Won't Let Go (18 page)

I wanted so badly to solve this mystery, to come out ahead and help Embry, but now I’m not so sure I can. I don’t know how to succeed. But I don’t know if I can allow myself to fail either.

The scrape of my office chair slices through the air. My body springs up, and the pillow falls from the bed.

“Oh God, what have I done?” Embry’s voice shakes.

I have to squint to see him, because Embry’s like a poorly tuned TV with rabbit ears. His body flickers in and out, the grains of his image pull together, only to quickly fall to the floor with a poof, a mushroom cloud of dust.

I whisper, “Embry?” Pulling my knees to my chest, I wrap my arms tightly around them.

The particles that make up Embry pull together once more as he sits rigid in my office chair. He violently shakes his head, fingers twisted into his sandy hair. “What have I done Alexia? Oh God, what have I done.”

“Were you there?”
He heard everything Elliot said?

Embry’s face twists with torment, maybe even concentration, because he’s finally able to take on a body, pulling together enough that I can see him clearly. Tears glisten at the edge of his stormy blue eyes. “I can’t be that person, I just can’t be.” Then he pulls his hands from his head, leaving his hair to stand on end, and he looks to me. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Alexia.” He’s slumped in the chair, his black shirt is rumpled, his slacks loose against his body. Even now, when it’s obvious he’s in pain, tormented, I can’t help but notice how sexy and broody he looks.

A million responses cross my mind. I open my mouth like I want to say something, then I close it. I drop my head to my knees, resting it there, eyes focused on the wall, the opposite one from Embry. Wood paneling reaches up to the ceiling, oak molding stands out against the contrast of the cream speckled look. Between the floors, the walls and my furniture, I’ll be happy if I never have to see another oak piece ever again.
Soon it will all be painted Blue Bell.

Taking in a few breaths of air, swallowing a lump, only to have it feel that much larger, I have no choice but to say something. “It’s not me you should be apologizing to.” My voice comes out so cold, just as if Embry was right next to me and not across the room.

“I know. I know that. But—” The chair squishes, the wheels squeal against the hard wood floor. “It’s a place to start, since I can’t exactly apologize to all the others I’ve hurt, can I?”

Almost like a whisper, faintly I can hear steps, one by one inching towards me. I force myself not to look. Then his deathly cold air brushes against me. It hovers and I know he’s right next to me. He’s touching me with his presence and even that makes me cringe. “I can’t—I can’t do this right now.” I squeeze my eyes shut, afraid they will betray me and look at him.

I so desperately want to look.

“I know. But it’s not me, you know that, right? It’s not who I really am.” He almost pleads his case.

I sigh. “Don’t you see though, it
is
you. That’s who you are, even if you can’t remember.”

“And I hate myself for that—God, I hope I never wake up. I wish I could just close my eyes and be gone from this earth, this nightmare, because I can’t stand the fact I’ve hurt people, but most of all—” he pauses and leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead.

My eyes moisten with tears, but they don’t fall. I beg them not to, forcing my lids to pinch closed even tighter. Instead, my entire body stiffens.

Each muscle tenses as his lips linger and he says, “I’ve hurt you Alexia, and you’re my reason for caring what happens to me. My only reason.”

His cold lips pull away and it’s only been a second, but I miss them already—that feeling he pours into me through his touch and presence.

I want to say something. I want to tell him I can’t stand the fact he might have to leave. But right now, in this moment, I wish I never met him. I wish I could forget everything. That I could hide behind the fact I have no memory because then this unbearable pain in my heart would go away.

But life is never that simple, is it? Because just then, Embry’s fingers brush my hair away from my face, sending electrifying chills over my body, and his whisper sweeps across my neck. “I wish I could take it all back.”

“Me too.” I’m about to add more, but suddenly the thrill of Embry’s touch disappears. So does his presence of arctic air. I lift my head off my knees, rake my fingers through my hair and see that Embry’s gone.

And again, I’m terrified he might not ever come back. But perhaps that’s just me being selfish.

