When I’m finished, I arrange Marcus’s covers and hospital gown until I’m satisfied that he is comfortable. As I’m about to move to my charting station, I swear I see a finger on his left hand move. I am not imagining this, am I?
I watch closely for more, but there is nothing. I pull up a chair and sit with him, but before I do, I speak into his ear, “I know you’re trying. Don’t give up.”
His hand twitches microscopically. A shiver runs up my spine, and my heart clambers against my rib cage.
I should call his doctor or maybe I should keep talking to him. Should I turn the music up? Down? Shit, I don’t know.
I’m nervous and excited and a little scared. I decide to wait and see if he does it again. I wait and wait, but it’s over. Whatever I did to trigger him isn’t working anymore. He lies as still as the stone sitting in my stomach. I am disappointed, to say the least, but I still have a few hours left in my shift.
Three hours go by, and it’s almost time to go home. I notified the physician about his progress. When I told him it only happened twice a few hours ago, he wasn’t impressed. “An isolated incident of nerve response,” he said, and probably rolled over in his warm bed to spoon with his wife.
I refuse to believe that. I saw it with my own eyes, and it was no coincidence that it happened while I was playing music in his ear.
It won’t be long now, and I’ll be able to meet my mystery man.
Leaving him today is harder than ever. I wish I could crawl into bed beside him and sleep my day away cocooned in the smell of spearmint and eucalyptus, tucked under his strong arm. It’s going to happen soon. I feel it.
The drive home is dismal and rainy as usual. Typical fall Seattle weather, it’s almost always raining here. I’m too amped up to sleep when I get home, so I stop at the glass blowing studio and pick up the light I made yesterday and the vase Dax gifted me.
Marcus will be awake soon, and his room is drab and void of color. The ICU doesn’t allow people to bring in flowers or balloons due to the risk of infection, but the vase will be perfect.
At home, I dump my purse on the floor and plop down on the couch to listen to my voicemail. My girlfriends are getting together tonight, and I’m supposed to meet up with them for drinks. I’m usually excited to have a girls’ night out, but tonight I just feel like curling up on the couch and binge-watching a series on Netflix.
My phone rings in my pocket as if on cue. It’s Lana, no chance of bowing out unnoticed now.
“Hey, Lana,” I say turning to lie down and stretch out on the couch. I toe off my tennis shoes and wiggle my toes.
“So where are we going first?” Lana says. Her excitement is contagious.
“We could meet on my couch. I’m sure to be on time,” I say.
She ignores my attempt to turn happy hour into a slumber party and continues to talk.
“I just hung up with Clair and Trina, plan on being ready at ten. We still need to figure out where we’re gonna meet.”
“I don’t know, how about Club Rain?”
“Oh, yes, yes, good idea, Club Rain, perfect, we haven’t been there in ages! I’ll let the girls know. Dress up, woman, we’re going to party tonight!”
“Calm down, Lana, you’re gonna give yourself a stroke.”
“Nah, you’re just not into it yet. Get dressed up, do your hair, and get ready to shake that sexy ass of yours!”
“Ok, ok. Keep your panties on. I’ll see ya later.”
“Ok, Ciao, Bella!”
“Bye, Lana.”
She’s so dramatic. If I hadn’t known Lana all my life, I’d swear she was on something illegal. I’ve never known anyone as energetic as that woman, but that's what makes her who she is.
After six hours of restless sleep, I’m awake and scrounging in the kitchen for something to eat. There’s no sense in tempting fate by drinking on an empty stomach, nothing good ever comes of that.
I sigh and drag myself to the bathroom for a shower. When I’m dry, I spend what feels like forever straightening my long, stubborn curly hair with a flat iron.
I dig out my expensive makeup that I save for nights out on the town and weddings. I’m not crazy about wearing makeup. I have good skin and I don’t feel like I need to cover it up, but wearing it is better than the alternative. If I show up at Club Rain without my face on, Lana will slap me with a lecture on how to attract a man.
She’d die if she knew I’ve already got my eye on one.
I blink my false lashes and check out my smoky eyes. I feel like a raccoon but Lana swears I look like a model in Vogue Magazine. I slide some gloss on my full lips and flip my hair behind my shoulders. I look a lot like my mother when I’m all painted up. She and I share the same light-brown complexion, jet-black hair, and whiskey-brown eyes. There is a little of my dad in the mirror as well, but my sister is the one who inherited his looks. His-and-Hers daughters, that’s what their friends call us. I have my father’s mannerisms and compassion, and Latoya got my mother’s drive and determination.
In my bedroom, I rummage through my closet for something Club Rain worthy. When these girls say dress up, you better take them seriously.
In the end, I choose a black mini with a sparkly sleeveless top in silver. The top has a sexy cut-out in the back that shows a little skin but not too much as I’m leery of drawing attention to myself.
Last are my black boots with a stiletto heel. I’m a shoe person, which may have stemmed from being a foot person. I have superhuman feet. I’ve even been known to teeter around for hours in heels that would devastate the feet of your average woman.
I’m going to freeze outside in this outfit, but the bar will be hot and packed. I grab a black cashmere sweater to cover my arms. My legs are just going to have to endure the cold evening air. With a small clutch instead of my suitcase-sized purse, I decide I’m ready.
Once I’m outside, I immediately regret the mini. It’s even colder than I had anticipated. A gust of wind shoots up my bare legs and whips my previously perfect hair into my face. I rush to my car, hop in, and blast the heat.
After a few minutes, my muscles begin to relax, and I welcome the warm air blowing on my feet. Oh, the things I do for these girls.
Parking sucks, but after driving around the block several times I luck out and find a place not too far from the door. With my arms wrapped tight around my body, I scan the street up and down twice from the seat of my car and then hurry inside.
I spot the girls at a table across the dance floor and start toward them.
“Hey, girl!” Lana shouts when she catches sight of me.
“Lana, keep it down,” I say, mostly to myself, and, as always, my request is promptly denied.
“You’re looking HOT, mama!”
“Thanks, Lana. Hi, Clair, Trina, can’t you two keep her under control?”
Both women roll their eyes as if to say that’s the stupidest question they’ve ever heard.
“Hey, Imani,” Clair says, “What do you want to drink?”
I consider for a moment just how intoxicated I’m willing to get tonight before deciding that a martini is as safe as anything.
“How many have you guys had anyway?” I ask, raising my eyebrows with the question directed mainly at Lana.