Maybe in Another Life (8 page)

“Well, I’m just saying, in New York, there’s the subway. And in Austin, you can park anywhere you want. The Metro in D.C. is so clean that you could eat off the floor.”

“Nowhere is perfect. But, you know, don’t go racking up reasons to leave already.”

“I’m not,” I say. I’m slightly defensive. I don’t want to be the person no one thinks is going to stick around.

“OK,” he says. “Good.”

He turns and opens the door to the café, letting me in first. We get in line, and it so happens that the line snakes around the bakery case. I see the cinnamon rolls on the top shelf. They are half the size of my head. Covered in icing.

“Wow,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “I’ve wanted to take you here ever since I first found this place.”

“How long ago was that?” I ask, teasing him.

He smiles. For a moment, I wonder if he’s embarrassed. “A long time. Don’t feel like you need to trick me into admitting I’ve been hung up on you for years. I’m confident enough to say it outright.” I smile at him as he laughs and steps forward. “A cinnamon roll, please,” he says to the cashier.

“Wait, aren’t you having one?”

“They are huge!” Ethan says. “I thought we’d split one.”

I give him a look.

He laughs. “Excuse me,” he says to the cashier. “Make that two cinnamon rolls. My apologies.”

I try to pay, but Ethan won’t let me.

We grab some waters, sit down by the window, and wait for a server to warm up the rolls. I fiddle with the napkin dispenser.

“If I hadn’t stayed out with you on Saturday, would you have tried to sleep with Katherine?” I ask him. It’s been in the back of my mind since that night. I’m trying to be better at actually asking the questions I have instead of avoiding them.

He starts sipping his water. I can tell he is put off by the question. “What are you talking about?”

“You were flirting with her. And it bothered me. And I just want to make sure this is . . . that this is just me and you, and we aren’t . . . that there is no one else.”

“As far as I’m concerned, there’s not another woman on the planet. I’m into you. I’m only into you.”

“But if I hadn’t stayed out . . .”

Ethan puts his water down and looks me right in the eye. “Listen, I went to that bar hoping to get you alone, hoping to talk to you, to gauge how you felt. I tried on ten different shirts to find the right one. I bought gum and kept it in my back pocket in case I had bad breath. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to get my hair to look like I didn’t do my hair. For you. You are the only one. I danced with Katherine because I was nervous talking to you. And because I want to be honest with you, I’ll admit that I don’t know what I would have done if you had turned me down on Saturday, but no matter what I would have done, it would have been because I thought you weren’t interested. If you’re interested, I’m interested. And only in you.”

“I’m interested,” I say. “I’m very interested.”

He smiles.

The cinnamon rolls arrive at the table. The smell of the spice and the sugar is . . . relaxing. I feel as if I am at home.

“Maybe all of this time,” I say to Ethan, “I’ve been looking for home and not realizing that home is where the cinnamon roll is.”

Ethan laughs. “I mean, if you’re going to go all over the country looking for where you belong, I could have told you years ago you belong in front of a cinnamon roll.”

I grab a knife and fork and make my incision, right into the deep heart of the swirl. I put the fork to my mouth. “This better be good,” I say before I finally taste it.

It is absolutely delicious. Wonderfully, indulgently, blissfully delicious. I put down my utensils and look up at the ceiling, savoring the moment.

He laughs at me.

“Would it surprise you if I finished this entire roll myself?” I ask.

“Not since you insisted on having your own,” he says. He takes a bite of his. I watch as he chews it casually, as if it’s a ham sandwich or something. He’ll indulge my sweet tooth, but he doesn’t share it.

“How about if I finish yours, too?” I ask.

“Yes, I would actually go so far as to say that would shock me.”

“Challenge accepted,” I say, except that none of the syllables comes out clearly. There is too much dough in my mouth. I accidentally spit cinnamon on him.

Ethan moves his hand to his cheek to wipe it away. On a scale of one to ten, I’m about a six for embarrassment. I think my cheeks turn red. I swallow.

“Sorry,” I say. “Not very ladylike.”

“Kinda gross,” he says, teasing me.

I shake my head. “How about that? If I make a habit of spitting cinnamon roll chunks on you, is that a deal breaker?”

