SITTING ON THE bench outside of the hospital a few nights ago, I’d been sure of one thing and one thing only. For the foreseeable future, I was going to dedicate my life to making Lailah’s future better.
From my own selfishness, it was my fault that she had perhaps lost the one chance at having a healthy, hospital-free existence. I had to make it up to her.
I’d caused the accident that killed Megan. I’d gone against the wishes of my fiancée and not allowed her organs to be donated. I had yelled and hurt her family in their time of mourning and grief and I’d turned my back on my own family.
I was a terrible human being.
But with the girl sitting up in that hospital bed, I could redeem myself. Somehow, I could make it all right. I wasn’t sure how, but I’d left the hospital that night feeling vindicated and resolved. I’d run home, letting the burn in my lungs reach all the way down to my feet as they hit the pavement, and I knew that somehow I would set things right.
This was what I was meant to do right now.
The next day, when I’d stepped foot in the hospital, dressed in my teal blue scrubs, I’d clocked in, put my name badge on, and realized something.
I am just a nurses’ assistant.
I wasn’t Jude Cavanaugh anymore. I was Jude, the CNA. I was just a forgotten man who worked in a typical hospital, paid his rent, and after everything was said and done, barely made enough to buy a pizza and rent a movie every week.
Who am I kidding? I can’t save the day. I can barely save myself.
The man I’d become couldn’t move mountains and make things happen just because I said so. I’d lost that power when I left my old life behind and put on this pair of scrubs.
I’d trudged up to the nurses’ station in the cardiology wing, feeling defeated, hopeless, and lost.
At twenty-five years old, I’d managed to screw up so many lives.
How’s that for a legacy?
For the next two days, I’d avoided Lailah’s room, taking every task I could that would get me out of having to walk into that hospital room. I couldn’t stand to see her big blue eyes staring back at me, knowing I was the reason she was still here.
If I had known that someone like Lailah would be on the receiving end of Megan’s tragedy, would I have chosen differently? Would I have been able to let go, knowing that a young woman so full of hope and life would get to live on even if my Megan couldn’t?
I really didn’t know.
And that was why I’d ended up in her room even though I had told myself I wouldn’t.
I couldn’t help it.
She confused and intrigued me like no other person I’d ever met. She was facing extraordinary circumstances with death staring her in the face. Yet, when I’d walked into the room, her hand had immediately gone to her hair, and she’d blushed.
Why does she do that?
She would babble when she was nervous, and she made lists like an old lady losing her memory. Faced with such challenges, she was the exact opposite of the type of person I would expect her to be.
When Megan had died, I’d become harsh and bitter. I’d closed myself off from everyone I knew. I’d disconnected from the life I was supposed to lead and disappeared. Lailah’s life had been one bad event after another and yet she was still facing everything head-on.
When she’d mentioned her bucket list, I’d known I found my mission.
I might not have the power of my old life, but I could still move mountains—well, hills maybe.
I just had to learn how to cook first.
After that, I’d figure out a way to get her that transplant.
“Hey, Nash. Heard you are breaking out of here soon,” I said after stepping into his cluttered room.
“Well, I tried to talk that pretty raven-haired girl into running away with me, but she just giggled and said she was already taken.”
“Who? Grace?” I asked, moving to his bedside to begin the process of taking his vitals.
“Yeah, she reminds me of an exotic princess. I want to remove those silly cartoon uniforms she wears and cover her in nothing but silk. I’d also like to lick cream off of her until she purrs.”
That description stopped me as I was in the middle of wrapping the blood pressure cuff around his weathered bicep. “Uh…well…” I tried to think of something to follow up with, but I had nothing.
He smiled a big Cheshire Cat grin that took up half his face. His white teeth were a stark contrast to his dark complexion. “You weren’t kidding. You really don’t talk much.”
After checking his blood pressure, I pulled the cuff off his arm and walked back to the small cart I’d brought in to enter the information into the computer. “Guess I’m a little out of practice.”
“No friends?”
“Not really.” I walked back to the other side to check his IV.
“No family?”
“No.” I shifted from one side to the other, feeling uncomfortable by the sudden onslaught of questions.
“What about a woman? Surely, a man like you has to have a woman?”
“No, not anymore.” The pain from saying the words felt like a sword lancing through my heart—a heart that still beat unlike Megan’s who I’d selfishly kept from moving on.
He obviously saw the hurt in my eyes because he didn’t say another word. He just allowed me to do my job, moving from one task to another, until I was finally finished.
Just as I was about to leave, I remembered a story Nash had told me earlier in the week. Nash was full of stories. His life was an endless cascading sea of them, and as if he didn’t have enough of them to pull from in his real life, he would make them up as well.
With over forty novels under his belt, I’d learned—thanks to Google—that Nash Taylor was one of the most accomplished fictional writers of our time. He’d earned every literary award known to man, and he was also known for being a little flamboyant. Loose with his morals and even looser with his money, the man had a reputation for mischief, which is why he had a slew of ex-wives and several children and grandchildren.
Since I’d met the man, he’d told me so many stories about his life. I felt like I knew his autobiography better than I knew my own. One particular story stuck out more than the others because it could help my current predicament.
In the eighties, during a particularly long period of writer’s block, Nash had decided to take a job as a cook. He’d had absolutely no experience, and he’d said the manager was probably either drunk or incredibly stupid to hire him, but he’d thought the job would give him some inspiration. For six months, he’d explored the culinary world.