I look up from my plate to see Dad swirl around the liquid in his wine glass, open his mouth, and then close it as if he's got something on his mind. I notice the oak paneling behind him that reaches halfway up the wall to meet a chair rail and a thick coat of mossy green paint. I'm sure Mom will want to replace the drab green with her new favorite color, Manchester Tan. The one we painstakingly hemmed and hawed over, before ultimately deciding it was the perfect choice to brighten up the place. “An interesting case came across my desk today,” Dad says from his spot at the head of the table.

I resume pushing around the carrots and broccoli on my plate and only nibble at tiny grains of rice. He’s always got interesting cases. And he always thinks we care. Most of the time we don’t.

His line of work can get very depressing because he always takes on those cases that no one else will. He’ll operate when others say the condition is inoperable, or rather not inoperable, but too risky. I think Dad likes to play God. Sometimes he wins, and the patient lives. He gets his praise and all is well. The sad thing, what most people don’t know, is that behind the fancy plaques and accolades, are dozens and dozens of cases where the patient dies. It happens. It has to. He took a chance and failed. Those of course aren’t what the real world hears about though. To anyone who comes to him, they only know about the situations he’s turned from the impossible to possible.

It’s a good thing. I know it is. He’s able to give people second chances at life. Improve their quality of living. Give them back something that has been taken away. I try not to be bitter about it. I do. He’s one of the good guys, but sometimes that comes with consequences. I hate that in order for him to do his job, people can die.

Dad ignores my silence and continues right on. “My interesting case—it’s about a boy who’s been in a coma for three years.”

The fork falls from my fingertips, clinking against the ivory, scallop edged china plate. I’m jolted forward, all ears.

“It reminded me of what you asked yesterday.” He looks me straight in the eyes, a knowing look in his. “And then I put it all together. I should have known you’d figure it out.” Then a smile, tiny and barely there, plays on his lips.

“Figure what out?” I swallow.

Dad impales a water-chestnut with his fork and jams it into his mouth. “We didn’t want to tell you honey, but this house, it has a bad reputation. I don’t want you to let it bother you.”

Bother me? I think that’s an understatement.
“So what’s going to happen—I mean with your case? Why are you involved?” I know there is that whole patient/doctor confidentiality but that hasn’t really stopped Dad in the past from talking about his cases, names left out of course.

“I’m consulting.”

I raise my eyebrows. I look to Mom who seems to be unusually quiet.

“They asked me to go over the files, give them my opinion. They’ve taken the case to a judge. I’m just lending my expertise.”

“And what is your expert opinion?” I ask.

He seems to think this over and then says, “I think they’re doing the right thing. They’ve tried to find his family, and when they can’t, like I said last night, this is the last option.”

“But he has family. He has a brother!” I say, not realizing until it’s too late I practically yelled.

“Yeah, sure, a brother who’s in jail for his attempted murder. I hardly think he’s the person to make this life or death decision. I think it’s clear how the
brother
feels.”

“He didn’t do it!” This time I’m angry, and I don’t hold back because maybe I just need to get it out. “He didn’t try and kill his brother, someone else did. He’s innocent!”

Dad raises his hands, gesturing. “Now hold on a minute, I’ve read all the reports, even the police ones. And I assure you, he most definitely did, Alex.”

“No! Daddy, he didn’t.”

“Well, honey, it doesn’t matter what you think, that case is closed. We’re not talking about whether his brother did it or not. They asked me if the boy would ever wake up. That’s what I was brought on for.”

“And will he? Or are you going to kill him? He has a chance, doesn’t he? Maybe he just—needs more time to heal.” I remember the articles Dawsyn gave me, the one about a patient recovering. It’s possible. It has to be.

Since I met Embry, and discovered he was still alive, that his heart still beats, I was so sure I was here to get them to pull the plug. But now that I’ve found Elliot, discovered he didn’t commit this crime, I have to believe Embry was given this chance to make things right, at least where his brother is concerned. Embry would wake up.
Wouldn’t he?
When his brother was freed from jail.
He’d be given a second chance too, right?
It happens. It will happen to Embry, I know it.

“I’m sorry honey, but I just...I just don’t think that’s possible. I’ve seen the scans. I’ve looked over the case extensively. I think letting him go—well, it’s the right thing to do.”

