Chương 5
Dr. Patel's hand tightened around my wrist.
A nurse finally said, “You examined him?”
“Yes.”
“You personally examined him?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“What time?”
“Eleven fourteen this morning.”
Morning.
Relief and horror arrived together.
I had not lost days.
I had been poisoned, declared dead, transported to a funeral home, prepared for viewing, mourned, and nearly sent into a furnace in less than seven hours.
The efficiency of it made me sick.
Or perhaps I was already sick.
Dr. Patel leaned close enough that I could smell peppermint gum.
“Ethan, we're going to help you breathe more comfortably, and we're running blood work immediately.”
His voice carried the deliberate steadiness doctors use when they are frightened but do not want patients to borrow their fear.
“If you understand me, move your finger once.”
I moved it.
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“Do you remember what happened to you?”
I moved my finger once.
Someone behind him whispered, “Jesus.”
Dr. Patel said, “Can you communicate yes and no?”
Once for yes, I thought.
Twice for no.
But he had not established that.
He seemed to understand the problem.
“One movement for yes.”
He waited.
“Two for no.”
I moved once.
“Were you feeling ill before today?”
Once.
“Did you have chest pain?”
Twice.
“Shortness of breath?”
Twice.
“Did you collapse suddenly?”
Once.
“Were you alone?”
Twice.
The room changed again.
Dr. Patel glanced toward someone I could not see.
“Was your wife with you?”
I moved once.
No one spoke.
Dr. Patel cleared his throat.
“Did she call the ambulance?”
I had no idea.
I did nothing.
He recognized the silence.
“You don't know?”
Once.
“All right.”
His next question came more carefully.
“Do you believe something was done to you?”
My finger moved before he finished speaking.
Once.
A nurse inhaled through her nose.
Dr. Patel did not ask the obvious next question.
Not yet.
Instead he said, “We need toxicology, metabolic panel, blood gases, everything we can preserve before treatment changes the picture.”
A male voice answered, “Already drawing.”
“And notify administration.”
Someone asked, “Risk?”
Dr. Patel said, “Risk, legal, and security.”
The word security hit me like oxygen.
Olivia was outside.
Mason knew where I was.
For the first time since the coffin opened, someone else was thinking about the possibility that what had happened to me was not an error.
Dr. Patel bent close again.
“Ethan, I have to ask something very direct.”
His voice lowered.
“Are you afraid of your wife?”
I moved once.
Nobody reacted aloud.
That was somehow worse.
The silence became professional.
Controlled.
People continued working, but the room's purpose had shifted.
I was no longer only a medical impossibility.
I was potentially evidence.
A nurse named Rachel introduced herself while placing another IV.
Her voice was low and practical.
“This is going to pinch.”
It did.
Pain traveled up my arm.
“Good vein,” she muttered.
Then, almost to herself, “At least something today is cooperating.”
The dryness of it would have made me smile under any other circumstances.
Dr. Patel asked for neurology.
Another physician came in.
Then someone from toxicology called on speaker and wanted details of my symptoms before the collapse.
Dr. Patel answered what he knew.
Dizziness.
Weakness.
Intermittent confusion.
Falls.
Fatigue.
Three weeks.
I wanted to tell them about the coffee.
Honey.
Cinnamon.
The bitterness.
I wanted to tell them Mason had said formula.
I wanted to scream his name.
One finger was a brutally small language.
Dr. Patel returned to me after the first rush of orders.
“Ethan, we're trying to understand what happened.”
His hand rested against the bed rail.
“I know this is frustrating.”
Frustrating was not the word I would have chosen.
“I want to ask about this morning.”
Once.
“Did you eat breakfast?”
Once.
“Did you drink anything?”
Once.
“Coffee?”
Once.
“Water?”
Twice.
“Anything else?”
Twice.
“Did your wife prepare the coffee?”
Once.
There it was.
The first accusation I could make.
Dr. Patel's breathing changed slightly.
“Did it taste unusual?”
Once.
“Bitter?”
Once.
Rachel stopped moving near my arm.
Dr. Patel asked, “Did you tell her?”
Twice.
“Did anyone else know you drank it?”
I could not answer.
Mason might have.
Maybe he had been waiting somewhere.
Maybe Olivia had texted him.
I did nothing.
Dr. Patel said, “Unknown.”
Then the door opened.
A woman spoke from the threshold.
“Doctor?”
“I said no visitors.”
“I'm not family.”
Her voice was calm, older, unfamiliar.
“Hospital administration.”
Dr. Patel said, “Come in.”
She introduced herself as Karen Bell, chief medical officer.
Her tone was measured enough to make every word feel weighed before release.
“Mr. Cole, I understand you're able to respond to commands.”
I moved once.
“I'm going to tell you something important.”
She paused.
“You are under active medical care, and nobody outside your treatment team will have unsupervised access to you.”
Once.
“We have also asked security to remain nearby.”
My finger moved again.
Probably unnecessary.
I needed her to know I understood.
Karen continued.
“Your wife is asking to see you.”
My entire hand tried to move.
Only the finger obeyed.
Twice.
Then twice again.
“No?”
Twice.
“Understood.”
A strange warmth entered my chest.
Not comfort.
Control.
A tiny amount of it.
Maybe the first I had possessed since Olivia handed me the mug.
Karen said, “Your brother and mother are also here.”
My finger moved once.
“Would you like either of them allowed in?”
Once.
“Your brother?”
Once.
“Your mother?”
I hesitated.
Not because I did not want her.
Because I could not bear what seeing me like this would do to her.
Then another thought came.
Olivia had already spent hours telling everyone the story of my death.
My mother needed something true.
Once.
Karen said, “We'll allow them separately after the physicians finish their immediate work.”
Dr. Patel asked her to wait in the hall.
Before she left, Karen said, “There is one more issue.”
He answered, “What?”
“The funeral home contacted us.”
May you like
My mind sharpened.
“They have questions about release procedure.”
