Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
SEVEN DAYS AFTER, PART II
Rafael drops the gown and digs his hands into his pockets. Neither he nor I so much as breathe.
A doctor, her gray hair chopped into a stylish pixie cut, stands in the doorway to the room. Her dark eyes widen behind thick-rimmed glasses as her eyes dart between Rafael and my partly uncovered body on the bed.
“Hello,” she says, her voice slightly accented. “What are you doing here?”
“Dr. Wagner,” Rafael starts, shaking off his temporary shock with an apologetic smile.
“I was … I thought it was warm in here … and her cheeks were a little flushed.” He gestures to the body, shrugging innocently.
He’s transformed from a Horseman of the Apocalypse to an angel at the pearly gates. “I apologize if I’ve overstepped.”
The doctor’s frown smooths out into a kind smile. “It is normal for her to appear that way, Rafael.”
My jaw drops in surprise. “She knows you?”
Ever the gentleman, Rafael ignores me.
“How have you been?” The doctor lets the door slide closed behind her and ambles into the room, circling to the other side of the bed. She wears a striped dress beneath her lab coat and holds an iPad.
“You’ve been here before?” I lean close to his ear, shock making my voice squeak. Rafael flinches but doesn’t look my way. His silence is an answer that only piques my curiosity.
Why is Rafael here? Why does he know this doctor? Why is she so quick to ignore he’s in a patient’s room without the patient’s written, explicit permission? The last one’s an exaggeration, given my condition, but … how does Rafael get a pass?
I know the answer to this question too.
For all the reasons he gets them all the time. He can be friendly and charming. He wields an irresistible dimple and bedroom eyes. I can think of several reasons others have let him off the hook, so it shouldn’t surprise me that this doctor is any less susceptible to the Vela effect.
“I’ve had better days, Doc,” he says, his eyes flicking to me for a nanosecond.
“It’s a difficult situation,” she says with sympathy. Features serious, she swipes across the iPad and looks up at the monitors beside the bed. I squint at the information—mostly numbers—but none of it means anything.
“What is the situation?” I focus on my silent nemesis. “Besides the fact that I’m unresponsive in that bed, wearing that awful thing they have the nerve to call a gown.”
Rafael groans beneath his breath, rubbing his scruffy jaw.
This close, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in this much disarray, not even that one other time I actually lost the Culture Jar and had to personally deliver a get-well basket from the team (no Dulcolax involved).
It was the first time in years I’d stepped foot in his apartment.
While there wasn’t any late-night client pitch prep, I did get to see Rafael out of his element.
The flu had taken him out for an entire week, long enough for me to step in, nail one of his pitches, and even recruit someone—Dana wouldn’t let me get Gemma—from his team.
“You can always talk to me, Rafael. Tell me how you’re doing.” Dr. Wagner continues swiping across her iPad. I can’t help but scoff. Rafael is fine. It’s me we should all be worried about.
“Ask her about the … whatever she’s doing,” I say, craning my neck so I can see her notes.
“No.” Rafael turns his body so that his shoulder blocks me.
“Excuse me?” The doctor looks up from her device, leveling a questioning gaze at him.
“Um. I’m fine.” He clears his throat. “Just wondering about how Evie’s doing. Any changes?”
Finally.
I focus on the doctor, whose eyebrows knit over her prominent nose. “I’m sorry to say this, but there hasn’t been much of a change, not since the other day you checked in,” she says.
“The other day?” I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “How often have you been here? More importantly, why?”
“I understand.” Rafael pretends I’m not here.
“Well, I don’t understand,” I hiss, positioning myself so I can peek over his shoulder. “So explain, Raffy Taffy.” His nostrils flare, but that’s all I get. Annoyance makes me lean in so close I could bite his ear. If I were into that kind of stuff. “I’m not going to stop until you explain.”
“God!” Rafael snaps, startling the doctor. She eyes him warily over the rims of her glasses.
“You’re doing a stellar job of scaring off women. I’m surprised I ever thought the contrary,” I say, a little bit comforted by his discomfort.
“Not all of them.” He glares pointedly at me. Dr. Wagner follows his line of sight, her brow quirking in question. “Oh, I wasn’t talk—” he starts, then stretches his neck from side to side and heaves a deep sigh. “Actually, I think I’m having some sort of … hallucination.”
I snort beside him, unsurprised he’s resorting to this excuse. Again.
The doctor appears thoughtful as she sets the iPad on the tray table beside her and gives him her full attention.
“What kind of hallucination?”
“The kind where I see things that aren’t here?”
“That’s the definition of a hallucination,” I insert.
“More specifically, one that looks and acts like Evie but like one hundred times more … irritating.” The way he rolls his r’s is irritating.
“Ah,” Dr. Wagner says, removing her glasses and tucking them into a pocket. “And is this Evie here now?”
“Yes! I’m here!” I shout, startling Rafael, who jerks in surprise.
He shuffles a step away from me. “What happens if I say yes?”
Dr. Wagner chuckles. “I won’t have you taken out of here in a straitjacket, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Should have happened long ago.” I scan my archnemesis—his rumbled hair, his thigh-hugging sweatpants, the somewhat crazed look in his eyes. I’m surprised she hasn’t called up the psych ward already.
