Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [64]
Then the doctor was gone, and I was alone in the waiting room. Soon other people started to drift in, looking as nervous and uncomfortable as I was sure I did.
Now here’s where it gets really strange.
One of the other women in the room — sandy blond hair, midthirties, very likable, even at a glance — got up for a drink of water from the fountain and then came over to me.
“May I sit?” she asked. I nodded numbly, and she took the chair next to me. “I’m a friend of Michael’s,” she said, which made my head jerk up. I looked into her kind, open face. “We all are.” She gestured to the other people in the waiting room, who looked over at me and nodded warmly. “We’re that kind of friend. Imaginary?”
“Oh.” I was speechless for a moment, looking around at all of them and then back at the woman. “I’m Jane.”
“Yes, I know. Well, Jane, we all love Michael. How is he? Do you know what’s going on?”
“There’s blockage to his heart,” I said. “Four arteries.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s . . . too strange. I’m Blythe, by the way.”
“It’s not strange considering what he eats,” I said wryly.
She gave a little smile. “But, Jane, we don’t get sick. None of us. Ever. So yes, it is strange. Something totally unexpected, totally bizarre, is happening here.”
I thought about our doomed love affair and shook my head. “You have no idea.”
Blythe took my hand in hers. She was so sweet, a perfect friend already. “Actually, I do. Michael has been talking about you. He never shuts up about you. We all approve, not that you need our approval, but we do. We’ve never seen Michael so happy. We like you, Jane.”
So we sat together, Blythe and I — my new imaginary friend — and we waited, fretted, and were scared. Finally, Dr. Rodman appeared and headed my way. There was no way to read his face, but he definitely wasn’t smiling. I felt my own heart contract painfully, and my throat went dry.
Desperate, I turned to Blythe, and she shook her head. “The doctor can’t see us.”
Oh, okay. Of course not. I’m the only crazy person here with imaginary friends. At thirty-two years old.
“Jane,” said Dr. Rodman. “Can you come with me? This is a little strange. Please, come.”
Eighty-one
MICHAEL WATCHED JANE as she walked into the recovery room with his doctor. Now this was another new one — his doctor. Michael had never been sick a day in his life, had never been examined by a physician, certainly had never had a heart procedure. And, oh, one more thing: He’d never been frightened out of his mind like this before.
Not about dying: He was all right with that, more or less. Cautiously optimistic anyway.
But he had just found Jane again, and he didn’t want to lose her for any reason. He couldn’t lose Jane.
“Hi,” she said, and he smiled weakly. He adored the sound of her voice.
“Hi. I must look like I was hit by a speeding truck. I feel like it.”
“You look terrific. For somebody who was hit by a truck.”
The doctor gave Jane a pat on the shoulder and left. Jane came over to Michael’s bed and leaned in and kissed his forehead — and suddenly he remembered doing the exact same thing to her when she was eight. He reminded her.
“We’re on the same wavelength, Michael. Of course I remember,” Jane said, and smiled. “I told you that I would never forget you.”
Then they held hands, all four of their hands entwined together.
“Your doctor is in mild shock because you came out of the anesthesia so fast. Like, too fast.”
Michael shrugged. “Don’t know why. But what happened to me?”
Jane smiled again, and Michael felt better. “What happened to you is too much rich food, too much junk food, for God only knows how long. And I mean that quite literally. But here’s the good news.”
“I’m listening.”
“You have a heart, Michael. You could have died. You’re human, Michael. You are human.” Her face was lit with an inner joy.
“So let me see if I have this right,” said Michael. “The big whoop about being human is that you get to die?”
“Live and die,” Jane said. “But yeah, that