Chapter 20
Chapter 20
My last day at San Francisco General is a mixed bag. On one hand, I’m ecstatic that I’m finally going home to my comfortable and quiet condo, where I won’t have a roommate who snores or doctors and nurses who hover over my every move. On the other hand, I’m petrified to be on my own.
Though I’m markedly better than a couple of weeks ago, I’m still unable to do simple tasks, like tie my shoes. It’s as if I’m five years old again and have to learn the steps. Yet, I have no trouble dialing a phone or typing an email.
While waiting for my doctor to give the final release, I fold and pack my things. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve managed to accumulate quite a few nightgowns, robes, slippers, and various sundries. It’s a little crazy, because before the coma, I don’t believe I had this much sleepwear to my name. Austin brought me my favorite carry-on, and with all I’ve stuffed inside, I’ll be lucky if I can zip it.
A number of the nurses and staff have popped in to say goodbye and bring me small tokens to remember them by, including a dozen Vaseline samples. My lips will forever thank them. Everyone here has been so kind.
At noon, Austin arrives to drive me home. I told him I could take an Uber, but it’s against hospital policy, which makes me wonder what patients who don’t have anyone do. The question only adds to the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on ever since Dr. Sadie told me I was going home.
“You ready to go?” Austin grabs my suitcase.
“We have to wait for someone to get me in a wheelchair. I’m not allowed to leave on foot. I think it’s a liability thing.”
“Yep. That would be my guess. You hungry? I thought we could stop somewhere and grab something to eat. I figure you’ve had enough of hospital food.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him that I just want to go home and surround myself with familiarity before venturing out to sit-down restaurants. “Sounds good. But nothing too elaborate.”
“We can get it to go if you’d like and eat at home.”
There’s something about the way that he says “home” that irks me. Like it’s still the place we share together. I chide myself for being uncharitable. Throughout this entire ordeal, Austin has been my saving grace. The one steady constant in my life.
“That sounds perfect,” I say. “What did you have in mind?”
“How about the sandwich shop you love on Market? The place with the homemade chips. Or if you’d rather, we could do pizza. Tony’s, your favorite. Whatever you want, Chels. This is a big day; a celebration is in order.”
“Pizza sounds good. What do you say we call ahead, so we don’t have to wait too long?” My body is constantly reminding me that it wasn’t just my head that was hurt in the accident. Most of the bruising on my legs, arms, and torso have either turned green or disappeared completely, but I’m still sore, as if it happened yesterday.
“You got it.” Austin jumps on his phone just as my favorite orderly, Clyde, arrives with the wheelchair.
“You’re leaving us, huh?” Clyde helps me get situated in the chair.
“I’m afraid so, Clyde.” We both laugh. “And guess what I’m having for lunch? Here’s a hint, pizza. Real pizza, not the kind on an English muffin with melted American cheese and soggy tomatoes.”
“I hear you, Ms. Knight. Be sure to have a slice for me. But I bet you’ll miss the Jell-O.” He winks, then wheels me down the long corridor, my exercise track for the last two weeks. I walked up and down that hallway more times than I can count, trying to regain my strength.
When we get to the large double glass doors, it’s sprinkling outside. Austin dashes off to bring the car, which he’s left in the visitor parking lot. Clyde and I make small talk until Austin pulls up in front of the doors in his BMW. I flash on Knox’s dinged-up pickup truck, and a touch of melancholy sets in.
Clyde wheels me to the passenger seat, and although I can do it myself, he helps me into the car. Soon, Austin is battling midday traffic in the city.
“The pizza is coming at two. Hopefully, when Ronnie stocked your fridge, she remembered a couple of bottles of wine.”
“You got one of those delivery companies?” I ask, surprised. Tony’s doesn’t deliver, and Austin doesn’t believe in paying for anything he can do himself. When we were married, it was a constant source of disagreement. We both work hard, and for me, the small expense is worth the convenience.
“Yep. No sense having you sit in the car any longer than necessary.” He puts his hand on my leg like it belongs there.
I quickly move it away.
“Sorry,” Austin says. “Did that hurt?”
“No. But I doubt Mary would approve.”
“Mary and I are no longer engaged, leaving me free to innocently touch my ex-wife, who also happens to be my best friend.”
Hmm, Ronnie certainly called that one.
“What happened with you and Mary?” I try to sound nonchalant, like it would be rude of me not to ask after he volunteered the information that they’d broken up.
“It’s a lot of things, too many to bore you with the details. But primarily it was you.” He slants me a sideways glance. “Almost losing you made me reevaluate what’s important. It made me reevaluate who I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
I feel the weight of those words. But before I can press him on them, we’re at my condo, and Austin is asking for the code to get into the underground parking structure. The password changes every month.
It’s one of the reasons we bought the apartment. I much preferred an older building, something from the 1920s with original hardwood floors and crown moldings. But those typically don’t come with parking. And this building came with two secure spots. A veritable gold mine in the city by the bay.
