Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
SEVEN DAYS LATER
I wheeze in shock.
The body in the hospital bed is connected to so many wires and monitors it looks like a science experiment gone wrong, but worse—because that’s undeniably me.
My face is a couple of shades darker than white, cheeks slightly flushed.
My hair, usually styled into glossy brown waves, lies limp and dull against the pillow.
I could pass for a corpse—would pass for one if not for the machines saying otherwise.
The beeping monitors. The almost imperceptible rise and fall of my chest—her chest. Because that … can’t be me.
You’ve been in a coma for a week. Rafael’s voice is in my head.
No. No.
He can’t be right. He almost never is.
My chest tightens, like it’s trying to reject the very thought.
This is impossible.
I can’t be here and there. Can I?
Nope.
Rafael was messing with me. It’s his thing.
But—
The body in the bed looks so much like me.
Propelled by inexplicable curiosity, I inch closer to the bed.
My breaths hitch with each step until I don’t breathe at all.
Because now, up close, I can’t deny it. The same pert nose and full lips, the beauty mark beneath the right eye, the faint scar above my wrist from a stupid dare that had me attempting to climb a fence into a cemetery at midnight and cutting myself open.
I fainted right after and almost bled out.
Even if I dismiss the face, the scar, and all the physical signs it’s me on the bed, it’s hard to ignore the wristband—the plastic bracelet, snug around my wrist:
EVIE POPE. DOB: 11/02/96
Final, irrefutable proof.
I suck in another breath, willing my lungs to expand.
It’s wildly, wildly impossible, but the evidence is becoming undeniable. And if that’s me lying on the bed, then who is this version of me? The one who woke up in Rafael’s apartment? The one who spiraled into a panic attack and somehow ended up here?
Lifting my hands to eye level, I recognize my fingers as my own. The scar is visible against my wrist. The nails are manicured and polished blush pink. My legs are mine, too, toned from hours of running and riding my Peloton. A smattering of beauty marks dots the pale skin.
I check the door before I quickly cup my breasts. They’re definitely mine. Small, but not too tiny. Round and pushed up by a bra.
I glance around the room for a reflective surface. Nothing glimmers back, so I sneak into the gray-beige bathroom to the side of the room. Holding my breath, I face the square mirror above the sink. Only no one looks back.
I squeak in shock, blinking several times. It’s not possible.
I wave at the mirror. Nothing stirs.
I inch up to it, almost pressing my nose against it. The room behind me is the only thing in the reflection.
Somehow, I’m here, but I’m not.
I spin toward the bed and the body hooked up to machines and tubes. I look at her, and she blurs. Morphs into my sister Annie. Like the last—and final—time I saw her. Pale and small and … lifeless.
Throat burning, I blink the image away. Annie’s been gone so long now.
And that’s me. Me.
Panic lands a roundhouse kick to my gut, and I stumble.
Oh God.
Rafael may have been right.
I’m in a coma.
Unmoving.
Half dead.
This is impossible. Not the you’ll never escape your past impossible. The not ever impossible.
A whimper chokes out of me as full-body tremors roll through me.
This can’t be happening.
I gasp for air that doesn’t seem to want to go into my lungs, emitting sounds I’ve only heard in documentaries about whale songs.
Is this happening?
I can’t make sense of what this is, but it’s inexplicable. A mental breakdown. A nightmare. A glitch in the matrix.
My sobs evolve to wheezing.
I shouldn’t cry. Crying solves nothing, and I need to solve this.
Taking a steadying breath, I start to pace the length of the room, humming through sobs.
I make it through half of ABBA’s greatest hits (and lots of sniffles and snot) by the time I feel brave enough to look at the bed again.
That unmoving body is mine. Once so full of life and possibilities—a bucket list of them.
The waterworks start again. Worse than before.
The last time I cried was two years ago, and I’d never admit it to him, but it involved Rafael, a supply closet, and a flask I discovered hidden between reams of printer paper. I haven’t cried since, not unless I was getting emotional over a documentary about endangered animals or climate change.
I most certainly don’t cry when it comes to me. Because one: it’s pointless. And two: I don’t believe in feeling sorry for myself—not when being logical and making checklists are so much more effective for solving problems and moving forward.
Only nothing is logical about being in a coma when I was just here.
