Wake for Me (Life or Death Series) (18 page)

“You were waiting for your boyfriend,” he reminded her.

“Right.” She sighed. “Aiden. Well, it turns out that…Aiden and I…basically broke up that night. Only I forgot, because I was in a coma. So when I woke up, he tricked me…into thinking we were still together. Because of that stupid song he said he wrote. About me. But none of that matters now.”

“Why not?” Sam kept his focus on the tip of her nose, afraid if he met her gaze, she’d see the hope in his eyes.

“Because,” she said, and her smile went away. She turned her head toward the vase of roses on the table by the window. “I remembered…something else. Something important. The night…I first woke up? The night that you came…and found me…not breathing?”

“Yeah?”

“Someone came into my room. He tried to…stop me from…breathing. To smother me.”

“What?” Sam wanted so badly to believe she wasn’t a liar, like Mr. Gosselin had said. But if she really believed what she was saying, then things were about to get so much worse for her. And he’d hate to think about that.

“I don’t expect you to…believe me,” she said. “That’s why I’m going…to prove it. But Jacques doesn’t want me to…because I think….” She closed her eyes again, and another sob escaped her chest. “Oh, Sam, I think it was him.”

Sam stood up, and started pacing the room. The job Chakrabarti had tasked him with had just gotten a hundred times harder. But if she was right, and if someone was trying to hurt her, wasn’t a closed ward still the safest place she could possibly be?

“Listen,” Sam said, stopping at the foot of her bed, where she could look at him straight on. “I just came from Chakrabarti’s office. Your Uncle Jack was there, too, and—“

“He is not my uncle,” she hissed.

“Sorry,” Sam corrected himself. “Jacques was there. Because of what happened this morning—and I still don’t really know any of the details, by the way—he convinced Chakrabarti to sign off on a psychiatric hold. That basically means, you’ll be under observation for a 24-hour period.”

“What?” Viola’s face went from anger to panic almost immediately. “No, he can’t do that.”

“Actually,” Sam told her, coming to stand at her side so he could touch her arm reassuringly, “he can. But that’s why I wanted to talk to you first. If you check yourself in for observation, it’ll be that much easier for you to prove that you’re not combative like they said. If you keep calm and explain to the psychiatrist what you remember, like you did to me just now, he’ll have no choice but to discharge you.” He felt the bile rising in his throat as he fed her the best case scenario that felt more like a blatant lie. “Then you’re free to leave the hospital, if that’s what you want.”

Viola squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head slowly from side to side. “Oh, Sam.”

“What?” He moved a piece of hair that had fallen across her face. “I mean, I know it’s not ideal, but psych isn’t that bad. You’ll have a private room, and it’ll be quiet. Hell, you’ll have less people barging in on you than you do now.”

“What did they say to you,” she asked quietly, “to get you…to tell me this?”

“Nothing,” he lied. Instantly, his stomach lurched. This was what he’d been dreading. “I really do think it’s the best chance you have. You won’t be put in restraints, and all of our psych docs are really nice. One of the psych interns is even a friend of mine, from school. You’ll be in great hands.”

Sam’s reasons sounded empty. Who was he really trying to convince, a little voice whispered. Viola, or himself?

“You don’t believe that,” she said, looking up at him. “You’re trying to pretend like it’s the right thing…but deep down you know…you caved. It’s just like…the swim team. State. All over again. Plus, the study…you never asked Chocolate Barbie, did you?”

“The swim team?” Sam was thrown that she’d mention such a random event in his life. “Wait a minute, how do you know about that? I don’t remember telling you that.”

Viola ignored his question. “You didn’t ask, did you?”

Sam could perfectly remember every conversation they’d had in the last few weeks, and not once had they talked about him quitting the swim team. Except, for one night, when he’d been sitting in her room, complaining about high school. Back when she’d still been in a coma.

“Oh my God,” he said. “Do you remember me telling you about the state finals? Because that…Viola, that would be huge. If you were aware during your coma….”

He trailed off, trying to grasp the enormity of what that could mean, and failing.

In response to his enthusiasm, Viola only shrugged. “Not sure…Apparently, I’m crazy, remember?”

