Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 (35 page)

“Sabrina, are you there?” I tried to respond, but it was as if my mouth was filled with glue, gagging me. “Sabrina, can you come home?”

Calvin must have heard her through the phone because he knelt and lifted my chin. “Tell her we’ll be there tonight,” he said firmly. “We’ll leave immediately.”

“Mom,” I choked out. “I’m coming. If he wakes, tell him I’m coming.” Hot tears singed my cheeks, soaking the front of my shirt.

“Thank God. We’ll see you at the hospital, baby.”

Slowly, I placed the phone on the tile floor next to me. My mind raced furiously, and all I could think was
don’t die, Brandon, not over this. Please don’t die.

Calvin sat next to me and gathered me in his arms where he rocked me back and forth while I sobbed.

When I pulled away, I looked into his anguished face. “I have to go.” The words were shaky, tear-stained.

“I know. I’m coming with you.”

“I have to tell him I forgive him. Calvin, this is my fault. I told him I never wanted to see him again. Why couldn’t I have been the bigger person? He’s in that hospital because of
me
.” The guilt swelled, and I felt dizzy. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Hey,” Calvin said softly. “Look at me. This isn’t your fault. Brandon made his decisions. You didn’t force him into that car, and you sure as hell didn’t force him to swerve into traffic. The only thing you can do now is be there for him, OK?”

I nodded weakly to show I heard him. But I didn’t agree.
What had I done?

Hurriedly, Calvin and I packed a small bag, him in a precise, organized fashion, while I haphazardly tossed jeans and T-shirts together. While I grabbed our toothbrushes, Calvin called his pilot, directing him to be ready within the hour.

***

It was just after one a.m. when we pulled up to the hospital. A low fog hung around the expansive building, encasing it in an unnerving gloom. The lobby was eerily silent when we walked in, soft florescent bulbs lighting the hallway leading to the Intensive Care Unit. Our shoes squeaked on the recently waxed floor as we approached the nurses’ station.

“Excuse me?” A gray-haired attendant wrote furiously on a patient chart. She looked up, surprised. “We’re looking for Brandon Russell.”

“Visiting hours are over.” Her tone was sympathetic, as if we’d already lost him. “Are you his girlfriend, dear?”

I shook my head. “A close friend. May I see him?”

“First thing tomorrow morning. Nine a.m.”

“Please,” I said, putting my hands on her desk and leaning forward. “Please, I need to see him. Just for a minute. His parents know I’m coming. Can you make an exception, just this once?”

She looked down the empty corridor, first to her left, then to her right, sighing. “Ten minutes, OK?”

“Thank you,” I breathed.

The nurse stood and pointed down the hall. “He’s in room B123, that third door on your right. I have to warn you—he’s pretty banged up and heavily sedated.” She tsked softly. “So young. We’re really pulling for him.”

I nodded, and Calvin and I walked slowly toward the room. When we got to his door, we paused. “Do you want me to come in with you?” Calvin asked, squeezing my hand.

“No. I think I need to do this by myself.”

“Of course, I’ll be right out here if you need me.” He motioned to the row of plastic chairs against the opposite wall.

I squeezed back. “Thank you. Thank you for being here. For understanding. For everything.”

Calvin touched his lips to my forehead. “Always.”

Letting go of his hand, I breathed in deeply, pushing through the door to Brandon’s room. The room was dimly lit, and for a moment, all I could see was the glow of the computer monitor next to his bed. When my eyes adjusted, my knees went weak.

Even though the nurse had warned me, I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.

A sickly, bloodied version of Brandon lay motionless on the hospital bed in front of me. The left side of his face was swollen and purple, carotid blood vessels and abrasions marring his normally suntanned skin. Under the sores, he was pale, as if he’d hadn’t been outside in months, instead of mere days. A breathing tube disappeared down his throat, and his chest rose and fell erratically with each shutter of the machine to his right. His head was bandaged, and I could tell they’d shaved it—no brown curls escaping from the wrappings.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I stood at the foot of his bed, unable to move, listening to the constant bleating of the monitor. The room had a salty chemical smell, like ammonia and saline, and suddenly, I knew that thousands of people had taken their last breath inside these walls.

