Cherish (Covet #1.5) Read online

  “From what I hear, she rarely left your side while you were in the ICU.”

  Jessie being here is one more thing I’m having trouble wrapping my brain around. Did we have some sort of reconciliation before I got shot? Surely I would remember if we had. Then again, I can’t remember my address, so what the hell do I know?

  When Jess walks into the room half an hour later I ask, rather abruptly, “When did we last speak?”

  She looked happy a moment ago, but her smile fades as she averts her eyes and looks away. She begins refolding the small stack of my clothes she left on the couch the night before. “It’s been a while,” she finally says. “Almost two years. I haven’t seen you since the divorce became final.”

  “We didn’t talk at all?” I ask.

  “No.”

  The doctor mentioned I’d have the most trouble with my short-term memory. He certainly called that one, because I can’t remember anything.

  I don’t remember the shooting at all, which is probably a blessing. And everything before that remains just out of reach. My head aches when I try to recall what I might have been doing, the activities I enjoyed, people I spent my time with. Was I alone or did I have someone in my life? The obvious answer is no, otherwise she’d be here. Wouldn’t she? But she’s not. Only Jess is here.

  This whole thing is so goddamn frustrating. Everyone acts like my recovery is a miracle, but I feel like my brain has been scrambled. It’s like being the only toddler in a room full of adults.

  Jess makes things easier. She’s my bridge between not knowing what the hell is going on and being able to make some semblance of my surroundings.

  I need to thank her, but when I go to open my mouth, I can’t remember what it is I was going to say.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JESSIE

  Daniel’s doctors have scheduled a family meeting to go over his progress and outline the next steps in his recovery. At the appointed time, I say good-bye and gather up my things, but then Mimi says, “You aren’t coming, Jessie?”

  Everyone’s head turns in my direction, including Daniel’s.

  “Oh, of course I’ll come,” I say, stammering out a reply.

  Daniel is able to walk to a small conference room under his own power and with minimal difficulty except for his horrible balance. Jerry guides him, holding his elbow as Daniel lists to the side, zigzagging down the hall.

  His team of doctors is waiting for us, and they each have a file folder on the table in front of them. After we’re seated, they go through a list of the obstacles Daniel has overcome and those which are still a concern.

  “Muscle weakness and balance will need to show an improvement before we can consider moving from rehab to a home environment,” Dr. Seering says, which surprises no one after our walk down the hallway. “There are a number of functions that will need to be relearned, including basic life skills. The occupational therapists will focus on bringing these skills up to an acceptable level. Many of Daniel’s long-term memories have remained intact, but short-term memory recall will be an ongoing process.” Dr. Seering turns toward Daniel and addresses him directly. “I’m quite pleased with the progress you’ve made. You’ve surpassed our expectations.”

  “What about riding a motorcycle?” Dylan asks, sounding concerned.

  “That’s not advisable. His balance will be compromised for quite some time.”

  “I assumed as much,” Dylan says.

  This is Dylan in a nutshell. He doesn’t care about the answer. All he wants is to showcase Daniel’s weaknesses under the guise of caring. Getting under someone’s skin is his specialty, and even though his brother has suffered a near-fatal injury, it’s not enough to make Dylan shut his mouth.

  “Give me a break, Dylan. I’m sure riding a motorcycle is the least of anyone’s concerns right now. Daniel will ride again when it’s time.” It comes out a bit louder than I intended it to.

  “I was simply asking a question,” Dylan says.

  “I sincerely doubt that,” I mutter.

  “I’m right here,” Daniel says. “Nothing wrong with my ears.”

  The room goes silent. My face burns from the shame of sparring with Dylan like we’re a couple of children. Mimi may be regretting inviting me to join them at this meeting. “I’m sorry.”

  Dylan doesn’t say anything at all.

  “Anyway,” Dr. Seering continues. “Daniel will need the support of his family during this transition period.” He looks at Daniel. “What you’re facing will not be easy. In fact, it will be the most grueling thing you’ve ever experienced. But I have no doubt you’ve got it in you. You’ve already shown us you’re a fighter.”

  Daniel doesn’t seem so sure, but he looks at the doctor and nods.

  Later, when we’re back in Daniel’s room and it’s just the two of us, I say, “I’m sorry about getting into it with Dylan. You certainly don’t need any more stress.”

  “Do you and Dylan not get along?”

  “Dylan doesn’t get along with very many people. But mark my words: one day you will get back on that motorcycle, and you will ride off into the sunset.” There’s no need for me to be quite so dramatic, but the motorcycle signifies triumph to me. Shame on Dylan for trying to put a damper on it.

  A look of sadness passes over Daniel’s face, and I think it’s because he doesn’t believe me.

  “You will, Daniel.”

  “Until Dylan asked the question, I’d forgotten I own a motorcycle.”

  I reach out and lay my hand on his arm to comfort him. He ignores it, but he doesn’t pull away either. “It’s a Honda. I didn’t want you to buy it because I was afraid you’d get hurt, but you love it.”

  He stares at me blankly. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

  “Things will be better once you’ve left the hospital. I know rehab isn’t the same thing as being at home, but it’s one step closer. You’ve already surprised everyone with your progress. I have no doubt that you’ll continue to show improvement.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.”

