Chapter 20

10 YEARS EARLIER

 

“Noah’s not doing well.”

Whenever I see Gwen Walsh’s number pop up on my phone, I know it’s not going to be good news. Gwen never has good news for me lately. Noah’s not doing well… that’s old news. Tell me something I don’t know.

“The skin graft they did last week isn’t taking,” Gwen continues.

That’s new information, but not surprising. This is Noah’s third skin graft and his sixth surgery. He has experienced every complication there is—skin grafts failing, bones not healing, infections with microorganisms that require me to put on a yellow gown every time I visit him in his hospital room.

“He’s getting really depressed,” she says. Getting? I haven’t seen Noah smile in two months. “He’s in so much pain but he keeps refusing the pain medications because he’s worried about… you know, he doesn’t want to be like his father. But it’s hard to see him suffering so much.”

“Yeah,” I mumble into the phone.

I’m sitting alone at the desk in my single room in the dorm. I’d been waiting to be a senior so that I could have a single all to myself, but now I wish I had a roommate. I have friends I can talk to and I can call my mother, but there’s nothing quite like a roommate.

I’m lonely.

“I know he’d love to see you, Bailey,” Gwen says. “It would really give him a lift.”

When Noah first got injured, it was right before my Christmas break. I was able to spend two straight weeks with him without much hassle. Now is a different story. He’s been transferred to a hospital in New York City, and it’s a five-hour drive for me. I have my classes to think about, and my grades have plummeted recently. I can’t just pop over there.

That said, the distance isn’t the only reason I haven’t been to visit much.

Still, it’s been three weeks since I’ve seen Noah. Actually, close to a month. We’ve talked on the phone, but it isn’t the same, especially since he’s in so much pain that doing practically anything, including talking for more than a short period of time, is difficult for him. Gwen’s right—he should take the pain meds.

“I’ll come this weekend,” I tell her before I can change my mind.

“Oh, that’s wonderful! He’ll be so happy.”

Noah won’t be happy—that I’m certain of. I’m starting to wonder if he’ll ever be happy again.

_____

 

Every time I see Noah, he looks worse.

When I walk into his hospital room, passing by his roommate (a big, fat guy who Noah told me snores like a chainsaw), I find him lying in his bed, like he’s been every day for the past four months. He’s hardly been out of bed at all during that time, thanks to his goddamn right leg.

Noah looks exhausted. There are vivid purple circles under his blue eyes and his dark blond hair has become greasy and disheveled. Any trace of humor or playfulness on his face has completely vanished. He’s absolutely miserable.

I look down at the source of his misery. The pins sticking out of his leg are long gone, replaced with various rods and screws under the skin. His leg is lying exposed on top of the sheets, red and swollen to twice the size it ought to be, partially swathed in various bandages. And of course, next to that leg is the flattened sheet where his other leg should have been.

“Bailey.” He doesn’t smile when I walk into the room. “So nice of you to stop by.”

My face burns. I know he’s not trying to be a jerk—he’s just worn down by the pain and surgeries. I have to remind myself of that.

“You know,” I say evenly, “I just drove five hours to get here.”

Noah sighs and shifts in bed to boost himself up. He grimaces because any movement at all of his right leg is agony for him. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, Bailey. I know it’s not easy for you to get here. It’s just that… it hasn’t been a great day.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“The fucking skin graft.” He shakes his head. “It’s failing. Again. Everything keeps getting infected. I’m so goddamn sick of this.”

I grab the chair across the room and pull it over so that I’m next to his bed. I sit down and take his hand in mine. His is clammy.

“I’m in so much pain, Bailey.” He winces at the words. “Every minute of every day. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t even sleep.”

“What about the pain meds?” I say.

“No.” He shakes his head again. “You know my dad was an alcoholic and I don’t want to go down that road. Anyway, they don’t even really help that much.”

“But if you’re in that much pain…”

“I said no.”

Noah is glaring at me now. He’s so unhappy that it’s difficult to even have a conversation with him. But really, if it were me, I’d take the pain medications. Anything would be better than dealing with the pain he seems to be experiencing.

The tension is broken when a tall, gray-haired man in a white coat enters the room. I recognize him as Noah’s plastic surgeon, Dr. Hill. He recognizes me and smiles in greeting. But overall, he has that same grim expression I’ve come to expect from every doctor who enters Noah’s room. Why can’t any of them have good news for us?

