TAVIAN

12.01.15

“So what do you say, buttercup? Would you rather stay at The Knickerbocker or Casablanca Hotel for New Year’s? I’m torn and can’t decide. Classic luxury or modern chic?”

I peer over the top of my laptop screen to where Lyra lays motionless in the hospital bed, hooked up to more machines than I care to think about. The entire left side of her body looks like something out of a war movie—from the shaved patches of hair behind her ear where they did the surgery, to her swollen, battered, and bruised face, to the white plaster cast that stretches from the knuckles of her fingers almost all the way to the crease of her underarm. She’s almost unrecognizable if you look at her from that side, but somehow, her right half came away nearly unscathed, suffering only a few superficial cuts and scrapes.

Of course, she doesn’t respond verbally, but that doesn’t mean I stop talking to her. The first couple of days Lyra was here, I was only allowed to visit for three hours in the morning and three in the evening, which left a lot of time for me to try to keep my mind occupied and not lose my shit and do something stupid. Like pay a visit to Annie at her parents’ house, where she’s staying since she posted bail. I constantly have to remind myself I’m no good for Lyra when she wakes up if I’m in prison.

Instead, I spent the time educating myself on Lyra’s injuries and condition, preparing myself for what to expect and things to watch for. Then, when I came for visiting hours yesterday morning, the doctor delivered the good news. For three straight days, the tests results showed a significant decrease in the swelling of the brain tissue and there was no sign of additional bleeding, so it was time to gradually ween her off the anesthesia and see how her body would react.

It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since that process began, and thankfully, they’re letting me stay with her around the clock now, so there will be a familiar face here once she wakes up. The doctors continue to remind me there’s no way to predict what she’s going to be like when—and if—she regains consciousness. It doesn’t take any of my fancy statistical analyses to determine the odds of having both short and long-term memory loss, damage to one or more of her senses, and altered motor skills are all relatively high. But as long as Lyra remembers who I am and still wants to be with me, I can work around anything else. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure her quality of life is the best possible for as many days as she has left. As long as we’re together.

I refuse to acknowledge the slight chance that, even once the drugs are no longer in her blood stream, she will never open her eyes again. That her brain will never switch back into the On position. I’m not sure why her numbers haven’t come back yet like everyone else’s have, but I won’t give up on her. I trust in the timing of everything, even if I am an impatient asshole.

That’s why I’m sitting here going over the details of our upcoming trips with her. No, not because I actually believe we’ll be taking any of them as planned; despite my optimistic attitude toward life, I’m still very much a realist kept grounded by hard statistical data. But I’m doing it for the slim chance she can actually hear me. If she’s drifting somewhere in the gray area between the realm of awareness and unconsciousness as the medicine works its way out of her system, I want her to know I’m right here by her side. My belief in her—in us—hasn’t faltered. Not for a second.

“Mr. West,” Dana, the sixty-something silver-haired nurse who has been assigned to Lyra for the last twelve hours, calls my name from the other side of the room as she erases her name from the dry erase board. “It’s about to be shift change. Is there anything I can get you before I head out? A snack or coffee or anything?”

I glance over and offer her an appreciative smile with the shake of my head. “No, thanks, I’m good. Plus, Ma will be here soon, and I’m sure she’ll have enough breakfast food with her to feed the entire floor again.”

“Well, if it’s half as good as the dinner she brought up for all of us last night, I’m already jealous of the next shift.” The older woman chuckles lightly as she grabs the tablet she uses to enter Lyra’s medical information in and then makes her way to the door. Stopping just before she pulls on the stainless lever, Dana looks at me over her shoulder and says with conviction, “Don’t stop talking to her. I’ve worked in Intensive Care for over twenty years, and I assure you, they can hear. Even if she can’t decipher what you’re saying quite yet, the sound of your voice will soothe and strengthen her. She’ll follow it into the light.”

She quietly slips out the oversized door—wide enough for hospital beds and equipment to be easily wheeled in and out of—as her words bounce around in my head. I’ve read multiple articles online about people who have been in comas and claim they could hear things going on around them, and maybe it’s because I want so badly for it to be true for my own circumstances right now, but I believe them. And to hear a nurse who specializes in this area of medicine say she thinks they can hear too, I feel validated in my opinion.

“All right, Mrs. West, we’ve got about ten minutes alone before the next nurse comes in. We need to be fast so we don’t get caught,” I say aloud as I transfer my computer from my lap to the small table and stand up from the tiny couch—which is also my bed for the foreseeable future.

