themselves in a smile, but only the right side of his face is cooperating, and the effect is more like a grimace. He opens his mouth and tries to speak, but soon grows exhausted by the effort. Still, I can tell by looking at him that he understands me. I brush the hair from his forehead, moisten his lips with a clean sponge, and massage his fingers as I fill him in on the details of his life over the past almost two weeks. He makes no further move to speak until I ask him if he can remember the accident, at which point a small sob escapes as he tries to turn his face away, the light in his eyes flickering dangerously. I tell him the doctors are confident that he will recover fully, and point out the blooming bromeliad in the corner of the room that his parents (or, more likely, the social worker from the nursing home in Boca Raton) sent to cheer him up. I managed to track them down through an entry in Richard’s checkbook to the Palm Gardens Senior Center.
Despite himself, Richard is making progress. By the end of the following week he’s strong enough to be transferred to a rehabilitation facility. It’s a more hopeful place, with cheerful murals, a lovely solarium, and much more liberal visiting policies, meaning that I can now bring Chloe, who greets Richard in the mornings with a delighted squeal, which seems to cheer him. This morning Chloe and I have brought him breakfast, a Maytag blue cheese and apple soufflé, fresh croissants, and a large thermos of café au lait.
“Here, I bought you a present,” I tell him, tossing a large plastic bag onto the bed and struggling to keep a straight face. Inside are two cheap sweat suits, one blue and one brown, which I bought because the physical therapist overseeing his rehab told me he’d need comfortable, loose-fitting workout clothes. Richard, I happen to know, owns nothing that isn’t perfectly tailored, so I’d gone to Walmart and gotten the pair.
“What is this hideous dung-colored thing?” Richard asks, pulling the brown sweatshirt out of the bag and holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It takes several seconds for him to enunciate this particular little gem, but the accompanying sneer is unmistakable. I let loose a loud