Chapter Thirty
Belle
T ime doesn’t exist in the hospital, at least not the circadian times that humans are used to. The fluorescent lights are always on, the machines are always beeping steadily along, and nurses come in every couple of hours whether it’s day or night, so those two concepts stop mattering .
After the initial panic of getting to the hospital where my father is, after getting into his room and seeing that he’s asleep but at least his chest is rising and falling, at least his heartbeat monitor is registering strong and steady, there’s… nothing .
He’s asleep. In a coma. The doctors think that he’ll almost certainly wake up, but they’re not quite sure when — they just keep saying “He’ll wake up when he wakes up,” so I just hang around the hospital, sleeping on the chair next to his bed .
The suitcase is a surprise. Julian gave me back all the things I showed up at the palace with, but there weren’t many. He also put in a few books, pajamas .
Shampoo and conditioner that matches what he has in his shower, and my heart twists. The past week feels like a strange, faraway dream, but smelling his shampoo somehow brings it all crashing back. It makes me miss him .
In the mornings I read my father the paper, front-to-back, because I think that maybe he can hear me in there.
I do the crossword and ask him the clues I don’t know.
The hospital gift shop downstairs has a small selection of paperbacks, and I read at least one per day, telling him the exciting parts out loud .
But mostly, I wait .
* * *
There’s a cough, and my eyes fly open. For a moment I’m not even sure what woke me: it’s the middle of the night, only one of the ugly overhead hospital lights glaring down over the sink in the corner of the room, the readouts on Papa’s equipment glowing a dull green .
But just as I’m about to go to back to sleep, curled under a hospital blanket in this vinyl armchair, he coughs again and this time I sit up straight, staring at him .
He hasn’t coughed since I’ve been here .
“Papa?” I whisper .
He takes a long, rattling breath in, and then coughs again as he exhales. I stand and take his hand, heart beating an erratic rhythm in my chest like it’s skipping every third beat, refusing to thump properly .
His hand twitches, his fingers closing jerkily around mine, and I squeeze back, terrified that I’m watching some sort of death throes .
“I’m right here,” I say, barely able to whisper .
He draws in another long breath, and I squeeze his hand, unable to move or think or breathe .
And then, his eyes open. He looks at the ceiling, blinks, then looks over at me .
“Isabelle?” he murmurs, clearly still out of it and dreamy .
I swallow hard, tears already coursing down my face .
“It’s me, Papa,” I whisper .
* * *
It’s another few days before they let me take him home, out of the hospital.
When I finally do there’s so much to be done that my life is a whirlwind — just figuring out Papa’s medication schedule is a task in and of itself, not to mention scheduling doctors’ visits, making sure he’s okay, watching that he takes his meds on time, everything involved in taking care of someone who’s just gotten out of a coma .
But even so, even with every waking moment accounted for, I can’t help the pang in my chest that says, quietly, I miss Julian .
I keep using his shampoo and the conditioner he sent.
I sleep in the pajamas he sent, back in my own room and home.
Every night before I fall asleep I can’t help but slide my hand under them, rubbing myself slowly until I come, thinking of him, deep inside me, pulling my hair while he growled in my ear .
He said I was his .
I still am, even here .
I keep the plug in my ass. I think about taking it out a few times, of course, but I never do except for when I have to. It reminds me of him, the way it shifts when I sit or when I walk faintly arousing, even when I was just walking downstairs in the hospital to the cafeteria .
And I like thinking of him. Once my father is getting better instead of worse, sometimes I’ll stare out the window for seconds on end, wondering when I can leave him to see Julian again .
I ache for Julian. It’s a full-body ache, one that starts in my heart and radiates out, making my chest ache, my toes curl, my breath come in quick little gasps. I long for him, long to get on my knees with my hands behind my back, long to please him and be safe again in his arms and his bed .
* * *
About ten days after I leave Julian’s castle, I’m doing the dishes at the house I share with my father. Our dishwasher is broken, and with everything going on I haven’t had the chance to get it fixed yet, so I’m forearm-deep in soapy water, watching a bird family out the window in front of me .
There are three tiny eggs in the nest, a mother bird sitting on them, a father bird who delivers her meals sometimes, and I can’t stop watching.
I don’t know why but watching this scene of bird domestic bliss makes me miss him even more than I have before, makes me want to run to him and throw my arms and legs around him, tell him how much I missed him .
“When was the last time you left this house?” my father’s voice says suddenly from right behind me .
I turn, hands still in the water. Papa isn’t much taller than me, and we have the same brown eyes, the same slow smile. We used to have the same hair, only his has gone gray with age .
“I got the mail a few days ago,” I tell him .
“You should get out,” he says, tilting his head slightly to one side. “Go have some fun for a bit. You deserve it .”
I swallow, rubbing a spoon between my finger and thumb under the water. Having fun is what I was doing when he got sick, and I feel a twinge of guilt .
“Papa, I — ”
“Something happened with the Prince, didn’t it?” he asks softly .
I’m caught totally off-guard. Papa doesn’t like the prince and doesn’t approve of his place in our government — that’s how this whole mess started, after all .
“That doesn’t mean I’m in favor of the monarchy,” I say, feeling a little defensive .
“You can like the monarch and not the monarchy,” he says, raising one eyebrow. “Belle, whatever happened between the two of you …”
I look back out the window, where the mama bird is sitting peacefully on her eggs .
“…it’s got nothing to do with me, or our current system of government,” he finishes. “There’s a nurse coming to check on me in a few hours and I’ve got automated reminders to take my meds up the wazoo. I’ll be fine. I can manage .”
I just frown, give him a long up-and-down look .
“But you didn’t,” I say, even though part of me wants to sprint out of here and back to Julian right this instant .
“And I’ve learned that lesson,” he says, crossing his arms in front of him.
“Being in a coma was terribly boring, Belle. I had the longest dream where I was trying to unscrew a screw that I’d accidentally stripped.
It was terrible, and frustrating, and I promise you I’ve got no desire whatsoever to return to that particular hell . ”
“Let me finish — ”
“Just go,” he says, his warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I can wash dishes, no matter what you think .”
I don’t even pack a bag, I just grab my purse and my keys and head out the door, leaving before I can lose my nerve .
It’s been over a week. Julian probably thinks that I’ve left him, that I’m never coming back. Maybe he’s already taken up with someone else, maybe he’s so angry that he’ll refuse to see me .
Maybe when he said go, you’re free , he really meant I never want to see you again .
But I have to try. I’ve never felt like I did when I was with him, and I don’t think I’ll feel this way about anyone else ever again .