He slides into his old space and cuts the engine. “You ready to do this?”
At first, I’m not sure what this is. But when he comes around the car to get me, I realize he’s talking about resuming my old life, the time before the accident. He helps me out, then pops the trunk for my suitcase.
The other thing about this building is that it has an elevator. A few of them, actually. And in this moment, an elevator makes me even more happy than off-street parking.
I live on the sixth floor. It was the lowest floor we could get when condos in this building went on sale. The top floors with great city and bay views went first, of course. But because the bottom floors were the most affordable, there was a waiting list, leaving only condos on the middle floors. I let Austin convince me that six floors up wasn’t high enough to trigger my acrophobia. But it took me three months before I could open the drapes. I still can’t go out on the balcony, where I have a terrific view of the Bay Bridge.
Both Corrie and Ronnie have been here. I can tell because the house carries the faint smell of lemon polish and the organic cleanser Corrie uses to clean the floors. Ronnie has filled the house with all the flowers I received at the hospital and has left a stack of paperwork on the kitchen counter for me to sort through when I’m feeling up to it. For all intents and purposes, she’s been running the business since my accident and has been paying the bills and keeping the lights on.
I’d forgotten how beautiful the apartment is. Austin and I hired a decorator shortly after we closed escrow to rid the place of its soulless white walls and builder-grade fixtures. She came highly recommended from one of Austin’s coworkers and cost a pretty penny. But the end result is chic and luxurious, the kind of place where Uncle Sylvester would feel at home.
But seeing it today, the sleek white sofas, the abstract art, the miles of marble countertops, makes me wish I was at the cabin instead.
Austin flicks a switch, and the gas fireplace lights up. I used to think it was one of the best features of the apartment. But now, it just feels silly, like a pale imitation of the real thing. Something just for show.
He opens the fridge and peruses the shelves. “Ah-ha, Ronnie was thinking ahead.” He pulls out a chilled bottle of Lambrusco and places it on the center island. “Go get comfortable while we wait for the pizza, Chels. You want me to unpack for you?”
“No thanks. If you could just leave the suitcase in the bedroom, I’ll do it later.” I have nothing but time on my hands.
The delivery person texts that he’s here, and Austin buzzes him up to the apartment. “You want to eat on the couch or at the table?”
I have a strict policy against eating on my sofas. White, remember? But today, I’m going to break my self-imposed rule, because I don’t have the energy to make it to the table. And maybe I’ll get new couches anyway. Something cozy and comfortable that doesn’t stain.
Austin sets me a place and joins me in front of the fire. “If you want, I can stay tonight.”
Forty-five days ago, all I wanted was for Austin to return to the place he and I once made a home. But on my first day back, I need time to myself. To think. To contemplate all the things I’ve lost that it turns out I never really had.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “But thank you for the offer.”
“You sure? I can stay in the guest room.” He’s trying so hard.
“I need a little time, Austin.”
“Gotcha.”
I can’t tell if he’s hurt. But honestly, I don’t have the bandwidth to be concerned with that now. I’m still reeling from almost dying. But that’s not even the worst of it. To experience the greatest happiness you’ve ever known, only to realize it was all a dream, is . . . well, how does a person come back from that?
We eat and drink our Lambrusco in companionable silence, neither of us addressing the elephant in the room, otherwise known as Mary.
My eyes are bigger than my stomach, because I can barely finish one slice of pizza. Austin, on the other hand, has made a good dent on half the pie. Being in the apartment, eating a meal together, feels both familiar and foreign at the same time, but in a good way, like melding an old-cherished story with a new one. A fresh start, I guess you can say.
And yet, I can’t wait for him to leave. Like I’m literally counting the minutes until I can politely play the I’m-tired card, the I-have-to-go-to-bed card. Halfway through his second glass of Lambrusco, I let out a loud yawn.
“You’ve got to be bushed,” he says. “I know it’s a lot, Chels. I know the road looks long, but look how far you’ve already come.” He waves his hand at the apartment as if to say, You’re home, and that’s got to count for something. And it does.
He starts to clean up. “I’ve been talking to a few of my colleagues at the firm, and they think you have a hell of a lawsuit against the city. These fucking cable car conductors are out of control.”
“It was my fault, Austin. I wasn’t looking where I was going. If I had, I would’ve seen the streetcar. I wouldn’t have crossed when I did.”
“Now is not the time to make any big decisions. All I’m saying is you shouldn’t rule it out.”
“Okay, I won’t rule it out.” But I already have. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a nap. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a deposition in the morning but will swing by in the afternoon. Will you be okay until then?”
“Austin, I’ll be fine. Thanks for being so attentive, but you don’t have to worry.” I join him in the kitchen to help with the rest of the cleanup.
“I know,” he says. “You’re the most capable person I know. But that’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
“I don’t want you to have to do this alone.”
