Page 108 of Poetry By Dead Men
"Dr. Lasley?" I blurt out before he can leave. Every time the doctor has come to check on Bobby, I've tried to work up the courage to ask him about the donor. At the end of the day, itreally doesn't matter. Either way, Harrison is gone, and Bobby has a new heart. Knowing where it came from changes nothing, but not knowing somehow feelswrong.
"Yes?" He turns back around, raising his eyebrows.
"I'm sorry. I know you're busy. But I was wondering about the donor," I say.
He holds his hands up. "I'm afraid that's protected health information. I'm not able to divulge any details about the donor, other than they had AB+ blood and were a perfect match for Mr. Beckett.”
I press my lips together, my heart sinking. "I see. Thank you," I say, not wanting to hold him up anymore.
I shift in my seat, wondering when Kimberly will be back with our coffees. Neither of us have slept in days, and seeing as I can't propel myself with my hands full, she offered to get them for us. She said she needed caffeine, but really, I think she wanted to give me a moment alone with my thoughts.
With Bobby.
I'd told her the whole story over the past few hours—of who Harrison was and what happened between us. How Bobby became involved.
She'd listened intently, nodding and patting my hand when the tears made it hard to speak. "It’s all just fate, Beth. We have so little control over our lives. We can do everything right, and still, everything can end in a second. None of this is your fault. None of it." She'd said as I fell apart, crying until my breaths came in hiccups and my eyes were out of tears.
I snap out of the memory, jumping when the monitor starts to beep a little faster. My heart stutters and my stomach drops.Something's wrong.
I reach for the call button, but Bobby's fingers twitch in mine. He groans, and I cry out in relief.
"Bobby? Hey. I'm here," I say, squeezing his hand tight.
Bobby squeezes back, his eyes opening a crack. "Where am I? What—" his hand comes up to his sternum, his fingers weakly tracing the bandage wrapping around his chest.
"You're okay." I gently grab his hand and lower it, worried he'll somehow hurt himself. "There was an accident. But you're okay."
Bobby nods groggily, his eyes finally opening enough for me to look into their deep blue depths, and it almost makes my own heart stop. "You said you'd be here," Bobby says, his voice hoarse. "I heard you. Everything was dark, but I heard you. All I wanted was to get back to you." His eyes trail over my bruises, then fixate on my leg.
"I'm fine," I say before he can work himself up. "I've been discharged already. I just need a little time to heal.”
Bobby squeezes my hand, his calloused fingers tracing along my thumb. "Tell me what happened," he asks. So with a deep, steadying breath, I do. I tell him about the accident, about waking up and thinking he was dead, then finding out that it was Harrison who had suffered the head injury. I tell him how he’d coded, and that he’d been almost out of time. By the time I finish, my tears are so thick I can hardly speak at all.
Bobby's quiet for a while, his hand still warm in mine as his thumb continues sweeping against my skin. His voice is raspy when he speaks again. "The heart." He swallows deeply. “It's Harrison's, isn't it?" Bobby asks, his brows coming together and his grip tightening around my fingers.
"I don't know," I whisper, breathless.
Bobby nods as if confirming it. "I saw him. In my dreams. During surgery, or when I was coding, maybe? I don't know." He shakes his head. "I saw him, and then I woke up here."
I can't speak, can hardly breathe.
"He told me he didn't deserve your forgiveness." Bobby looks down at my empty ring finger.
I suck in a sharp breath, goosebumps blooming along my arms. The room suddenly feels warmer, but I shiver.
Was it possible Harrison had actually heard me when I'd said goodbye to him? When I'd forgiven him and told him I hoped he got a second chance?
"Do you have any paper? And something to write with?" Bobby interrupts my thoughts.
"What? You need to write a song? Now?" I ask, my jaw dropping.
He nods. "Just something I don't want to forget," he says, looking around for a way to jot down what's running through his head. I want to tell him to worry about it later. That he needs to rest, but there's an urgency in his eyes that makes me pause.
"Okay, hold on. Let me look." I scramble for my purse, where I find a black pen and a coffee receipt.
"Here," I say, and Bobby gives me a tired smile as he looks at the charges. "Non-fat latte, add lavender." His voice is raspy. “Glad to have you back, Beth."
My heart squeezes as I watch him scribble something on the paper with a weak, messy hand. Tears fill my eyes. He’s alive.