More specifically, at the Aviary, on the verge of a long-worked-for promotion and slowing down.
In the middle of training for my fifth marathon and checking one of the more attainable items off my bucket list. I ate salads for lunch, and I exercised like it was my religion.
I saw a therapist and meditated, even if I couldn’t ever quite manage to get my head quiet.
I couldn’t have simply slipped into a coma. Right?
I press a hand to the base of my head, where the throbbing intensifies, and I sniff back another round of tears, fighting for control over my emotions.
I need to focus on facts. On the parts of the puzzle I do have. The Aviary. The dinner. Rafael.
The pieces click together so fast my stomach drops and my blood pressure spikes.
I didn’t slip into a coma. Maybe someone put me into one. And only one person could have pulled that off. The same person who was with me the last night I remember being … in my body. The same person who’s made it his life’s mission to drive me insane.
What if he somehow drove me out of my body? Long enough to snag a promotion? The idea is as ridiculous as me being in two places at once. Yet here I am. Or there I am.
If Rafael were here, I would—
“Dios mío.” Rafael’s voice makes me jolt with a squeak.
I spin on him so fast I forget I’m a snotty mess.
Rafael stands a few feet away from me, wearing The Sweatpants and a tee that hides but not-so-subtly silhouettes the abs beneath. He hovers in the doorway, staring at me with wide eyes.
He’s staring. Right. At. Me.
“You can see me,” I blurt with a hoarse voice. Feeling like a wet sock, I sniffle and straighten, smoothing down the dress and tossing my hair over my shoulder, as if that could mask that I’m currently the antithesis of Evie Pope.
Rafael blinks, looking past me. I falter.
Maybe I imagined it all—him talking to me, responding, seeing me.
Maybe I’ve tricked myself into believing he could because the alternative is too terrifying.
Because he’s staring straight through me. Like I’m not here.
Needing confirmation, I ignore the tempest of uncertainty inside me and take a small step toward him, tears drying and hands shaky—exactly how one should approach their sworn enemy.
But I need him to acknowledge me.
“Rafael,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. “You can see me, right?”
Rafael doesn’t react. As still as my body in that hospital bed behind me.
Maybe the apartment thing was a fluke—my hallucination. I need to know.
I inch closer.
His hand moves to the doorknob.
“Rafael!” The desperation in my voice startles me, and I clamp my lips together.
Rafael stills. His gaze lifts from the body in the bed—my body—to me.
Relief is short and not so sweet (because hey, I’m in a coma, everybody), but I think I have Rafael’s attention.
And I need to play my cards right because he can see me, which means he can finally explain things: what really happened at the Aviary …
and every question I’ve been dying to ask all morning … and right now.
I clear my throat. “Why are you here?”
The question is out of my mouth before I can answer it myself. To see me at my weakest? To possibly shave off my eyebrows and snap a photo of me?
“I wish I knew,” Rafael says, shaking his head. The door groans as he leans against it with a heavy sigh, considering me in a way that leaves me feeling like I should add another layer of clothes.
I scowl. “Nice try.”
“Nice try? What is it I’m—” Rafael stops abruptly. “I’m talking to a hallucination. Again.”
“I’m not a hallucination,” I repeat for the thousandth time. I also mentally kick myself. My tone isn’t communicating that I need something from him, and I don’t want to scare him away. Yet. “I promise.”
Rafael’s cheek twitches, but he stays. Long enough for me to take action and address the two things that need checking off before he makes a getaway:
1. Prove I’m not a figment of his imagination (he wishes)
2. Get answers
“I’ll prove it to you,” I say. Rafael’s brow lifts, and it’s all the dare I need to dig for something his hallucination wouldn’t know, something his imagination wouldn’t fathom me capable of doing.
“Would your hallucination admit that I purposely lost the Culture Jar so I could be the one to bring in breakfast the morning of your meeting with Nova Kare?”
As the confession takes root, Rafael’s face morphs.
Surprise, then horror. I’d savor the moment if it weren’t for my predicament.
Culture Jar is Dana’s attempt to create team cohesion and build a collaborative culture.
Whenever a team member exemplifies Media Lab’s values, their name is tossed into a jar.
At the end of each month, the person with the fewest tickets buys breakfast for the team.