Finally, Sam understood why she was always so vague about the things she knew, and how she knew them. Who would ever believe her if she said she remembered being lucid during a coma? He certainly wouldn’t have. Except, how else would she be able to come up with those kind of details?

“Viola, you can trust me,” he said, leaning down to look at her, forcing her to make eye contact with him. The look on her face was heartbreaking, like she wanted to believe him, but couldn’t afford to take her chances.

“You said…you’d take care of me.”

Sam had never felt guiltier in his life than he did at that moment. And considering some of the shit that he carried around with him, that was saying something.

“You’re right,” he said, squaring his jaw. “But did you ever think that this might be me taking care of you? Listen, even if you’re not losing your mind, the only way for you to prove it is to talk to a psychiatrist. Tell him what you remember. If it’s real, it can be verified. Then they’ll have to listen to you.”

She looked at him with mistrust. “What if they don’t?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Viola.”

Viola opened her mouth, a question written across her face. But then her lips shut, and she turned to look at that sad, dead vase of flowers again. When she turned back, her chin was set.

“Promise me,” she said. “Promise me…it will be okay.”

Sam knew he shouldn’t make her any more promises he didn’t have the power to keep. He’d already made her too many, and most of them had turned out badly. But the way she was looking at him now, with all that determination, and all the fear that hid underneath it—how was he supposed to say no?

“Okay,” Sam told her, squeezing her hand. “I promise.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever.” –Sigmund Freud

“Please put your belongings in the basket.”

Viola glared across the desk at the frumpy, mannish-looking nurse in white scrubs. Her face had some kind of rash on it, Viola thought, or maybe the psych nurse had just never moisturized a day in her life. While some part of her knew she was being a bitch, the rest of her couldn’t help it. She was scared, and when she was scared she got snarky.

“Don’t you mean…put the lotion…in the basket?” She raised an eyebrow, and dropped her small overnight bag into the plastic laundry basket the psychiatric nurse was holding out.

Behind her, Sam made a noise in his throat—almost like a cough, but she knew he was trying to muffle a laugh.

Turning her head to the side, she fixed him with an over-the-shoulder glare. His face turned immediately contrite.

“You’re right,” he said. “This isn’t even slightly funny.”

The nurse tapped the edge of the basket, drawing Viola’s attention back to her ongoing humiliation. “All your belongings.”

“What?” Viola looked down at herself. Except for her Lululemon yoga pants, bra top and jacket, all she had on was a pair of ballet flats—because Sam had warned her that she wasn’t allowed to have shoes with laces in them. Hello, Shawshank.

“The watch,” the wannabe Nurse Ratched said, pointing to Viola’s wrist. “And the earrings. We don’t allow personal items valued at more than fifty dollars.”

“Oh, the earrings are…fake,” Viola lied, trying to ignore the uncomfortable throat clearing coming from behind her. Obviously, Sam knew that she’d never be caught dead wearing fake anything. “And I can’t give you the watch. It’s…important.”

She didn’t know how else to explain it, especially to some random stranger. But the moment Viola even thought of taking off her watch, her heart began to race and her palms felt damp. She couldn’t afford to lose it. Not again, not now.

The psych nurse, unfortunately, didn’t seem to be swayed even slightly. She held out her hand, with a bored expression on her face.

“I’ll make sure it gets taken straight to security,” she said. Somehow, Viola had a feeling the nurse would just throw the watch into a drawer with all the other crap she’d taken off of her crazy patients. Viola looked at Sam again, pleading for help, but he only smiled apologetically.

“You’ll get it back,” he said. “You only have to live without it for twenty-four hours, remember?”

Viola swallowed heavily, forcing herself to calm down. The watch wasn’t the only thing she’d be forced to live without. There was also her dignity. And Sam.

Which was stupid, she realized, since neither of those things had really ever been hers. The watch was a gift from her father, and her dignity was an illusion, it seemed. And Sam…well, Sam had a girlfriend now, if the ICU nurses’ gossip could be believed.

“Alright,” she said, looking at the nurse, pleading with her eyes if not her words. “Be careful…with this.”

