Page 99 of Fighting Jacob

After grabbing the cafeteria special, we take a seat at one of the many empty tables. This is the first time we’ve sat and eaten since Noah's accident. I doubt either of us would have left Noah's side if the lady in charge of his physical therapy hadn't banned us from his room during this session. She wants to test out a new technique that she doesn't believe she can do with Emily and me in the room.

I prepare my stomach for the slosh on my plate that’s supposed to be sweet and sour chicken before shoveling a forkful in my mouth. I gag. It's worse than predicted. I've never tasted something so disgusting, and Lola and I have sampled some crazy food the past two years.

“Who was the lady in the bathroom with you?” I ask through the bile racing up my throat.

Emily pulls a face before explaining that Dr. Miller is a specialist Noah’s record label brought in to help with Noah’s recovery. She works exclusively with coma patients, and although her techniques are unheard of, they’re believed to be effective. She sounds like a whack job to me, but whatever floats your boat.

I stop checking my phone to see if Lola has returned any of the calls I made en route to the hospital when Emily gags. “How are you eating that? It’s disgusting!”

I freeze with my fork sitting a mere inch from my mouth when she pushes her plate away from her. I arch a brow, reminding her what the doctor warned during her brief admission at the ER months ago. Slops might not be tasty, but it’s better than nothing.

My brows lower when she rolls her eyes before popping a chunk of the bread roll that came with our orange broth into her mouth. "Better?"

“Much.”

Now can you work your magic on your sister?

After spending my weekend with Noah, Emily, and Dr. Miller, I walk into the Hopeton House for my second week of community service. Dr. Miller has an... interesting personality. She seems a little standoffish, but after watching the effort she puts into her sessions with Noah, I began to wonder if she's misunderstood. A lot of women are misunderstood these days, but none more so than Lola.

It took hours of voicemail groveling and over two dozen text messages before Lola returned my contact. It was only a brief, one-line message, but the fact she replied at all gave me a glimmer of hope that I haven't completely fucked things up with her.

I’ll make things right with her; I’ve just got to sort out my messed up life first.

The next two weeks follow along a similar path. I do community service at Hopeton House Monday to Friday, then Friday night to Monday morning, I stay at the hospital with Emily and Noah. Dr. Miller—or Rachel, as she has asked me to call her—has become a close acquaintance the past two weeks. She’s conservative but a good listener. She often lends me an ear when I need to gripe about my anger management classes. I wouldn’t mind taking them if I had an issue with anger, but since I don’t, they’re a pain in my ass—nearly as painful as the lumpy recliner I’m sleeping in.

As I shuffle from my right ass cheek to my left, I notice Emily slipping out of Noah’s bed. She’s slept at his side since the day he was transferred. I can’t see it being comfortable. His bed is larger than the one he had at Parkwood, but it’s still a twin. I guess that’s why she’s walking awkwardly? She’s barely lifting her feet as she makes her way to the bathroom.

My eyelids are in the process of closing when a startled “No!” comes out of the bathroom.

My muscles groan in disgust when I head to the bathroom to check on Emily. “You okay?”

Nothing but silence greets me.

I rattle the door handle to check if it’s locked. It is.

“Em?”

I’m seconds from busting down the door to make sure she hasn’t passed out when she murmurs, “Just a minute.”

When she throws open the bathroom door, I take a step back. Her face is as white as a ghost, and she appears seconds from crying. Before I can ask her what's wrong, she barges past me and races into the hallway.

I follow after her. “What’s wrong?”

Her lips twitch, but not a word falls from her mouth. I peer into her watering eyes as I strive to figure out what would make her this upset. It isn't Noah. He's still in a coma, but he's doing better every day. I was talking to Lola last night, and I know she's fine, so other than that, I’m stumped. Unless...

“Is it the baby?”

She uses her sleeve as if it’s a tissue before nodding. “I’m bleeding.”

My heart plummets into my stomach. I don’t know anything about pregnancy, but I’m reasonably sure you’re not supposed to bleed when you’re pregnant.

When a pained sob rips through Emily’s body, I tug her to my chest. “It’s okay; it’ll be okay.” I run my hand down her hair as my brain struggles to work out what to do. “What can I do? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Whatever you do, don’t tell Noah. Dr. Miller is adamant he can hear us, so I don’t want him to know I lost our baby.”

Her response kills me for two reasons. One, I hate keeping secrets, but more than that, the thought of her miscarrying now, this far into her pregnancy, is devastating. “Are you sure you’ve lost it? Maybe this is just a part of pregnancy, and the baby is okay?”

Emily stiffens. When I glance over my shoulder, I discover the cause for her frozen state. Dr. Miller is standing just behind me. I can't guarantee she didn't hear us, but the worried expression on her face is questioning.

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