Ethan looks down at the table and shakes his head. “Just get over it, OK? You and me. It’s happening. Stop trying to find cracks in it.” He puts down his knife and fork. “Maybe there are no cracks in this. Can you handle that?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I can handle that.”

I can, right? I can handle that.

I
’ve noticed that in TV shows, visiting hours are only certain set times. “Sorry, sir, visiting hours are over” and that sort of thing. Maybe this is true in the rest of the hospital, but here on whatever floor I’m on, no one seems to care. My parents and Sarah were here until nine. They only left because I insisted they go back to their hotel. My nurse, Deanna, was in and out of here all day and never said anything to them about leaving.

Gabby showed up about two hours ago. She insisted on setting up camp on the poor excuse for a sofa in here. I told her that she didn’t have to stay the night with me, that I’d be OK on my own, but she refused. She said she’d already told Mark she was sleeping here. Then she handed me the bouquet he sent with her. She put it on the counter and gave me the card. And then she made a bed for herself and talked to me as she closed her eyes.

She fell asleep about a half hour ago. She’s been snoring for at least twenty minutes. I, myself, would love to fall asleep, but I’m too wired, too restless. I haven’t moved or stood up since I was standing in front of LACMA four days ago. I want to get up and move around. I want to move my legs.

But I can’t. I can barely lift my arms above my head. I turn on a small light by my bed and open up one of Sarah’s magazines. I flip through the pages. Bright photos of women in absurd outfits in weird places. One of the photo shoots looks as if
it took place in Siberia with women wearing polka-dot bikinis. Apparently, polka dots are in. At least in Europe.

I throw the magazine to the side and turn the TV back on, the volume low. No surprise to find that
Law & Order
is on. I have yet to find a time when it isn’t.

I hear the show’s familiar
buh-bump
just as a male nurse walks into my room.

He’s tall and strong. Dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven. His scrubs are deep blue, his skin a deep tan. He has on a white T-shirt underneath.

It only now occurs to me that Deanna probably isn’t working twenty-four hours a day. This guy must be the night nurse.

“Oh,” he says, whispering. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

I notice that he has a large tattoo on his left forearm. It appears to be some sort of formal script, large cursive letters, but I can’t make out exactly what it says. “She won’t wake up,” I whisper back.

He looks at Gabby and winces. “Geez,” he says softly. “She sounds like a bulldozer.”

I smile at him. He’s right.

“I won’t be too long,” he says. He moves toward my machines. I’ve been hooked up to these things all day, to the point where they are starting to feel like a part of me.

He starts checking things off his list just as Deanna did earlier today. I can hear the sound of the pen on the clipboard.
Check. Check. Check. Scribble.
He puts my chart back into the pocket. I wonder if it says in that file that I lost a baby. I push the thought out of my head.

“Would you mind?” he asks me, gesturing to the stethoscope in his hand.

“Oh,” I say.
“Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

He pushes the neck of my gown down and slips his hand between my skin and the cloth, resting the stethoscope over my heart. He asks me to breathe normally.

Deanna did this earlier, and I didn’t even notice. But now, with him, it feels intimate, almost inappropriate. But of course, it’s not. Obviously, it’s not. Still, I find myself slightly embarrassed. He’s handsome, and he’s my age, and his hand is on my bare chest. I am now acutely aware of the fact that I am not wearing a bra. I turn my head so I’m not looking at him. He smells like men’s body wash, something that would be called Alpine Rush or Clean Arctic.

He pulls the stethoscope off me when he’s satisfied with his findings. He scribbles something on the chart. I find myself desperate to change the mood. A mood he’s probably not even aware of.

“How long have you worked here?” I ask, whispering so as not to wake up Gabby. I like that I have to whisper. At a whisper, you can’t tell my voice is shot.

“Oh, I’ve been here since I moved to L.A. about two years ago,” he whispers as he stares at my chart. “Originally from Texas.”

“Whereabouts?” I ask.

“Lockhart,” he says. “You wouldn’t have heard of it. Small town just outside of Austin.”

“I lived in Austin,” I say. “For a little while.”

He looks up at me and smiles. “Oh, yeah? When did you move here?”

It’s hard to answer succinctly, and I don’t have the voice to give him the whole story, so I simplify it. “I grew up here, but I moved back last week.”

