FORTY-THREE
Ryan
I lost track of time. If it weren’t for the Christmas decorations that lit up the streets, I wouldn’t have known what month we were in. It was mid-December. Somehow, November had gone by. Despite invitations from my parents, my sister, my bud Duff, and even Mel, I spent Thanksgiving alone. I had nothing to be thankful for. My email to Willow had gone unanswered. I was in a comatose state. A zombie. It was an effort to get out of bed. Or leave my loft. I even stopped seeing Dr. Goodman, which was probably a big mistake.
The only person I communicated with regularly was Mel. He, too, had not heard from Willow since her departure to Paris. He was worried sick. I assured him that she was fine because for sure he would have been notified if something had happened to her. Yet, the burning question remained: Why hadn’t she gotten in touch with us? It had been over a month.
On a cold, blustery Friday, I decided to pay him a visit. Close to two o’clock in the afternoon, my rumbling stomach told me I had to eat something. In my sorry state, the only thing that would do was some chicken soup for the soul. And Mel made the best in the city.
Bundled up in a puffer jacket, scarf, and beanie, I trudged down the street to his deli. Despite my layers, the chill in the air ripped through me. I’d better get used to it. It was going to be a long, cold winter.
Mel’s Famous, as usual, was busy. There was joy in the air, many diners carrying colorful shopping bags filled with Christmas and Chanukah presents. Fuck. I hadn’t even started my holiday shopping. And I had a shitload to do, from finding the perfect gifts for my parents to sending one to my adorable niece, Violet. I just wasn’t in a joyous, giving mood. Maybe I’d hire a personal shopper and get it done that way. As for me, the only thing I wanted was to be with Willow. I’d even settle for a letter, an email, or a text as long as it ended in “xo.”
My eyes darted around the crowded restaurant in search of Mel. I spotted him at the cash register. Our eyes made contact as he waved me over.
“How’ya doing, Ryan?” he asked, ringing up a bill.
“Hanging in there. Any news from Willow?”
He shook his head, the expression on his face turning glum.
My heart sunk. The saying “misery loves company” had no meaning for me. I tried to cheer him up.
“Maybe she’ll get in touch once the ballet opens in Paris.” The one thing that I’d done was check the performance schedule of the opera house online. The Royal Latvia Ballet’s production of Swan Lake was set to premier in a couple of days. “Or we can track her down there,” I added, not sharing my fear that Willow had abandoned me for Gustave.
“From your mouth to God’s ears.” Mel shrugged hopelessly. “What can I get you?”
Before I could place my order, his old-fashioned wall phone rang. He grabbed the receiver on the second ring and put it to his ear.
“Mel’s Famous.” My gaze stayed on him as he listened in silence. His face blanched and his hand trembled. Jesus. Was he having another heart attack?
“Mel, are you okay?” I asked anxiously as the phone slipped out of his hand.
“It’s Willow. She’s been in a terrible accident.”
My heart skipped a beat. “What happened?”
“A truck hit her.”
“Jesus. Is she going to be okay?”
“They don’t know. She’s about to undergo surgery. I need to get to Paris to be with my baby girl.”
Paris. A chill ran through me. The City of Lights was my City of Doom. I couldn’t even watch French movies anymore.
Mel looked at me, his eyes watering. “Ryan, she’s been crying out your name.”
I had no choice. We were going to Paris together.
We were fucked. Every airline I looked up online was booked because of the holidays. The first available direct flight to Paris wasn’t until after the first of the year. Again, I had no choice. With dread in my stomach, I speed dialed one number. My father’s. His longtime secretary, Hazel, picked up on the first ring and I asked her put me through to him. I told her it was urgent.
Holding my breath, I was relieved when I heard my father’s voice.
“Hello, son. What can I do for you?” he drawled though his speech was improving.
“Father, I have an emergency.”
“You need money?”
“No, I need to use the company plane if it’s available.
“Where do you need to go?”
“Paris.”
Silence ensued. The City of Lights held dark memories for my father as well. He had flown there to make amends with me, but it was too late; Allee was gone. Reliving our awkward encounter in the Hemingway Bar, my chest tightened.
