Chapter 39 Ripley
Ripley
Waking up from surgery is a weird experience.
The whole last twelve hours or so have been a blur.
I remember coming to in the ambulance, two EMTs and Mom huddled around me and a bunch of wires.
It was loud, and they were talking like I wasn’t there.
It felt like watching it happen from the other side of a TV screen.
That human on the stretcher couldn’t possibly be me.
But it was. The pain in my stomach reminded me it was very much my body that was in distress.
I tried to tell them I was fine – at least fine enough that I wanted out of this cramped ambulance.
But they wouldn’t listen. Despite my arguing, I guess it was a good thing they ignored the girl who just collapsed in the middle of filming a reality show since I ended up having an emergency appendectomy.
I suppose most of those are emergencies, so it seems redundant, but that’s what the doctors said I needed.
Conceptually, I know I was in the ER for hours, but with the pain meds being pumped through my IV, I don’t recall most of it, other than the moments between doses when the sharp stabs in my lower right side would rear their ugly head again.
Mom was there, though. It was nice, in a way, to be the sole focus of her attention for a sliver of time.
In the recovery room, after surgery, all I want is a drink of water.
I bother the nurse incessantly until she gives it to me, so I have to wait a little longer before they wheel me up through the darkened hospital.
The rest of the world is still asleep at two a.m. When I get to my new room, I promptly fall asleep, thanks to exhaustion and more meds.
The sleep is interrupted by the blood pressure cuff and nurses checking on me.
At some point, I’m conscious again, the pre-dawn light scattering through the window allowing me for the first time to see I’m not alone.
Mom is asleep on the sofa against the wall and Garrick is curled in a chair next to the bed.
I have a vague memory of seeing him after surgery.
But it’s all glimpses and shards of a broken mirror.
I sort of thought I made him up in a fever dream.
‘Hey,’ he says, voice rough from sleep when he spots me staring at him.
‘Hey.’ My words are equally textured, but some of that is due to the oxygen tube they had down my windpipe. ‘I didn’t –’ I clear my throat, trying again. I attempt to move and get a jolt of pain in response. I cringe, lips pressing tight.
‘You don’t need to talk.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say softly, not to wake Mom. ‘You’ve been here the whole time.’ It’s not a question because I know the answer.
He rubs a hand across his face, leaning against his elbows. ‘When you collapsed – Juliet, I was so worried.’ His voice breaks, and he stops himself.
I find my eyes stinging with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’
Deep lines and a frown distort his face. ‘Shh, hey, no, don’t be sorry. You have nothing to apologize for. I’m just happy it was something they could fix.’ He gazes past me like he’s looking at the ghost of someone else.
The room smells like fresh sheets and cleaning supplies. I swirl my tongue around my mouth, trying to cure the dryness so I can speak. It doesn’t do anything, but I fill the silence all the same. ‘Did they finish the date?’
‘That’s your first question?’ The usual mirth in his voice is missing. Even in the dark, I can see the weariness behind those usually lively eyes – fatigue from more than just lack of sleep.
I try to shrug, but the little movement hurts too bad. I close my eyes, pain etching my face. ‘The show must go on, as they say.’
When he doesn’t respond, I open my eyes to see him worrying his bottom lip. He’s always a bit fidgety, but it’s on overdrive.
‘Are you OK?’ I say cautiously.
He sighs deeply, and I don’t love where the movement takes him, out of his chair and toward the door.
Looking at it for a beat too long, like it’s an escape hatch, before he returns his gaze to me.
He stops at the side of my bed, crouching so we’re eye level.
My heart thuds in my chest. Any moment, the machines attached to me are going to catch up to what my body is already reacting to.
That primal sense that danger is coming.