A sob caught in my throat, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, willing myself not to scream. I couldn’t handle this. I wanted to be here for him, but this was too much. This couldn’t be real. His eyes were closed, but I didn’t know if he was asleep or unconscious. Slowly, I moved toward his unmoving body, small and still beneath the thin knitted sheets. I lowered myself into the seat next to his bed, barely breathing.

An IV was taped to the back of his hand, and I reached out to touch his fingers. “Brandon,” I croaked softly. “It’s me, Sabrina.”

I searched his face for a sign of recognition, the ones you see in the movies, a flutter of his lashes, a twitch of his hand, but there was none.

“Brandon,” I said again. “If you can hear me, I want you to know I forgive you.” A lone tear ran down my cheek. “Please, Brandon, don’t die. You can make it; I know you can. You’re so strong. So much stronger than me.”

I squeezed his fingers gently. “I never said this, Brandon, but I’m so grateful to you. For supporting me, for showing me I deserved to be loved. I’m sorry we didn’t work out, but please, Brandon, you can’t give up.” My throat constricted, and I struggled to breathe.

“It doesn’t have to end this way. I’m here for you; I always will be.” Still no sign of coherence, no indication that he’d heard anything I’d said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Brandon. And the day after that. And every day until you wake.”

I stood and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth.
He shouldn’t be here
, I thought.
I should have told him I forgave him when I had the chance.
My heart ached, and I looked briefly toward the ceiling.
Please let him live.

When I closed the door behind me, Calvin leapt. “Was he awake?”

I shook my head. “No.” Letting Calvin wrap me in his arms, I let out a long shudder. “Jesus! Why did he do that, Calvin?” But I didn’t have to ask. I knew why.

“Let’s go to bed,” Calvin whispered in my ear. “We’ll come back first thing tomorrow.”

I looked up into his saddened eyes. “I did this to him.”

“No, Sabrina, you
didn’t
.” He put his hands on my shoulders and pulled back. “Listen to me. You can’t blame yourself. No matter what happens, you didn’t wish for this. You didn’t make this happen. OK?”

My head believed him, but my heart, my heart knew that if Brandon didn’t make it, I’d never forgive myself.

***

We were dropped off at the Crown Plaza in downtown Dallas as the clock flipped to 4:02. The last time I stepped foot in this hotel was right before we went dress shopping for my wedding. There we sat—my mom, Mrs. Russell, and I tittering over our tuna Niçoises. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we’d toasted Brandon and my happy future. Look at us now.

Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep that evening, thinking of Brandon’s purplish bruises and his thin limbs beneath the sheets. The incessant beeping of the monitor, the intermittent wheeze of the ventilator, the coils of tubes protruding from his hospital gown.

I listened to Calvin’s even exhalations, slow and steady, and I curled around him, hoping to find sleep. Instead, I replayed the last conversation I’d had with Brandon, the angry exchange, my final contemptuous rebuff.
Stay the hell away from me.
I’d been so cold, so unforgiving. If I’d accepted his apology, explained that although I’d moved on, I wished him the best, would he be lying in that hospital bed right now, fighting for his life? Somehow, I knew the answer was no.

When I finally drifted off, I was haunted by the glow of the green cardiac
defibrillator, the peaks and valleys of Brandon’s heartbeat. Then suddenly, I was in that bed, battered and bandaged. I tried to open my eyes, but couldn’t; tried to breathe, but couldn’t. I opened my mouth to call for help, but I choked, grasping at my throat, hands stumbling on the breathing tube forced into my mouth. The plastic was cold and hard, filling my throat with its rigid girth.
Get it out!

I was gagging, ripping at the tubes and—
gasp
!
I sat up, still clutching my throat, clammy and disoriented. The morning sun spilled through the windows lighting up the hotel room.