  “I’ll be there too, if it’s okay with you. If there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

  There’s no way I’m checking out now. Aiding in Daniel’s recovery has become a personal goal. He’s come such a long way, and I have no intention of bailing.

  “Why?” he asks. “You told me we haven’t spoken since the divorce. Why would you want to come with me?”

  I sit down in the chair, tucking one leg underneath me. “I just…‌I feel like I’m good at taking care of you. You heard the doctor. It’s more important than ever to have the support of your family. I know I’m not your family anymore, but I want to help.”

  “Do you have a job?” he asks. “Isn’t there somewhere you have to be?”

  “I work for a temp agency. I’m between assignments.”

  I used to sell advertising for one of the local TV stations. I was good at it, and I enjoyed it. I’d been employed there for five years when I got pregnant with Gabriel, which had come at the end of a fairly long period of attempting to conceive. Technically, there was nothing seriously wrong, but ovulation was tricky for me. Eggs showed up only randomly, so for Daniel, impregnating me was a little like lobbing darts at a constantly moving target.

  “I don’t think it’s necessary for you to apologize,” he said when I told him how sorry I was about my body’s inability to get on board with our baby-making plans. “Making love to you is not exactly a hardship.”

  Maybe at that point it wasn’t, but a year later neither of us could honestly say it didn’t matter.

  It had started to matter.

  So when it was time for my coworkers to throw me a work baby shower, they pulled out all the stops.

  I was on the last week of my maternity leave when Gabriel died. I couldn’t go back there, knew all I’d be able to think about every time I walked into the conference room for a meeting would be the yellow balloo
ns and the giant yellow sheet cake we moved to the break room after the shower and that people were still eating two days later.

  “I don’t know why,” Daniel says, “or maybe I just can’t remember, but something about you doesn’t bring to mind temporary work. You seem like someone who’s very committed to what they’re doing.”

  “It’s okay for now.” I don’t tell him that I work temporary jobs because my life feels temporary and I haven’t figured out how to get it back onto a permanent track.

  Before I leave that night I tell Daniel to get some rest. “You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

  He promises he will. I think about giving him a hug, but I don’t.

  Twelve days after Daniel arrived at KU Med he is transferred to a rehab hospital where the doctor said the real work of surviving a gunshot wound to the head will begin.

  I go with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JESSIE

  Daniel’s first few days in rehab pass in a blur of pain and frustration. Sweat soaks his T-shirt by the end of his first physical-therapy session as he begins the grueling process of regaining his balance and strength. It’s hard for me to watch him struggling, but the progress he makes from now until six months postinjury will be the most significant.

  He insists I don’t need to spend the night the way I did at the first hospital, so I sleep at home but return to the hospital every morning around eight. Today when I arrive, Daniel looks much better than he did when I left him last night.

  “You must have gotten a good night’s sleep. You look like a new man.”

  “I passed out the minute you left. I guess I was pretty tired. How about you?”

  I set down my coffee and purse on the small table in the corner of the room. “Me? I slept fine. It’s strange, though. I’d almost forgotten what it was like to sleep at my apartment. It’s way too quiet there.”

  “You live in an apartment? Did I know that?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it. I moved there after I sold the house.”

  “You sold our house?” His voice sounds incredulous.

  “Yes.” I look away, busying myself with opening my planner and scanning Daniel’s schedule for the day.

  Daniel and I used to live in a two-story house in a nice suburb. It was our first home, and we bought it together, and we loved it. Daniel spent lots of time working in the yard, and I decorated each room, painting over the boring builder-grade white with a color palette that ranged from light gray to dusky blue. When we divorced, Daniel insisted that the house go to me, and he didn’t want anything extra in the way of compensation, either. His lawyer was furious while mine was thrilled.

  But our son died in that house, so I sold it.

  “Are you upset with me?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “You’re not mad that I didn’t give you any of the money? You can have half of it. It’s just sitting in a savings account.”

  “I don’t want the money, Jess. The house was yours. The money you got for selling it is also yours.”

  “I’m using some of it to pay my expenses, since I’m not taking any temp jobs right now.” I feel less guilty using the money if it allows me to contribute to Daniel’s recovery.

  “Jess, it’s fine,” he says, rubbing his temples. “Really.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you help me get in the shower?”

  “Sure.”

  Daniel is not allowed to get in and out of the shower by himself because the risk of his falling is still too high. I started helping him shortly before he was transferred here because between his nurses, his mom, and me, I was the obvious choice. I don’t actually wash him, although I would if he asked. I help him undress and remind him to sit down on the bench they put in the shower because it’s not safe for him to stand too long. When he’s done he yells for me, and I help him dry off and get dressed.

  It was awkward the first time. No matter how many years I spent looking at him naked—and I used to love looking at him naked—assisting your ex-husband in the shower after not talking to him for almost two years is definitely strange. But now it’s no big deal. I get him in and out of the shower, and after breakfast we wait for them to come get him for his first therapy session of the day.