Clearing his throat, my father asked, “Something to do with your late wife?”
He never referred to Allee by name, which was fine by me.
“No.”
“Something to do with that new girl. Willa?”
“Willow,” I corrected. “She’s been in a bad accident.”
Another stretch of silence. Every second that went by meant that I might never hold her in my arms again. My pulse thudded in my ears with trepidation.
Then, finally…“Hold on. I’ll have Hazel check if the plane is free.”
While I shared an anxious glance with Mel, my father put me on hold for a minute and then returned.
“Son, it’s available. It’s yours.”
I breathed out a heavy sigh of relief and gave Mel a thumbs-up. His forlorn face brightened a tad as I wrapped up my call.
“Thank you, Father.” Three words I rarely said.
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know. But as soon as possible.”
“Good luck, son. And may God be with both of you.”
One hour later, Mel and I were on our way to Paris with my father’s blessings. Praying that Willow would be all right.
Mel and I arrived in Paris seven hours later. A limo met us at Le Bourget Airport and drove us straight to the hospital. The American Hospital in Neuilly. The very hospital where Allee had passed away. Where we’d spent our last night together.
A little after seven o’clock in the morning, the City of Lights was just waking up. Mel, who had never been to Paris before, kept his face pressed against the tinted glass windows. I suppose silently taking in the sites was a means of coping with his anxiety and fear. In the plane, he had tearfully told me that he couldn’t bear to lose Willow. I couldn’t bear to lose her either.
My stomach was in knots throughout the entire ride. I hadn’t been back to Paris since Allee’s death. The range of emotions that ran through me was daunting. And there was an awful, sick sense of déjà-vu. I seriously did not know if I could go through with this. Losing one great love in Paris was enough. Losing two was unimaginable.
The trip took us only twenty minutes. Except for a light layer of snow that dusted the grounds, The American Hospital of Paris was just as I remembered it. The sprawling five-story brick complex venerable and stately. Despite our fatigue, we raced through the entrance and up to the information center. Willow, now out of surgery, was in the intensive care unit on the third floor of Building D. The attendant on duty informed us we were not allowed to see her at this time.
“Monsieur, ce n’est pas possible,” said the stern, dismissive woman after a distraught Mel begged for the umpteenth time.
Impossible? Fuck this shit. This is when I used my pull. I told the arrogant French woman that I was Ryan Madewell, the son of Eleanor Madewell, who was now the Chairwoman of the American Hospital of Paris Foundation. To prove it to her, I pulled out my passport. Her eyes grew wide and after mumbling, “Pardon” in French, she instantly picked up a phone and arranged for Mel and me to have access to Willow. Her surgeon was going to meet us outside the ICU.
Dr. Beauchamp was a kind-looking, balding man in his early sixties. He spoke English perfectly.
“Messieurs, I am afraid I have good news and bad news.”
Bad news. At the sound of those two words, I thought Mel would have another coronary. This time a major one. I steadied him with my hands.
“The good news eez that she eez going to be okay. Given the force of impact from the truck, it eez a miracle. Though she suffered numerous internal injuries as well a serious head injury, she does not have brain damage. She will be able to resume a full and normal life.”
I breathed a loud sigh of relief. Mel almost squeezed the life out of the slight man with a hug. “That’s great, Doc. So what’s the bad news?”
“I’m afraid she will never be able to dance again. At least on a professional level. Her right leg was severely broken in five places. We had to pin eet back together.”
The big smile on Mel’s face fell off. “Will she be able to dance at her wedding?”
The doctor nodded with a grin. “Bien sur. Not only will she be able to dance at her wedding, but she’ll be able to dance at her children’s too.”
Tears leaked out the corners of Mel’s eyes. “Can I see my little girl, Doc?”
“Oui. But just for a petit peu.” A little bit. “She eez very tired.”
The doctor’s focus shifted to me. “You must be Ryan. Oui?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“She was crying out for you when she was wheeled into the hospital. And when she regained consciousness after the surgery, she asked for you again.”
My stomach twisting, I digested his words and remained speechless.
The doctor continued. “She will be very happy to see you, monsieur. Attendez-vous ici, s’il vous plaît.”
