Chapter Twenty-Five
“What the hell does it mean?” he asked Conor. “Does it mean that she’s in there?”
Landon hadn’t slept for even a minute. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, and he knew from experience the bags underneath made him look like he’d taken a punch. “Jesus,” Conor breathed into the phone. “You’re sure it was Cordelia?”
“I can’t believe you would ask me that question.”
“Sorry,” Conor chimed quickly. “Old habit, I guess, when I hear something that doesn’t seem like it could possibly be true.”
“She remembers her,” Landon said, then made a conscious effort to lower his voice. Rose had still been sleeping soundly when he’d last popped his head in, but the walls in her flat weren’t thick enough he could speak at a volume appropriate for the conversation.
“But she said she didn’t know who she’d been drawing.”
Landon rubbed his eyes, annoyed. “I know,” he said. “But some part of her has to remember. Her hands, at least.”
“Hands don’t have memory,” his extremely pragmatic friend offered.
“What the hell is muscle memory then?”
“That type of memory is still stored in the brain.”
“Well, then some part of her brain remembers.” Conor was quiet a long time, and Landon did not appreciate the opportunity to hear how heavy and fast his own breaths were coming. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t know anything for sure.”
“Yeah, Conor, that’s sort of the theme of this conversation. Maybe my whole life, if we want to get existential about it.”
“I mean, there are just whispers about it.” He dropped his voice so Landon had to strain to hear. “The side effects.”
“Of the pill?” Landon asked, like an idiot.
Conor didn’t waste breath affirming. “Some people aren’t tolerating it.”
“You think that Rose—”
“I don’t know what I think, and this is not me diagnosing her. But I’ve seen a few cases now here in Boston, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially Rose. Not any version of her.”
“That would be all over the news by now, wouldn’t it?”
He could almost hear Conor shaking his head. “No one listens to doctors anymore, Landon. You know that.”
“Well, what happened to them?”
Conor paused, then evaded the question. “How has she been feeling? Have you noticed anything that seems off? I mean, as well as you can notice something off about a person you’ve just met.” Conor swore under his breath. “Sorry, that’s not exactly what I meant. You know what I mean, right?”
A sound startled him. It took his brain a beat too long to reconcile the animal scream with the conclusion that it had come from the woman he’d checked on compulsively all through the long night. He didn’t bother hanging up the phone—just let it drop to the floor.
“Rose?” he called, running toward the bedroom door and flinging it open.
She was lying in the bed, circled into herself like a cat. It would have been another moment he’d wished he had his old camera if it weren’t for all the blood.
There was so much blood.
“Oh my God, Rose.” He was going to be sick.
Blood stained the stark white duvet and spilled over the bright white sheets, equal parts beautiful and haunting, like the half faces of their daughter at the drafting table.
“Rose!” He cupped her cheek with his hand and slapped the side of her face lightly to see if he could wake her.
“Wake up!” he yelled. “Oh God, please, wake up!”
This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening. He needed help. He needed help, now. Did he even know the UK equivalent of 911? Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He retrieved his phone and with shaking hands dialed the only number he had committed to memory that was not Rose’s. Poppy picked up on the first ring.
“What the hell do you want?” She was clearly groggy and not at all interested in whatever scheme she must have assumed he’d cooked up.
Landon found he could not speak. The words came out garbled.
“What?” she asked. “Landon, what the hell are you saying?”
“Help,” he managed. “Rose.” Fuck. “You have to help.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Please,” he cried, “call. Call an ambulance.”
“Where?” she yelled. “Call an ambulance where?”
He had one job to do, and he commanded his body to do it. “Her flat. Holyrood. 39 Holyrood. 5B.”
She muttered the address then swore, loudly. “Landon, what’s wrong with her? Please, tell me what’s wrong!” He didn’t know and wouldn’t have wasted time telling her if he did, so he hung up the phone.
The ambulance was coming. The ambulance would be here, and she would be okay.
But the blood. Oh God, there was so much blood.
Landon slid into the bed behind her and gathered her into his arms, holding her like a baby, thinking that maybe if he leaned her head back far enough, he could stop the blood from leaving her body at such an alarming rate.
He pressed two fingers on her wrist to make sure he could still feel a pulse.
It was faint, but it was there. This wasn’t happening again. This could not be happening again.