  Daniel and I have plenty of time to kill, so we talk. None of the subjects we cover are especially personal—we stick mostly to current events, changes in the weather, and the things he’s looking forward to, like sleeping in his own bed. It’s as if we’ve reached some sort of wary truce, accomplished partly because Daniel can’t remember everything that drove us apart in the first place. It’s a little like getting to know each other again.

  Actually, it’s a lot like that.

  Being around him makes me happy. He was my best friend for so long. The person I turned to when I needed help. The person whose comfort I sought when things upset me.

  Until the day I didn’t.

  While Daniel is at his first therapy session of the day, Dylan pops his head into the room. I never know when he’s going to show up, but to his credit he comes around more than I expected him to. He’s working for some tech company in Overland Park, but who knows how long that will last. At least the job is keeping him here.

  For now.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me.

  “Hey. You just missed Daniel. He should be back soon.”

  “I’ll wait. I’m in no hurry.”

  “Aren’t they expecting you at your job?”

  “It didn’t work out,” he says.

  “It never does.”

  He shrugs. He’s probably made enough money to drift for a while. The no-strings-attached, I’ll-go-where-the-wind-takes-me lifestyle is the thing he really loves.

  “I hope you don’t stop coming around. For Daniel’s sake.”

  “That’s a bit hypocritical coming from you.”

  “Yes,” I say, standing up and grabbing my purse. “I suppose it is. But the things that drove Daniel and me apart were a hell of a lot bigger than your nomadic whims, Dylan.”

  Big enough that we couldn’t solve them, no matter how much we both wanted to.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DANIEL

  I hate the rehab hospital. It’s not that the facility is horrible or anything, and it beats the hell out of being in the ICU (or dead), but I feel like a prisoner. Everything is regimented, from the time I wake up to when I eat and when I’m supposed to go to bed, which is early because they’re very big on rest here. I’d give anything to be in my own home, watching TV on the couch as late as I want.

  If rehab is jail, then Jessie is my warden. She has a day planner she carries everywhere she goes. It’s leather and zips shut. Inside are various handouts with instructions on everything from wound care to self-administered pain medicine. Every scrap of paper the hospital has ever given us is in there. Jessie uses the calendar tab to keep track of my daily schedule: cognitive retraining, physical therapy—including strength, coordination, endurance, and balance—and occupational therapy, which has been the hardest for me to accept. I don’t care what anyone says, learning to dress yourself again at thirty-eight is a humbling experience. Thankfully, only Jessie is here to see me fumbling with my pant leg while I try to balance on one foot, and I remind myself that I’d rather stand in front of her in my underwear than a parade of nurses. It’s not like she hasn’t seen it all before. Having Jessie here is like having my own personal assistant, and I’m grateful to her for it.

  Today she walks into my room holding a cardboard box. She’s wearing jeans and a yellow T-shirt. “Good morning,” she says, smiling at me.

  “Good morning,” I say. “That’s a really good color on you.”

  She sets down the box on the counter and whirls around. “That’s what you always used to say.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. Whenever I wore yellow you would tell me how good it looked on me. Do you
remember that?”

  “Not really. But clearly it’s floating around in here somewhere,” I say, pointing to my head.

  “That’s what they told us. The memories that are floating will gel and take hold. And see? It’s already happening.”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.” Thank God, because if I think too long about all the shit I can’t remember, it depresses the hell out of me.

  “How was your night?”

  “Not bad,” I say, although if they really want me to rest, they should send me home to my king-size bed. I can sleep like a champ in that bed. “What do you have there?” She frequently brings items from my house that she thinks I’ll like: DVDs, books, magazines. Whatever she thinks might help pass the time. It gives me something to look forward to.

  “I brought you some books,” she says, arranging them on the small table next to the bed. “There’s a Stephen King I’m not sure if you’ve read and a new release in that mystery series you like.”

  I’ll have to look at the title later because I have no idea what series she’s referring to.

  Next she pulls my iPod out of the box and attaches the cord to a small speaker that she sets on the nightstand. “In case you want music.” Lastly, she takes a paper bag out of the box and hands it to me. “Donuts,” she says. “How about we eat them before you get in the shower?”

  They’re also big on proper nutrition here, but everyone knows the food kind of sucks, which is why the nurses usually look the other way when they catch us with whatever Jessie has brought. I smile, take a chocolate cream-filled donut, and hand the bag back to her. “Thanks.”

  She sits down on the edge of the bed and selects her own donut, a glazed bear claw. “Ahh…‌it’s still warm.”

  “What do I have this morning?” I ask.

  She flips open her planner and says, “Occupational therapy.” She looks up and grimaces. “I’m sorry. I know that’s your least favorite.”

  I shrug. “It’s not like I’m going to get out of it. Might as well get it over with first.”

  Jessie doesn’t accompany me to all my therapy sessions, but there are a few she attends regularly—mostly the cognitive-retraining stuff—because the doctors keep saying she’s a “gold mine” of information and that’s it’s very important to have a family member involved in your therapy. Something tells me the ex-wife is probably not usually the family member who makes the cut. My mom and dad are here every day, but they’re not here all day the way Jessie is. And I really wish they’d resume their motor-home tour of the United States, because they seem to be in a holding pattern now.