“What does the hallucination tell you?”
“Mostly nonsense. Wants to prove she isn’t a hallucination.”
“Nonsense?” I squeak.
Rafael continues, “It’s incessant. Since this morning.”
“Hmm. And why do you think you’re seeing her now?”
He shrugs. “No clue, but I’d like for it to stop. It’s driving me crazy.”
I sidle back into his personal space. “You haven’t begun to understand the meaning of crazy.”
“Are you drinking?” Dr. Wagner asks—a little too nicely, in my humble opinion.
“Ask the bottles of wine and tequila in his loft,” I add.
“No!” He’s a little too passionate for someone who isn’t lying. “Um. Not more than usual.”
“Usual for who?” It’s too bad the doctor can’t hear me, because I’d tell her I’ve seen him take tequila shots like he’s discovered the fountain of youth.
Dr. Wagner seems genuinely worried. “As a doctor, I will advise that you cut out all alcohol and any other recreational pastimes. Get some rest. Find some time to integrate physical activity into your routine—it’s a good, healthy distraction.”
“Dr. Wagner, I’m not on drugs,” Rafael assures her, rubbing one of his arms in discomfort.
“Noooo. Just the loads of pills in your cabinet,” I say.
He grumbles beneath his breath, which doesn’t sit well with me; neither does the doctor’s misplaced concern. While I’m the one in need of help, the doctor stares at him like he’s a three-legged puppy.
“I didn’t mean it that way. Sometimes pills can have strange side effects,” Dr. Wagner continues, taking the iPad from the table and circling around the bed to Rafael. “But if you’re not taking anything, a good week of rest will help. Do you have a pharmacy?”
“Yes.”
“Your primary physician can write a script for sleeping pills.”
“No, that’s not necessary, Doc. I have those already.”
She reaches out a hand and rests it on his shoulder.
“I know this is tough for you. It’s hard to see loved ones suffering, but we are doing everything possible for Evie right now.
Our goal is to keep her stable and allow her brain time to heal.
” Her voice softens. “However, the more time that passes, you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that she might not make it.”
Loved ones? Not make it? “Mamma Mia,” I breathe, feeling like oxygen’s suddenly the scarcest element in the world.
“You already know this, Rafael, but what you’re doing is helping. Spending time with those in a coma, sharing memories and talking to them, can make a difference.” Dr. Wagner squeezes his shoulder. “As long as she’s here, there’s hope.”
I’m here, but I don’t feel hope. I feel the opposite of hope—desperation. Like someone has tossed me off the top of the Willis Tower and I’m tumbling through air. I grasp for something to steady myself. My hand goes through the bed frame and wall.
Anxiety makes my chest cave and my legs weak. Sound fades. The room blurs. The ground gives.
Far away, Rafael is having a conversation with the doctor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was concerned, but that would be absurd.
Feeling like I might finish dying right now, I drop into the pleather chair—and stay there.
Sitting is allowed. I try to grasp the seat.
My hand moves through it. Touching is still a no-go.
Apparently, the afterlife has arbitrary physics and a messed-up sense of humor—and I’m the butt of some cosmic joke.
I want to cry. I don’t.
Instead, I push the air out and press play on the mental jukebox, humming “Dancing Queen,” a tune that’s Swedish disco, sparkly despair, and an urgent need to escape. The opening notes sound like a battle between a car alarm and a bagpipe. But what do I care?
I keep going and going. Even when Rafael throws me a look—half pain, half prayer—as if he’s begging the universe to make it stop. I glare back and sing louder.
He visibly stiffens before turning back to the doctor, and I feel slightly better. I continue, belting out a few more tragically projected lines that have Rafael rubbing the back of his neck before the doctor leaves.
And I’m left alone with the bane of my existence.
“You’re a very convincing hallucination,” Rafael says.
I snap my head in his direction. “You’re a very convincing asshole,” I fire back, managing to sound more stable than I feel. Sniffing back tears, I stand too quickly and stumble forward.
Rafael’s hands shoot out—but they pass through me. The sensation is warm, like sunshine on a summer day.
We both jerk back in surprise.
Rafael looks down at his hands like he’s realizing he has ten fingers for the first time. “What just happened?”
I rub my arm, trying to shake off the strange sensation. “I told you I wasn’t a hallucination.”
“Then what are you?”
I grasp for the quickest response. “A … spirit,” I say. It takes effort not to make it sound like a question.
Rafael lifts a brow. “A spirit?”
“Evie’s spirit.”
His gaze flicks over me. “The resemblance—and attitude—are pretty spot-on.”
“As is my patience.” I hold his gaze, my tone sharper now.
“Let’s say I believe you and you are Evie’s spirit,” he says. “What the hell do you want with me?”
Good question. One I’m completely unprepared for.
I look from him to my body.
I consider the facts I’ve turned over all morning—waking up in his apartment, on his sofa, wearing last night’s clothes, with my last memory being the OhLaLove dinner.
My earlier theory might still be true, but I need to check one more item off the checklist. “Tell me about last night. About the accident,” I say, turning back to Rafael.
The shadow of a smile vanishes.