Chapter 2 - The Man Who Told Me Not to Call for Help
His eyelids trembled like the effort cost him everything he had left.
I didn't breathe.
For one stretched-out second I wondered whether fear and grief had finally mixed into something strong enough to make me see things.
Then his eyes were fully open.
They were gray. Not the faded, faraway gray I'd imagined on a man who'd been gone this long—sharp gray, storm-colored, full of confusion and pain. They drifted across the ceiling. Moved to the window. Then found me.
The chair scraped as I stood.
"Adrian?"
His gaze locked onto my face. Beside him the heart monitor picked up speed.
I should have run for the nurse. Every reasonable cell in my body was screaming it. Instead I stood rooted by the bed.
His lips parted. No sound.
"You're awake," I whispered.
His forehead creased. He tried again and got nothing out but a thread of breath.
I reached for the water glass and stopped. I didn't know if he was allowed to drink. I didn't know if the wrong touch could hurt him.
"I'm going to get somebody."
His fingers moved against the blanket—weak, but on purpose. His hand closed around my wrist.
I looked down at it. His grip had about as much strength as a tired kid's. It stopped me completely.
"Don't," he breathed.
So faint I nearly lost it under the monitor.
I bent closer. "What?"
His throat worked. "Don't… call…"
The monitor kept racing. Fear shot through me.
"Adrian, you need a doctor."
His fingers tightened a hair. His eyes cut to the door, then back to me. "Not yet."
There was something in his face that dropped the temperature of the whole room. It wasn't confusion. It was fear.
Before I could ask what he was afraid of, the door opened.
The nurse came in with a tray of medications, glanced at me, glanced at the bed—and the tray went out of her hands. A little glass vial hit the carpet and rolled under a chair.
"Mr. Calloway?"
Adrian's fingers slipped off my wrist. His eyes closed.
The nurse rushed the bed. Checked the monitor, pressed two fingers to his neck, thumbed one eyelid up.
"Mr. Calloway, can you hear me?"
Nothing. He'd gone still as furniture again.
But I knew what I'd seen. I knew what I'd heard.
She hit the call button.
Within two minutes the quiet bedroom turned into a scrum. Two doctors. A second nurse rolling in a cart. Somebody moved me back against the wall while they worked over him, trading clipped phrases that sounded hopeful and nervous at the same time.
"Responsive to sound."
"Could be purposeful movement."
"Heart rate's up."
"Pupils normal."
One of the doctors turned to me. "What happened?"
I opened my mouth. Then I saw Adrian's face again. Don't call. Not yet.
"He opened his eyes," I said carefully. "He looked right at me."
"Did he speak?"
The question hung there.
I looked past him to the bed. Adrian's face had gone smooth and peaceful again. Too peaceful.
"No," I lied. "I don't think so."
He studied me a second, then nodded. "What were you doing right before he responded?"
"Talking to him."
"About anything specific?"
"My mother. The wedding. My family."
"Did you touch him?"
"I was holding his hand."
He turned to the nurse. "Document all of it. Let's get more scans."
The door opened again. Margaret came in first, Preston a step behind.
The second Margaret saw the doctors clustered around the bed, something cracked open in her face. The cold went out of it. What replaced it was hope so raw I felt ashamed for ever thinking she didn't love him.
"What happened?"
The nurse stepped aside. "He showed signs of consciousness."
Margaret's hand found the back of a chair. "Did he wake up?"
"Briefly."
"Did he speak?"
The doctor glanced at me. "Mrs. Calloway says he didn't."
Preston's eyes slid to my face. He smiled without a gram of warmth in it. "What a remarkable coincidence."
"What is?"
"Nine months. Not a flicker." He tipped his head toward the bed. "Then he opens his eyes the same day he picks up a wife. You'll forgive me if I find that convenient."
Margaret rounded on him. "Not now, Preston."
"I'm only pointing out that the timing stinks."
"Your cousin may be waking up."
"And I'm overjoyed." His voice said the opposite.
The doctors got Adrian ready to move him down to the private medical suite on the estate's lower floor. As they wheeled him past, I caught the smallest flicker beneath his closed eyelids.
He was still there. Still listening.
Margaret watched until the elevator doors shut. Then she turned to me.
"What exactly did you say to him?"
I gave her most of what I'd told the doctor.
Her eyes didn't leave mine. "And then?"
"He moved his finger."
"Nothing else?"
I hesitated.
Preston caught it. His head tilted. "What aren't you telling us?"
"Enough," Margaret said.
"It's a fair question."
"You rarely ask those."
His smile went thin. He slid his hands into his pockets and walked off, footsteps fading down the corridor.
Margaret stayed beside me. For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then she said, "My grandson wasn't supposed to survive the first week."
I looked at her.
"The doctors told us to prepare. But Adrian has always had a stubbornness that borders on arrogance." Her gaze moved to the elevator. "He stayed. Month after month, when there was no reason to." Her voice softened. "You may be the first new reason he's found."
"I didn't do anything."
"You spoke to him."
"So have other people."
May you like
"Not honestly." She faced me again. "In this house, honesty is rarer than loyalty. And loyalty is nearly extinct."
Before I could ask what she meant, she walked away.
