CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Whitney
T he room spins.
One minute it’s bright when I open my eyes.
The next time I do, it’s dark.
There’s beeping. A constant steady beep that I don’t understand.
And something is taped to my hand. It hurts if I move it too much.
Then there are the hushed voices and the squeak of shoes. Doctors? Nurses? Why am I here?
“No,” I moan and thrash my head from side to side. “I can’t ...” be in a hospital. “I don’t have ...” insurance.
My thoughts are disjointed as I fight to stay awake.
I can’t afford to be here.
I need to go home.
My head feels like a million pounds as the nurse with the Southern accent leans over me. “It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. You need to rest. Shh. That’s it. You’ll start to relax more now.” Something cold snakes up my arm, and my world goes black again.
The next time I come to, I swear I hear Hardy’s voice but I can’t open my eyes. They feel sewn shut.
Why is he here? Is it my funeral?
The darkness pulls me back under again.
“Suri?” I moan.
“I’m right here.” Her hand clasps mine. It’s cold but so damn comforting.
Getting home. The pain in my right side was so intense I ... fainted? The world went black. I had to have fainted.
“You’re going to be okay,” Suri says again, mentioning a ruptured appendix and toxins and for me to just rest .
The room is different the next time I wake. There is no beeping. No loud sounds. Just a bright room and balloons floating in the far corner that I watch move from the air conditioning vent overheard for a few minutes while I gain my bearings.
“Well, look at you. Up and awake.”
I turn to look at the nurse when she walks in. Her smile is bright and her hair looks like she put in a long shift.
“When can I go home?” I ask, my throat so very dry.
“Not so fast.” She chuckles. “You gave everyone a pretty good scare. You have some milestones to hit before you can be released.”
“I can’t be here.”
She smiles and fluffs my pillow. “That’s funny, cuz you are.” She writes something on a chart. “But I get it. If I were you, I’d want to go back home with that very handsome, attentive boyfriend of yours too.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I see the cup of water on the little tray beside me and fumble with it.
Water. I need water.
“Can I have him then?” She laughs. “That man saved your life and has been here every single day since checking up on you.”
“That’s nice,” I say. “But I’m pretty sure you’re mixing me up with a different patient.”
“For your sake, let’s hope not.” She pats my leg. “Now get some rest so you can get yourself better.”
The effort to talk has already drained me of my energy. I don’t have enough left to argue with her and so I close my eyes and fall back asleep.