I stride across the cold white linoleum floor to the right side of her bed, still in the Pluto: Never Forget T-shirt Lyra picked out for me in Barcelona and plaid flannel pajama pants I slept in, and bend down to kiss the corner of her dry, cracked, and barely parted lips. No matter how much or how often I spread Aquaphor on them, they soak it up almost immediately.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I whisper as I rest my forehead against the uninjured side of hers. “You ready to come back yet? I don’t want to take all these trips by myself, and you know how much I suck at using your camera. Who will take all the pictures if you don’t come with me?”

I back away a couple inches, far enough where I can gaze down on her face for a few heartbeats before positioning my forefinger and thumb on the top and bottom of her eyelid, saying a little prayer in the process. “Please, God, please let her numbers be there. I know it’s only four and a half more months, but I need every single one of those days. I’ll do anything.”

I suck in a deep breath and hold it ballooned in my lungs as I pry open her eye and wait for the pupil to float into view. “Holy shit,” I hiss when the six-digit number appears, staring up at me clear as day in vibrant white.

The uncontrollable trembling starts in my fingers and toes but spreads across my entire body faster than a wildfire in a drought. Beads of sweat dot my forehead along my hairline, and my palms are sticky and clammy, but I can’t stop my teeth from chattering loudly together. My brain is in such a state of shock from what I see that it’s glitching and playing tricks on me.

Those aren’t…. That can’t be…. No one else’s did that.

I close my own eyes and count to ten, then reopen them and focus on Lyra’s pupil once again. The same six numbers I saw moments ago—031476—are still imprinted in the dilated black center, and the blue iris surrounding it is no longer dull and lifeless.

She’s in there. My girl is still in there fighting. And if I’m not hallucinating right now, she’s suddenly got an extra sixty years to fight for.

“They’re back! Your numbers are back!” I shout much louder than I should in the ICU wing, unable to contain my excitement. “You’re gonna be okay! Do you hear me, buttercup? Everything’s gonna be great… even better than it was before.”

I pepper kisses on every inch of Lyra’s face that’s not marked or discolored as tears of relief and happiness blur my vision. She’s far from out of the woods, and even in the best-case scenario, the road to recovery will most likely be long and full of challenges. But none of that matters, because we’ll always have each oth—

Wait. I don’t know if my number changed along with Lyra’s, or if it stayed the same from before they disappeared. I just kind of assumed it did what hers did, but I don’t have any real reason to think that. What if she’s now going to live well into her eighties, but I’m still going to—

“Mr. West, is everything okay?”

“What happened, Mr. West?”

“Did she move?”

“Did she open her eyes?”

“Or talk?”

My depressing thoughts are sharply cut off as three nurses burst into the room, yelling out questions as they push me out of the way and surround the bed. They each check a different machine, speaking in a medical language I’m just beginning to understand, and then turn to observe the unmoving Lyra.

“She didn’t move or talk yet,” I tell them. “But it’s coming. Soon.”

The three women turn to face me, waiting for an explanation for why I screamed and why I seem so sure Lyra’s close to waking up. I can’t exactly tell them about her numbers, but I need them to believe me that something happened. The numbers weren’t there at all last night, and now she has new ones!

“Her eyes opened,” I blurt out, at least keeping my lie to the right body part. “I was at her bed and they opened, and she looked directly at me, like she knew who I was, before they closed. That’s why I shouted. I was trying to get her to open them again.”

With a collective nod, the nurses fly into action mode, and before I know it, I’ve been ushered out of the room and into the waiting area as the doctor arrives to evaluate Lyra. They won’t find anything in their medical testing that will explain why her numbers suddenly appeared or why they’re different than before, but maybe something they do will trigger her to wake up. I’m growing desperate.

My mom arrives while I’m still in the waiting room, her arms loaded down with an assortment of breakfast goodies she made herself. I immediately rush to her side to help before she drops everything, and we then spend the next thirty minutes passing out the food to the hospital staff and other family members visiting loved ones on the floor. I excitedly tell her the same story about Lyra’s eyes opening that I told the nurses, and even though it’s not the truth of what actually happened, the emotion behind it is genuine.

I just can’t allow myself to think about my own numbers.

Ma and I return to the waiting room—my most hated space in this entire hospital—and eat our own breakfast while we do more of the dreaded W-word. Finally, after an hour or so, the doctor walks up and greets us with a professional smile, but I instantly sense the hesitation in his demeanor and I switch in to high alert.