Slowly, carefully, she undid the clasp and handed over the last piece of her father. A rose gold-plated Cartier
Ballon Bleu
with a diamond bezel, it was worth so much more to her than its $30,000 price tag. The day Viola’s father had given it to her, she’d gasped and told him how beautiful it was. She’d never forget what he said next. ‘It is more than beautiful,
mon chaton
. True, it is covered in gold and diamonds. But at its heart, it is made of the strongest steel.’ Then, he’d turned it over. On the inside, there was an engraving in strong, beautiful script
. Souffrir sans reddition
—suffer without surrender. The words from the Bellerose family crest. ‘This watch,’ he’d told her, ‘is made to endure. No matter what the world around it says, or does. It will never be less than what it is.’

Choking back a sudden rush of tears, Viola handed the watch over. If only her father could see her now. Would he chastise her for letting her life spin so violently out of control, or commend her for maintaining a brave exterior, no matter what? It had gotten to a point where she honestly couldn’t tell anymore.

After removing her diamond studs—because really, compared to everything else she’d lost, they were worth less than nothing—and giving them to the nurse, Viola turned back to Sam.

“It was nice…knowing you,” she said, forcing a brave smile.

“Don’t worry,” he told her, reaching for her arm and giving it a depressingly platonic squeeze. “I’ll come see you tonight, during visiting hours.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, proud of how easily the lie fell from her lips. “I’ll be fine. It’s only a day.”

Smiling sadly at her—was it her imagination, or was there a trace of guilt?—Sam nodded.

“You’re right. It’s only a day. But I’ll still come visit you, if that’s okay.”

“It’s a free country,” Viola said, with a shrug. But then she decided that wasn’t enough of a parting shot, so she added, “Except when you’re…an intern, I guess.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Behave yourself in there.”

“You know,” she said, pretending to think it over, “I don’t think I will.”

Apparently buying her tough, brave act—since he suddenly seemed less guilty—Sam headed back down the narrow hallway toward the restricted-access elevator they’d come up in.

After watching him go, Viola turned and followed the nurse through the heavy-looking double doors, and into a world where freedom and privacy were privileges—not rights—and no one cared what her last name was.

***

I’m falling.

All around me, pieces of my life float through the air like debris from an explosion. Shards of the white four-poster bed that I slept in as a child. Feathers from expensive silk pillows. Shreds of designer dresses. Broken strands of pearls. My father’s favorite cuff links. The rusted red bicycle I used to sneak away to ride at my grandfather’s farm. Broken wine bottles.

Below me, the ground looks like a Monet painting, blurred and picturesque. I can see green squares and blue ovals, with veins and capillaries of white and black running through it all, connecting everything. Sam would be proud of me for remembering the proper terms.

As the ground comes up to greet me, I don’t struggle. I’ve fallen before, and the more I try to fight it, the faster I fall. I’m a slave to the whims of gravity.

I’m a dead bird, falling from the sky.

I hit the ground, but I don’t wake up. I shatter into a million pieces, scattering myself across the fields and lakes and vineyards. That’s a myth, I’ve discovered. You don’t always wake when you die in a dream.

Instead, I roll over and find myself standing in a church. Not just any church, but the crumbling stone chapel at St. Catherine’s Preparatory School for Girls. I’m wearing a white satin dress, my grandmother’s wedding dress. Sam is standing across from me.

“I do,” I say, without waiting to be asked.

He smiles, and leans in to kiss me. I’m angry at him for something, I think. I’m supposed to be angry. But when he smiles like that, when he looks at me like I’m all he wants in the world, I can’t remember what he did to deserve my anger. I lean in to meet his lips, but he stops a breath away, taking a step back.

There’s a crunching sound in my mouth. I bring my hand to my face, horrified. When I open my mouth to apologize, dozens of teeth fall out. Blood drips from my mouth, onto my pristine white dress. I bend over and spit it out, because it’s choking me. The carpet in front of the altar becomes littered with teeth. Sam backs away, disgusted.

“I’m sorry,” I say, slurring heavily. “I’ll get better, I promise. Please, don’t leave me.”

***

Thirty-six hours after being admitted, Viola’s bravado was really starting to wear thin.