Wait here. Dr. Beauchamp escorted Mel to Willow’s room while I took a seat in the waiting area. Jumbled thoughts swirled around in my head. How would I feel when I saw her? What would I say to her? And why had she called out my name?
Fifteen minutes later, Mel slumped into the waiting area. His eyes were bloodshot; he’d been crying. I leaped to my feet.
“How is she?” I asked anxiously.
A faint smile flickered on his face. “She’s eager to see you, Ryan. She’s in room 312.”
Allee had been two floors above in room 512. The memory of our last night together jumped to the front of my mind. Frail, wan Allee lying there in bed with me, facing the bitter end. My beloved Allee. I could hear her voice in my head as if she was looking down on me. Madewell, I want you to be strong for me. Now, I had to be strong for Willow. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the worst.
A few minutes later, I stood in the doorway to her room.
“Hi.”
The minute my eyes set sight on her, my heart filled with reckless abandon. A small smile lit her face, and when she met my gaze, I rushed to her side, desperately wanting to take her into my arms.
Hooked up to IVs and beeping monitors, she was way thinner than when I’d seen her last. From under a bandage around her head, her long red hair fanned out over her pillow. Her skin was paler than I remembered, but her pallor and weight loss only accentuated her exquisite delicate features. Her leg, in a thigh-high cast, was suspended in traction. I took hold of her frail hand.
“Oh, Ryan, you came!” Her hoarse voice was just above a whisper.
“Shh.” I lifted her hand to my lips and kissed the back of it.
“Yeah, I’m here, baby.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. We’re together. That’s all that counts.”
Her heavy-lidded eyes blinked tears as I slid my backpack off my shoulders.
“I brought you something.”
“You did?” she murmured, her voice rising just a bit.
Her eyes stayed on me as I unfastened the buckle of the bag and reached inside it.
“Baboo!” she exclaimed as loud as she could as I held him up and waved his little tattered hand.
“I missed you,” I said in my best cartoony monkey voice. I certainly was no actor, but my silly impersonation worked.
Despite her fragile state, my Willow giggled. God, I loved that giggle. I smiled, then grew serious, my voice returning to normal.
“But not as much as I missed you.”
“I missed you so much too,” she said softly as I handed her the plush monkey. She sniffed his worn hand and smiled again.
“He smells like you, now.”
I couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah, I slept with him every night. He made me feel connected to you.”
“Was he there for you?” She was referring to our conversation that night on Yom Kippur in her bedroom. My fuckedupness.
“Yeah, he gave me hope.” I paused, wondering what to say next before blurting out what was on my mind. “Why didn’t you write me? Email me? Text me?”
“I couldn’t. There was no Internet. Plus, Gustave confiscated all our devices and circumvented all our mail.” She fiddled with the ballet slipper charm on the necklace I’d given her. “I thought about you every minute of the day.”
“The same.” I stroked her hair, relieved that the bastard hadn’t taken her necklace. “How did the accident happen?”
A look of terror washed over her. She chewed her bottom lip. “G-gustave assaulted me.”
“Jesus! Did he r—”
She cut me off before I could say “rape.”
“No, I escaped.” She continued with the details, begging me not to tell her father about what had happened.
Rage pulsed through my veins. Fucking, fucking Gustave. I wanted to kill the bastard. He was going to pay. My brave Willow should have chopped off his balls. When I got back to the States, I was going to talk to my sister about pressing charges. I was going to take the motherfucker down no matter what it took.
Stealing me away from my Machiavellian machinations, Willow squirmed in her bed. She shifted her raised leg and grimaced. Every nerve in my body jumped with concern.
“Do you hurt, baby?”
She shook her head. “Not when you’re with me.”
I caressed her face. “My darling, you’re going to be with me for a long time.”
Her eyes widened and her parched but oh so kissable lips parted. “What do you mean?”