“Please,” he cried. “Please, don’t leave me.” Was he talking to his Rose or this Rose? “I’m sorry,” he said. “Rose, I am so, so sorry.” His Rose, or this Rose?
Then Landon did something he had only ever done once before.
He prayed. God, he cried out. It’s me again.
But this time I know you’re real. I know, because you heard me.
You made good on your promise. You saved her.
You saved her, and I don’t know what I’ll do if you can’t save her again.
I can’t fathom a world without her in it.
And I don’t care which version of her. I would do anything, anything, to save her.
My Rose, this Rose. Rose, Rose, Rose. I would trade anything.
Anything I have, it’s yours to take if you’ll just spare her. Save her. Please, save her.
Her eyes fluttered, and she coughed, blood now pooling at her lips. Sirens sounded in the distance, and Landon ran his hands through her hair, an action that used to soothe her. “You’re okay,” he said. Because what was one more lie? “You’ll be okay.”
The sirens roared, closer now. “Just hold on, okay?” he said. “A few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, Rose.”
Rose’s lips opened and closed like a fish out of water. She was trying to say something. Landon leaned in. “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here. You can tell me later, when you’re better. We’ll talk when you’re better. We’ll have all the time in the world, Rose.”
Her mouth opened and closed, opened and closed. Blood and bubbles and spit. Landon leaned in closer. She choked out the words: “Save her.”
“Save who?” he asked. But he knew. His body would never let him forget.
“Save her,” she said again.
The day that Rose almost died—the day that Cordelia was born—Landon had made a bargain. Save her, he’d begged. If it’s her or the baby, I choose her. Save her.
He’d never told Rose about the deal he’d made in his darkest moment. He told himself it would not have mattered. The blame rested squarely on his shoulders either way.
“Landon!” Poppy’s eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was uncharacteristically messy, piled on top of her head like a bird’s nest. “What the hell happened?”
Things had happened so quickly once the paramedics arrived, he hadn’t had time to take stock of what he knew and did not know.
“She’s bleeding,” he said, well aware there were a hundred more precise ways to describe Rose’s situation.
“There was so much blood.” His hands were cold and clammy.
Save her, she’d said. Like she remembered.
Poppy raised an eyebrow at him. “Why don’t you go sit down.” Landon started to sway. “Take my arm, you overgrown skyscraper, before you topple like a Jenga tower.” He was glad to hear she hadn’t lost her biting sense of humor since he’d last seen her.
“Yeah,” he said, dizziness now pricking at him. “Yeah, that sounds good.” He let Poppy guide him onto a low couch, then lay his head back and rubbed two fingers over each of his temples.
“She’s alive, though,” Poppy said, a slight tremor in her voice. “Right?”
“As far as I know.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“It’s not my job to comfort you.”
Poppy pulled her arm away. “You can be a real asshole. You know that, right?”
A man who looked suspiciously like Dave burst through the automatic doors and heaved his body into the waiting room. “Dave?” Landon asked.
“What the hell is going on?” The man looked more like Dave by the second. Sounded like him, too.
“What are you doing here?” Landon asked.
“I called him,” Poppy said.
“How the hell did you get his number?”
“Graham,” Poppy said, as though it were as obvious a question as whether he knew what year it was, or the name of the president of the United States. “He figured you might need someone to collect you.”
Landon looked Dave square in the face and squinted. “Why does Graham have your number?”
Dave had the good sense to look ashamed. “He said he would teach me a few things—give me a few cooking lessons so the wife would think twice about divorcing me this go-around.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“It’s not my fault he’s the perfect man,” Dave said. “Besides, you’re the one who introduced us.”
“Great, another thing to add to my list of regrets.”
“Let’s go ahead and table this for now,” Dave said, sensibly. “What’s wrong with your girl?”
“She is not his girl,” Poppy said.
“I’m sorry, how are you involved in all of this?” Dave asked. “I feel like I’m supposed to remember you from that pill party. Must have had too much to drink.”
“Pill party?”
“Graham and Rose’s dinner series,” Landon supplied.
She rolled her eyes. “Right. You see, Dave, I haven’t taken the pill, so I didn’t really think it was appropriate for me to be there.” She stared pointedly at Landon.
“I don’t think this is the time to relitigate that,” Landon said.
“I think it’s always time to relitigate this until you put an ocean between you and her,” Poppy countered. “You never should have gotten on that plane, Landon.”