Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [63]
“That’s an easy one.” Michael snapped his fingers.
Nothing happened. He snapped again, frowning.
“That’s weird,” he muttered. He snapped again, and again nothing happened. “That’s scary, actually. That’s usually how I get spending cash. And cabs when it’s raining.”
He tried one more time.
“Nothing,” he said. “Hmm. Cutting myself shaving is one thing. Oh well, I’ll have to find work. Maybe I could be a boxer.”
I poked his stomach again.
“Maybe not.”
Finally, I asked the toughest question, and the one that scared me the most. “Are you going to stay with me, Michael? Or will you leave me again? Just tell me. Let me know once and for all. Is that what’s going to happen?”
Seventy-nine
MICHAEL ROLLED his eyes, which made me feel slightly — only slightly — better. Then a grimace crossed his face, and he put his hand to his chest. “Jane?” he said, sounding confused. “Jane?” And then he crumpled onto the stone pathway where we had been walking.
“Michael!” I dropped to my knees beside him. “Michael, what’s happening?! What is it?! Michael!”
“Pain . . . my chest,” he managed.
I began to yell for help, and fortunately a few people from my mother’s funeral were still there. They came running. “Call nine-one-one!” I shouted, unable to believe this was happening. “I think he’s had a heart attack. Please call nine-one-one!”
I looked back at Michael and saw that he had lost color and was perspiring heavily. I loosened his tie and opened his shirt’s top button, which popped off and fell onto the path. How could this be happening, how could it happen now? I thought I was going to lose it, get hysterical, and be completely useless. I wouldn’t let that happen.
“Michael, help is coming. An ambulance. Hang on, okay?”
“Jane,” he repeated in a whisper.
“Please don’t talk.”
Michael looked so pale, so incredibly sick all of a sudden, out of nowhere.
“We got nine-one-one,” said a man in a black suit, who I recognized as someone from the funeral parlor. “They’re on their way. Try to relax, sir. It’s better not to talk.”
“Jane,” Michael said again, sounding kind of dreamy. “You have kind eyes.”
I leaned in close to him. “Please, Michael. Shh.”
Michael shook his head, and I thought he was going to try to push himself up, but he didn’t. “Don’t tell me that. I have to talk now. There are things you need to know.”
I took Michael’s hand and leaned in even closer. There was a crowd around us now, but it was just the two of us down there. Just us, just like always.
Michael said in a raspy whisper, “For years, I prayed that I would see you again . . . as a grown-up. I prayed for this to happen, Jane. I thought about it a lot, I wished it would happen. And then it did. Somebody was listening. That’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Shhhh,” I whispered, feeling hot tears start in my eyes. But Michael wouldn’t hush.
“You are so special, Jane. Do you understand that? Do you? I have to know you do.”
“Yes.” I nodded and said what he wanted to hear. “I hear you. I’m special.”
Michael smiled then, and for a second he looked like himself again. He had the most incredible smile, warm and gentle and loving. It was a smile that touched my heart, had touched it when I was a child.
“I had no idea how much I was going to love you . . . and how good it would be,” he said.
He squeezed my hand tightly. “I love you, Jane. I love you. I know I said that, but I wanted to say it again. I love you.” Then tears came into his eyes.
“This isn’t so bad,” he said with an odd little smile. Then Michael’s eyes closed.
Eighty
NOW, I HAVE TO TELL YOU that what happened next couldn’t have happened, which, I know, must seem crazy given what has happened already. But here goes.
An ambulance brought Michael to Northern Westchester Hospital. I followed close behind in a police car. A very kind doctor named John Rodman told me that Michael had blockage in all four arteries to his heart and that he would be going in for an immediate angioplasty. Heart surgery was also a possibility. The doctor wanted to know things about Michael that I