Panic set in. I had to do this right, seal the deal, give her a ring. Any ring. Fuck. What ring? Then, as my gaze zeroed in on Baboo snuggled next to the woman I loved with all I had—Ping!—a light bulb flashed above my head like they did in comic strips. On my wrist, I was still wearing the pink ribbon that used to be tied around the little monkey’s neck. Reaching under the sleeve of my jacket, I undid the ribbon as Willow watched in silence. Holding the ribbon between my fingers, I got down on one knee, then took Willow’s left hand in mine.
“Willow, my love, I want to lay my roots next to yours. Make beautiful saplings and watch them grow as we grow old together.”
Her eyes shone into mine. “What are you saying, Ryan?”
“I love you with my heart and my soul.” My voice loud and clear, I wrapped the frayed pink ribbon around her ring finger, sealing it with a bow. “Will you be my wife?”
“Oh my God, yes,” she whispered, gazing at her finger. We were tied together. Bound.
And with that, I leaned into her and pressed my lips against hers. She was too weak to resist me deepening it with my tongue. A moan escaped her throat, one of pure joy, not pain.
I pulled away and traced her moist lips with my finger. Tears were streaming from her eyes. I moved my hand to her cheek and brushed them away.
“My butterfly, why are you crying?”
“Oh, Ry-man, I’ve loved you from page one.”
Undying Love. I swiped my own tears. Here in this hospital where I’d lost Allee Adair, I’d gained Willow Rosenthal. The next Mrs. Madewell.
Willow needed her rest. It was time to leave. A relieved but weary Mel stood by my side waiting for the elevator. Later, after getting some sleep at a nearby hotel, I would tell him that I had proposed to his daughter. A better father-in-law could not be had.
The elevator doors slid open, and the sole passenger’s steel-gray eyes clashed with mine. He was holding a large bouquet of black roses in one hand and his cane in the other. He pushed past me. Fucking Gustave!
“Mel, go down to the lobby. I forgot something.” I shoved him into the elevator before he could say a word. The doors closed behind me.
Tapping his cane, Gustave swaggered down the long corridor with a slight limp. Ha! He was still aching from Willow’s caning. Not wasting a second, I chased after him and caught up to him in no time. Grabbing his elbow, I held him back. He spun around.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice as cold as dry ice.
I didn’t answer him—why waste words on this asshole?—and tightened my grip.
Writhing, he tried to free himself, but it was futile. “Let go of me, you peon.”
Ignoring his pathetic plea, I plucked out one of the macabre roses from the bouquet.
“A rose is a rose is a rose.” The astute words of one of my favorite writers, Gertrude Stein. Inspired, I rolled the pad of my thumb over one of the thorns. “And a prick is a prick is a prick.”
He scowled. “Give me back the rose.”
“Fine, but I want to give you this first.” Before he could blink an eye, I fisted my right hand and plowed it into his face. So hard my knuckles stung. THWACK! His groan was like music to my ears.
Blood poured from his mouth. “I’m bleeding,” he whined like a pathetic ninny as he swiped at the crimson stream. Rivulets rolled over his twisted lips, some landing on his cashmere turtleneck, others getting caught in his goatee. Lowering his hand, he rolled his tongue over his teeth before contorting his face and cursing in French.
“You knocked my tooth out!” Reaching into his mouth, he retrieved the bloodied front tooth and stared at it in a state of shock while blood still dripped down his chin.
Taking advantage of his stunned condition, I punched him again harder—this time in his gut. Wincing, he bent over in pain, dropping the rest of the flowers onto the floor. Adrenaline pumping in my veins, I kicked them fifty-feet down the hall and then kicked him in the balls.
“What the fuck?” he moaned, his eyes watering.
“I’m not done with you.”
Not wasting a second, I grabbed his cane out of his hand. He cowered, fearing I would hit him with it. And trust me, I was this close to doing it.
“Please,” he whimpered, clutching his stomach with one hand and protectively cupping his junk with the other. “Don’t hit me again.”
I gripped the cane so tightly my knuckles turned white. “You, bastard. If you ever come near my girl again, I’ll break you in half like this cane.” With my two hands, I snapped the cane in half and tossed the pieces in the direction of the elevator. “Now, get the fuck out of here.”
As he gimped down the hallway to the elevator, I shouted out to him. “By the way, don’t count on an invitation to the wedding.”