Long after he’s gone, I consider his words. Am I truly alone? It didn’t feel that way in Ghost, but here . . . I don’t know.
I change into one of my new loungewear sets, a gift from Ronnie, and curl up on the sofa with the paperwork she’s left me, so I can see what’s gone on in my absence. It’s mostly receipts, a few invoices, and a couple of get-well cards from strangers who have attended my seminars.
As I thumb through the stack, I see that Ronnie sent flowers to my parents’ graves for the twenty-fourth anniversary of their deaths. I can’t remember whether I’d asked her to do it or if she did it on her own because I was out of commission. Either way, I remind myself to thank her for it. She knew that it was an important day for me.
It appears she has everything well under control, including canceling all my upcoming speaking dates.
The rain has let up, and for a crazy minute I consider going outside to stand on the balcony for some fresh air and to stare out over the bay. It takes me less than a minute to completely reject that idea.
Instead, I wander into the bedroom and put away my things, a chore that takes a fraction of the time it took me to pack them. My phone rings, and when I dig it out of my purse, I see I have two missed calls—one from Uncle Sylvester, and another from a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello,” I say to Ronnie.
“Just checking in. You get home okay?”
“Yes, and it’s good to be here. Thanks for stocking the fridge and for transporting the flowers. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And, Ronnie, it means a lot that you remembered my parents and sent flowers.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks. You in the mood for company, or do you want some alone time while you settle in?”
“I’ll probably just call it a night soon. Maybe tomorrow, though.”
“I’ll give you a buzz in the morning. But don’t worry, I won’t call too early. Sleep in, Chelsea.”
I dial Uncle Sylvester’s number and get his voicemail. “Hi, it’s me. I’m home safe and sound. I’m turning in soon but will talk to you tomorrow.”
I assume the other missed call is spam, which aggravates me, because it should’ve been Lolly. Everyone else had the decency to check in on me to make sure I’ve had a smooth transition from hospital to home. But not my sister, who apparently can’t be bothered.
It doesn’t pay for me to work myself up about it, not when I can pass the time noodling around on the Internet, trying to prove to myself that I’m not delusional. I carry my laptop into the living room and resume my spot on the sofa in front of the fire. I miss the crackling and woodsmoke smell of a real one, but at least it lends the room some air of coziness. Still, I can’t help but imagine that Knox would hate it.
The first search I do is for Flower Power. Ronnie has already traveled this road and has reported that the floral shop did indeed exist. Did being the key word. According to her research, it closed two years ago.
The only evidence that it ever existed is an old weekly column in the Ghost Advocate that profiled local businesses, and a now-defunct website. The owner was someone named Gerald Mattson, not Ginger. And according to the pictures, it looked nothing like the shop I saw in my dreams.
I zoom in on Google Earth to find that the shop is now Gold Country Real Estate.
My next stop is the website for the Ghost Inn, which still exists and is an exact replica of the one I visited while in a coma. I click on the page for the Inn’s restaurant and bar with no clear picture of what I’m looking for exactly. Eventually, I settle on the menu. The closest item they have to smoked chicken wings is “golden chicken nuggets” on the kid’s page. They do, however, serve chips and salsa, as does pretty much every restaurant in California.
I click over to the drink menu and search for a Ghost Ghoul, only to come up empty. The most original cocktail on the list is a pi?a colada, circa 1954. I call the toll-free number on the homepage and ask the operator to transfer me to Katie Hart. If she’s working today, she would be starting her shift right about now.
“I’m sorry, there’s no Katie Hart here,” the operator says.
“She’s a bartender in the restaurant.”
“Do you mean Cassie Reinhold? She’s our only female bartender.”
“This would’ve been a few weeks ago.” Because Katie was going back to school. Maybe she’d already quit.
“Ma’am, I’ve been here for three years. We’ve never had an employee named Katie Hart.”
“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong place.” I hang up and cry.
Through tears, I search my texts for the dozenth time. But there’s nothing from Austin during the two weeks I was in a coma. Just to be sure, I scroll through my call log. Again, nothing to indicate that any of the conversations I remember us having ever happened.
I don’t know what I was expecting to find. It’s clear I couldn’t have been in two places at the same time, and yet, I was. Everything about those two weeks in Ghost were so real, so distinct. So life-changing.
I suppose I’m lucky. At least I didn’t have nightmares while comatose, which, according to what I’ve read, is not uncommon. While I was recuperating in the west wing, I made a study of comas and dreams. Like the man who suffered from a high fever who kept dreaming that he was being burned alive. Or the woman who repeatedly dreamt she was drowning.
And then there are those whose experiences are not dissimilar from mine. For example, a man who hallucinated a whole new life while he was unconscious. In the span of only a few minutes, he met the love of his life, married, had two children, and then went crazy.
When he came to and realized that none of it was real, he went into a dark depression that lasted three years. He said he was grieving the loss of his nonexistent wife and children and thought he might be going insane.
This is what I’m up against.