“Is everything all right?” I demand, jumping up from the uncomfortable chair and stalking toward the white coat. “Is Lyra okay? Did something happen to her?”

He holds his hands up in surrender and shakes his head with an uneasy chuckle. “Everything is fine with Lyra, Mr. West. Actually, better than fine. She’s awake.”

I freeze and blink hard, hoping on everything that’s holy I didn’t just mishear him. My mom is by my side in a heartbeat, her arm linked with mine for support. “I’m sorry. What… what did you say?”

His face breaks out into a wide smile this time. “I said that Mrs. West is awake, but she’s still—”

Rude or not, I leave him midsentence as I take off in a sprint down the hallway to Lyra’s room. He can fill me in on the details later; there will plenty of time for that. The only thing that matters right this fucking second is that I see my wife with my own two eyes—alive, well, and with over sixty years to live.

I skid to a stop outside the door then take a couple deep breaths to gather my composure before I burst inside and scare her. She’s already going to be groggy and confused, possibly even aggressive, so I need to be her rock of cool, calm, and collected. That is, if she remembers who I am.

Mustering up every ounce of courage I have inside me, I grab the handle and carefully push the door open. One of the three nurses from earlier is still in here, but she’s furiously typing something at the workstation, and when she sees it’s me, she motions for me to approach Lyra’s bed.

“She’s trying her hardest to stay awake, but the drugs just won’t let her for long. Pull a chair up next to her, so she can see you when she opens her eyes again,” the nurse encourages.

I do as she suggests, taking my place right up against the bulky hospital bed, my gaze not leaving Lyra’s face.

“How long after the doctor came in did she come to?” I’m curious to how it all happened and a little disappointed I wasn’t in here.

“Maybe fifteen minutes or so. Not long after you called us in,” she answers. “She must’ve been trying to answer you when you were talking to her, but couldn’t figure out how to use her voice.”

Unable to resist the urge to touch her, I reach out and stroke my thumb across her cheek. “Can she talk now?”

“I can, but my throat feels like I gargled with shards of broken glass,” Lyra croaks as her eyes—puffy and bloodshot but more beautiful than ever—flutter open and lock directly on me. The new numbers—031476—shine bold and bright.

“Welcome back, buttercup,” I breathe, choking on the swell of emotion bubbling up inside me and threatening to overflow. “Fuck, I missed you, baby. Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

She peers up at me and blinks hard once, twice, and by the third time, I realize something’s not right. Her mouth keeps opening like she’s going to say something else, but no words are coming out.

“What is it, Lyra? What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” I question, ready to fix any and everything in her life that I can.

“The numbers,” she hisses, pointing at my eyes with a look in her own that I can’t quite interpret. “I can see them again. On everyone.”

My Adam’s apple bobs in my throat as I nod sharply. I really wasn’t planning on having this conversation first thing, but I should’ve realized she would notice the numbers were back immediately.

“Yeah, I started seeing them again Thursday night,” I admit reluctantly.

“Can you see mine? Are they the same as before?”

I clench my jaw and nod again, refusing to lie to her. “I can see everyone’s, but I really think we should talk about this later, once we’re home and alone. You just woke up from a coma. The last thing you need is to stress about the numbers. Why don’t you get some rest while I talk to the doctor? Plus, Ma’s gonna be anxious to see you too.”

“Tavian West from Philadelphia,” Lyra warns as she grabs my arm with her uninjured hand and yanks me down toward her, “it doesn’t matter if my numbers in my eyes are today’s date, next April 23rd, or a hundred years from now. The numbers that matter most are tattooed on our fingers for the rest of eternity. And when I die, I’ll go knowing you love me to Jupiter and back, just like I love you, and that gives me more width and depth than anyone can measure.”

Fuck, how does she do that? How can she make me feel like the king of the world with one little thing she says? Make me want to give her whatever she wants?

Before I answer her question and let her know she’s got another six decades to add to that width and depth, I need her to answer mine first. I have to know how many more days I get to be the luckiest guy in the world.

“What numbers do you see in my eyes, Lyra?”

Releasing her grasp on my arm, she presses her palm to my cheek and answers without hesitation. “April 23rd...”

Time stops and I reach for her, steeling myself, desperate for the peace only she can bring as I learn my number didn’t change along with hers.

“2076.”