“Hey!” Calvin said, sitting up quickly. “What’s wrong?” He pushed the sweaty bangs off my forehead, stroking my hair soothingly. I panted heavily, trying to catch my breath.

“I dreamed I—” I sat back against the pillow shaking my head. I inhaled deeply, the image of the tubes fading. “Wait—what time is it?” Had I overslept? We needed to get back to the hospital, needed to be there if he woke.

“A quarter to eight,” Calvin said, turning over to read the neon alarm clock.

Flinging the comforters off, I leapt. “We have to go!” I pulled on yesterday’s jeans, snaking into the sweatshirt I wore on the plane.

***

We arrived at the hospital just before eight-thirty, breathless and disheveled. Calvin had sprung into action as soon as I catapulted from the bed, dressing quickly, phoning his driver to meet us downstairs. Not once did he seem impatient or question what we were doing in Dallas. I had his unconditional support, and it meant more to me than I could put in words.

“His family just left so you have some time alone with him
,” the nurse said smiling. “Just in time. He’s awake.”

“He is?” I asked, relief flooding deliciously through my body.

“He’s not out of the woods yet, my dear.” Her expression sobered. “He still has a long road ahead of him.”

“I understand,” I said but secretly rejoiced.
He was awake!
That had to be a good sign. Somehow, it seemed as though he
couldn’t
die if he was well enough to wake. He just couldn’t.

Calvin squeezed my hand before letting go. “Whatever you have to do,” he said, kissing me gently.

I nodded and let myself into the hospital room, heart pounding. “Brandon?” I whispered softly. I saw that they’d removed his breathing tube, and he was taking shallow sips of air on his own.

At my voice, his eyes opened, glazed and unfocused. “Sabrina?” His voice was dry and cracked, like dying embers.

“Oh, my God, Brandon,” I said, sitting next to him, leaning forward to grab his hand. Sadness seized my heart. “What did you do?”

He licked his lips carefully, moistening them to speak. “I’m so sorry, Sabrina.”

Tears stung my eyes. “It’s OK, Brandon,” I said urgently. “It’s OK. I forgive you.”

He closed his eyes. “I didn’t think I was that person, but I was. I hate what I did to you. Hate what I put you through.
You were right. I don’t deserve to be here.”

“Brandon,” I said, squeezing, “please, you don’t know what you’re saying. You made a mistake, but please, you have to fight. I forgive you, Brandon.
And I didn’t mean what I told you last time I saw you.”

When his eyes opened, they were wet, shining brightly. “I’m not going to make it, Sabs.”

“Don’t say that!” I said. “You are not going to die, Brandon. You’re going to be fine, OK?”

He shook his head, a slight move to the right. “There’s nothing I can do to make this right. How can you forgive me when I can’t even forgive myself?”

A tear spilled over my cheek. “None of that matters anymore, Brandon. What matters is that you get better. That’s the only thing that’s important right now!”

“Don’t cry,” he said hoarsely. “You’re going to be OK,” he said. “And this is what I want. I don’t want to fight, Sabrina. I don’t. I just want to go to sleep.”

“We’re
both
going to be OK, Brandon!” I said. “You have to fight. Just to get better. OK? Please?” I was crying now, my breath coming in short ragged spurts.

His eyelids floated shut again, and his voice grew softer. “It’s OK, Sabrina. Shhh! Please don’t cry. I’m sorry, Sabrina.”

“Brandon, please!” I shook his arm. “Brandon?”

Beep. Beep. Beep.
The monitor maintained its steady rhythm, but there was no sound from Brandon. I dropped my head to his bed and wept. When there were no more tears, I sat up, exhausted and defeated. “Don’t give up on me, B,” I whispered. “I forgive you, whether you’ve forgiven yourself. Don’t forget there are people who love you out here.”

As I brought his hand to my lips, I heard a loud yell out in the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I heard. My father’s voice.
Oh, no
!
I ran out into the hallway just in time to see my father’s fist connect with Calvin’s temple. Calvin stepped back, momentarily stunned, but easily catching my dad’s arm as it swung for another hit.