He tries to hide it, but I can see his eyes go wide. “Last week?”

I nod. “Last Friday night,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Wow.”

“Seems sort of unfair, doesn’t it?”

He shakes his head and looks back down at the chart. He clicks his pen. “Nope, you can’t think about that,” he says, looking back up at me. “From experience, I can tell you that if you go around trying to figure out what’s fair in life or whether you deserve something or not, that’s a rabbit hole that is hard to climb out of.”

I smile at him. “You might be right,” I say, and then I close my eyes. Conversation takes more energy than I thought.

“Anything I can get you?” he whispers before he leaves.

I shake my head slightly. “Er, actually . . . maybe a hair tie?” I point to my head. My hair is down around my shoulders. I am lying on it. I hate lying on my hair.

“That’s an easy one,” he says. He pulls one out of his shirt pocket. I look at him, surprised.

“I find them all over the hospital. Someday maybe I’ll tell you about the elaborate reminder system I use them for.” He comes close and puts one in my hand. I only get a slightly better look at his tattoo. I still can’t make it out.

“Thanks,” I say. I lean forward, trying to get a good angle, trying to gather all of my hair. But it’s hard. My entire body aches. Moving my arms high enough seems impossible.

“Hold on,” he whispers. “Let me.”

“Well,” I say, “I don’t want a ponytail.”

“OK . . .” he says. “I don’t have to braid it, do I? That seems complicated.”

“Just a bun. High up.” I point toward the crown of my head. I don’t care
if the bun looks good. I just want it out from under my head and neck. I want it contained and out of the way.

“All right, lean forward if you can.” He starts to gather my hair. “I think this is the beginning of a complete disaster.”

I laugh and push my body forward. I wince.

“Let’s get you a bit higher dosage on the pain meds. Does that sound OK?” he says. “You shouldn’t be in that much pain.”

I nod. “OK, but I think they’ve turned it as high as it will go.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. We might be able to go higher.” He drops my hair momentarily and moves toward my IV. I can’t see what he’s doing; he’s behind me. And then he’s in front of me again, picking up my hair. “I mean, you might start saying weird things and having hallucinations,” he jokes, “but better that you’re not in pain.”

I smile at him.

“All right, so I’m just gathering all of this hair and putting it on the top of your head and then wrapping a rubber band around it?”

“Yeah.”

He leans into me, our faces close together. I can smell the coffee on his breath. I feel slight tugging and pressure. He’s got some of my hair caught, pulling tightly against my scalp.

“Looser? Maybe?” I say.

“Looser? OK.” His arms are in my face, but the tattoo is facing the other direction. I bet it’s a woman’s name. He seems like the kind of guy who met a woman on some exotic island and married her and they have four beautiful children and live in a house with a gourmet kitchen. She probably makes beautiful dinners that incorporate all the food groups, and I bet they have fruit trees in their backyard. Not just oranges, either. Lemons, limes, avocados. I think the medication is up too high.

“OK,” he says. “Voilá, I guess.”
He backs away from me ever so subtly to check his work.

By the look on his face, I can tell that my bun looks ridiculous. But it
feels
right. It feels like a high bun. I feel like myself for the first time today. Which . . . feels great. I feel great. Also, I’m definitely high.

“Do I look silly?” I ask.

“It’s probably not my best work,” he says. “You pull it off, though.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Well, if you need any other hairstyles, just press that button. I’m here for the next eight hours.”

“Will do,” I say. “I’m Hannah.”

“I know,” he says, smiling. “I’m Henry.”

When he turns and leaves, I finally get a good glimpse of his tattoo.
Isabelle.

Man, all the good ones are taken by Isabelles.

I lay my head down, relishing the free space behind my neck.

Henry’s head pops back in.

“What’s your favorite flavor of pudding?” he asks me.

“Probably chocolate,” I say. “Or tapioca? And vanilla is good.”

“So all of them? You like all flavors of pudding?” he says, teasing me.

I laugh. “Chocolate,” I say. “Chocolate is good.”

“I take my break at two a.m.,” he tells me. He looks at his watch. “If you’re still up, which I hope for your sake you aren’t, but if you are still up, maybe I’ll bring you some chocolate pudding.”