“No! You’re wrong! You missed something. He can’t die. He just can’t!” Anger boils in my veins. I’m furious.

Mom reaches over and places a gentle hand on mine and gives it a squeeze. “Now honey,” she says. “Your father is one of the best. If he says this boy won’t wake up, well, I think we owe it to him to trust his instincts.”

I shove my chair back and stand up. “No. No I won’t.”

Dad stands too, splaying his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly, and in a gentle voice says, “I don’t understand why you are so upset. You didn’t even know this boy—”

“He’s a person! You can’t just kill him. He’s going to wake up! I know it. There must be something you can do for him? Operate. You love fixing the impossible!”

“There’s nothing to operate on, honey. His brain, it needs more repairs than even I can do. I’m sorry, it’s already done.” He slumps back into his chair, adding, “They’re going to do it on Monday, once the final paperwork has been processed.”

My eyes grow wide.
No!
“What? No, that’s too soon, you can’t do it. Not yet.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. It’s out of my hands. I did my part.”

“But we can still stop it, change their minds? Can’t we?”

“I don’t think so.”

A flare of hope burns inside me as I recall what Dad said the other day. "What about an appeal, you said someone could appeal...It's an option, right?"

"No. I didn't mean...Why are you fighting this so hard?"

Anger pushes away the small twinge of hope, as I say, "Because he's a person! He shouldn't be allowed to just die. Not without someone fighting on his side." Then I add, "How do I appeal? Tell me who I can talk to."

"There's no one. It's done. I didn't think you'd take this so personally. I didn't think..." Dad rubs his hands over his face, the conversation wearing on him. “The only people who can appeal are his family. I'm sorry I wasn't clear about that, honey. But without his parents around, and his brother in prison, no one's going to take an appeal seriously. Not with all the facts they've been given. I'm
—
I'm sorry. It's done. It's too late."

If only I could help Elliot. If I could get him out of jail, he'd appeal, wouldn't he? If he was proven innocent. They'd have to listen to him.

Gulping in a few calming breaths, I steady myself, letting the anger subside. “I’m going to bed.” I need to think. I need...It's not enough time. I need more time. Monday. That’s only a couple of days away, and I don’t know who
really
tried to kill Embry yet.

Hell, I’m not even close.

I still have
nothing.

It’s Mom who speaks up this time, “But honey—”

I don’t turn around. I just stomp up the stairs and into my room. Wasn’t this stupid town supposed to be full of new beginnings? New and great opportunities? A chance to have a better life? Then why does it feel like this is the worst place ever? And so far it’s brought me nothing but pain and sorrow. And guilt. No matter how I look at it, I feel guilty—for yelling at Mom and Dad, for wishing I could keep Embry all to myself, for not trusting Allison. The list goes on and on.

The guilt is starting to choke me, thick hands clasped around my neck cutting off the air I need to breathe. Maybe I’m getting too involved, maybe this isn’t really what I was meant to do. Embry is lost and lonely. Perhaps my job is to comfort him during the little time he has left, and I’ve managed to screw even that up.

I’ve got to make a change. I’ve got to make things right.

Not even bothering to put on pajamas, I toss myself onto the bed, curl up under the covers and close my eyes.

I’m not sure how long my eyes have been closed, if I was sleeping or not, but I feel that familiar brush of frigid air even before I hear Embry’s velvety voice whisper, “Alexia?”

I feel the bed shift, the weight of his body pushing against the mattress, making it sink. He wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his chest.

“You—you were crying. In your sleep. I tried to stay away. But I couldn’t leave you.”

No matter how frustrated I thought I was, I can’t help the pull I feel towards Embry. I don’t fight it. Instead I snuggle in closer.
Had I really been crying?
I wipe at my face with my hand. Sure enough, it’s damp. My nose is even runny. I sniffle back the snot.

I inhale Embry’s lack of scent, hoping I can catch something. Maybe a hint of salt, or the oak that encases this house, but I get nothing. “They’re going to kill you,” I whisper.

“No one’s going to kill me,” he says. But of course he would. He doesn’t know any better.