“I was the worst cook on the face of the earth—at first,” he’d said. “But the more I tried, the better I became. Like a virgin, I was sloppy and clumsy to start, but I practiced, practiced, practiced! Then, bam! I became a natural!”
Nash always managed to take every story and relate it back to sex. I would call it some sort of gift, but really, I thought he was just a dirty old man.
“Hey, Nash,” I said, turning around.
“Yes, my quiet friend?”
“Could you help me plan a meal? I want to cook dinner with someone, but I seriously can’t cook shit.”
His lips turned skyward, and his expression warmed.
Thirty minutes later, I’d written out a ton of notes and gotten a bit of a headache from the amount of talking, but I had a meal and a plan.
I knew what I had planned would probably take far longer than the hour I was allowed for a lunch break, so the following day, I showed up at the hospital, dressed in my civilian clothes, and for once, I didn’t clock in. Instead, I headed down to the cafeteria, walking past the line of staff and visitors waiting to pay their tabs, and I gave Betty, the cafeteria lady, a quick wink. She blushed and puckered her lips, giving me a flirty air kiss back, as she waved me back through the kitchen.
Ten minutes later, I had mostly everything set up, and I was in the elevator on my way up to the cardiology unit. I anxiously tapped my foot as I waited for the floor number to light up and the sound to buzz, signaling the door was about to open.
I was edgy…or nervous.
I didn’t know. I was definitely something.
Twitchy with a touch of anxious maybe?
What if she hates it? What if something goes wrong, and she gets hurt? How much activity can she handle? Will I be overexerting her?
A million things were running through my mind when the elevator door finally opened, and I stepped into the familiar hallway. I wanted nothing more than to make Lailah’s life better. After everything I’d done to fuck it up, it was something I needed to do. I only hoped that by stepping into her world and becoming a part of her life, I wasn’t going to do more harm than good.
Maybe I should talk to Dr. Marcus first.
I made a quick stop at the nurses’ station, asking if I could borrow a wheelchair. Showing up off shift wasn’t normal for me. After a few odd looks from the rest of the staff, I secured my requested item, and I was on my way to Lailah’s room when I saw just the man I had been looking for.
Dr. Marcus was standing off in a corner, speaking intently with someone. His voice was low, but it was clear by the way his hands were moving and by the expression on his face that he was passionate about what he was trying to convey.
“Why do you always feel the need to be so independent, Molly?” he hissed.
“I will never depend on a man to take care of me ever again,” she threw back. Her arms folded across her chest in anger.
She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before. The light blonde hair and blazing blue eyes reminded me of someone, but blondes were a dime a dozen in Southern California. She could be anybody.
I tried to look away, aware I was eavesdropping on a personal conversation, but I’d never seen Dr. Marcus lose his cool before. He was what I would call, California chill—mild-mannered and always laid-back.
Right now, even though I could only make out part of his face from the corner I was standing in—okay, spying from—I could see that his eyes were wild, full of fire and heat.
“Do you think that’s all this is? Do you think all of this”—he made a gesture meant to encompass the two of them together—“was just so I could protect you? And Lailah, too?”
My eyes widened, and I pulled back further into the shadows, not wanting to give up my position now that I’d figured out he was talking to Lailah’s mother.
It was no wonder her platinum locks and petite frame seemed so familiar. Looking at her again, she bore a striking resemblance to her daughter. I’d never met Ms. Buchanan. I’d only heard about her from the few stories Lailah had told me. Most shifts, I usually didn’t come in until later in the evening, and she had normally left before I clocked in.
“No, I’m sorry. I know you care, Marcus,” she said, hesitantly touching his bicep as the anger began to ebb.
“I more than care, Molly.”
Someone rounded the opposite corner, and they pulled apart before saying a quick good-bye and turning in different directions. Lailah’s mother headed toward the elevator, and Dr. Marcus marched down the hall where I was standing. I started pushing the wheelchair again, trying to act nonchalant.
“Hey, J-Man. Dressed up for work today?” Dr. Marcus asked as he approached.
He tried to cover up the sadness in his eyes with a smile, but it wasn’t working. I could still see it there, lingering behind those deep blue eyes. Pain recognized pain, and I’d been looking at the same set of eyes in the mirror for the last three years.
“I don’t clock in until tonight. I’m actually here to visit Lailah.”
A bit of surprise danced across his features. “Lailah? Really?”
“Yeah.”
I explained my plan to him, and he silently listened, watching me with the appraising eyes of a father figure. After I finished telling him the details, he grew still. I nervously stuck my hands in my pockets, waiting for some sort of reply. It seemed like an eternity of being looked at like I was one of those lobsters in a fish tank at a seafood restaurant.
Then, he finally said, “That’s very kind of you, Jude. I think she’ll enjoy it, and she should be okay as long as you don’t plan on sticking her on a treadmill while doing any of this,” he said with a chuckle.
“I’ll do my best to avoid the treadmill,” I joked.
“Just make sure you don’t get too attached to Lailah. She’s innocent—in every way,” he stressed. “I have every hope that all will go as planned with her, but I don’t want her to get hurt.”
My brows furrowed together in confusion. “I don’t think you understand, Dr. Marcus. I’m not pursuing Lailah. Listen, I lost someone. She was the one, and it happened a while ago. I can’t…I’m not capable of those types of feelings anymore,” I said, fumbling over my words.
His hand came to my shoulder, steadying me. “Then, I guess we don’t have a problem, do we?”
His eyes met mine, and I could see understanding there. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his one and only as well.
The only problem was Marcus’s ghost was still very much alive.