“Hi, Noah,” Dr. Hill says.

Noah nods in response, not looking thrilled to see his surgeon.

“And…” The surgeon regards me. “Bailey, right?”

“That’s right,” I say.

“So, Noah,” Dr. Hill says. “I think we need to have a talk about your leg. Is it all right to talk in front of Bailey?”

“She’s my fiancée,” he says. “I’d like her to hear anything you have to say.”

“Okay.” Dr. Hill nods. He’s supposedly one of the best plastic surgeons in the city for skin grafts. That’s what Gwen told me anyway. “So as you know, the latest skin graft is not doing well. I think it’s safe to say that it’s failing.”

Noah nods. I can see him gripping the sheets of his bed.

“We can wait a little longer and try again,” he says. “But here’s the thing, Noah. You’ve been in the hospital for… what? Three months? This leg is not doing well and it’s not just the skin graft. And I can see how much pain you’re in.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “I can handle it though.”

“I’m sure you can,” Dr. Hill says. “But I’m wondering to what purpose we’re doing all this. We fused your right ankle so you have almost no movement there. You have a lot of nerve and muscle damage in your leg. Even if all the bones heal and we get a skin graft to take, that leg is never really going to be functional. Not in the way you’re going to want it to be.”

Noah nods, not looking entirely surprised. I’m sure all this was said to him before.

“You’re always going to need a cane to walk, at best,” Dr. Hill says. “You’ll never be able to run. You’re likely always going to have some degree of discomfort in that leg. It will always hold you back.”

Noah’s face is turning red. “Yeah. I know.”

“And you’re only… what? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-two.”

“What I’m trying to tell you, Noah,” the surgeon says, “is that I think your best bet might be to consider amputation.”

Noah’s mouth falls open. “You mean… take off my other leg?”

Dr. Hill nods. “At this point, I think we’ve done everything we can to save it. You can either spend another six months in the hospital and maybe end up with a leg that doesn’t work very well, or do an amputation now and be out of here in a week or two.”

Noah’s face reflects how I’m feeling right now. How could they suggest amputating his leg? That’s his leg, for God’s sake.

“I can see this is a shock to you,” Dr. Hill observes. “But if it were me, that’s what I’d do. You’ll walk much better without that leg.”

Noah swallows and looks up at the doctor. “If I were to agree to this, where would you…?”

“We’d have to take the knee, unfortunately,” Dr. Hill says. “The worst skin loss was above the knee, so if we’re going to do it, we’d have to go proximal to the injury. But we’d be able to give you a long enough limb that you could easily fit a prosthetic. The prosthetic knees they have now are incredible.”

“Yeah,” Noah mumbles. He lowers his eyes. “I… I’ve got to think about this.”

Dr. Hill nods. “I understand it’s a big decision. But if you do this, we could have you home and walking again before you know it. And your pain would be significantly reduced, if not gone entirely.”

I can see that last statement has gotten Noah’s attention. Of course it has. He’s been in horrible pain for months, to the point where I think he’d accepted it was something he’d have to live with for a long time.

The surgeon leaves the room, and now Noah and I are alone. He’s staring ahead at the wall, his eyes glassy. I wonder what he’s thinking.

“That was… intense,” I finally say.

Noah snaps out of his trance, blinking his eyes a few times. “Yeah. It was.”

I look down at Noah’s right leg, wrapped in layers of gauze from his mid-thigh down to his calf. It still makes me a little queasy. “Are you actually considering it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans his head back against his pillow, staring at the ceiling now. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah. I think I am.”

My stomach sinks. I don’t want him to do this. As much as I hate seeing him in so much pain, going through surgery after surgery, I hate the idea of him losing his other leg too. I would love Noah if he had no legs, but…

God, I can’t keep thinking about this. I’m starting to hate myself. Anyway, it’s his decision.

Noah rolls his head over to look at me. “What do you think?”

“I…” I bite my lip. “I don’t know. It’s your decision.”

Don’t do it.

“I need to think about it,” he says.

But I know my fiancé. We’ve been together for nearly four years. I know how much he’s suffering. I know what he’s going to decide.