Page 250 of Whisper
While George weaved in and out of the police, the FBI, trying to control the scene, trying to stop the thousands and thousands of cell phone videos streaming the incident live to the internet, Ryan had grabbed a paramedic and brought him to Kris.
He remembered being loaded onto a gurney. Being strapped down, and the pinch of an IV line in his elbow. Hands, pressing on his ribs, and what felt like lava erupting through his chest. “Broken ribs,” one of the paramedics had said. “Gotta get him—”
He’d woken up in a hospital room, in the dark.
Someone sat at his bedside, though. Tall, lanky, and with his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. Messy brunet strands. One leg was crossed, and he was reading from a legal file.
“Tom?” Kris had croaked. He’d tried to swallow. “Is that you?”
Tom had dropped his files and leaned in, one hand brushing back Kris’s hair. He’d smiled, the warm, wonderful smile Tom had, the one that lit Mike’s soul on fire. “Hey Kris. How are you feeling?”
“Where’s Dawood? Where’s my husband?”
“He’s in ICU. He’s in pretty bad shape.”
His chest had caved in, and every fear he’d felt that day in Afghanistan, the day after the Hamid op, came roaring back, a thousand times sharper. “No, no, no,” he’d whispered. “No, he has to be all right. He has to be okay.”
“They’re doing everything they can.” Tom had leaned in, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “He’s got the best care in the nation. He’s a hero.”
He’d laced his fingers through Tom’s and let it all out, every sob he’d held in, every fear, every anguish, every impossible dream, every second of the last ten years he’d endured without Dawood, pouring out of him like a dam had broken. “I can’t be without him again,” he’d finally choked out. “If he’s gone… I don’t want to live without him again. Not again.”
“It’s early.” Tom had wiped his tears away. “It’s only been a day. Give it time.”
Groaning from the floor had made him frown. Tom had looked down, smiled.
Mike had appeared, rising from the sleeping bag he’d unrolled on the floor of Kris’s hospital room like a bear coming out of hibernation. His pompadour was a ragged mess, standing up on one side of his head, and his eyes were dark, sunken into his face. But he saw Kris awake, saw his tears, his broken soul.
“Kris…”
Kris had sat up as Mike crawled into bed with him, both meeting in the middle, arms wrapped around each other like they were trying to combine lives, like Mike was trying to give him enough of his heart to keep Kris’s going. Kris had felt it, and he’d shuddered in Mike’s hold. Collapsed, falling into Mike, and had let Mike hold him up as his tears restarted, as his fears raced in, and he imagined the world without Dawood, the love of his life… again.
Five days later, and he sat by Dawood’s bedside, a constant, uninterrupted vigil.
He’d been discharged after a day, his broken ribs wrapped and bandaged, and had gone home to change, shower, and dig out his and Dawood’s wedding rings from the duffel in the back of his closet. They were dusty, the gold spotted and dull. But they were theirs.
At the hospital, he’d kissed Dawood’s ring finger before sliding his wedding ring back on like he had eleven years before when he’d vowed to be Dawood’s for all time, for every day of his life.
The ring was loose on Dawood’s slender fingers. He’d lost weight in ten years. Lost weight and gone gray in places. Silver streaked his temples, and strands peppered his dark hair. It was longer than he’d ever seen, soft waves that came almost to his ears, combed back. It was a good look on him. A gentle look.
His own ring fit, sliding on like he’d never taken it off. Like it was supposed to be there, always, for eternity.
Never again. Never ever will I take this ring off. Never will I be separated from you.
The doctors had removed Dawood’s breathing tube two days before, and they weren’t cautioning Kris to prepare himself, to expect the worst, as often anymore.
Noam’s gunshot had shredded his liver, and the surgeons had removed almost three quarters of it. He’d lost blood, almost too much. But it was the crash into the Potomac that had killed him, at least for a few minutes, underwater. He hadn’t breathed, and his brain had swelled, a massive concussion from the crash. How many minutes had he gone without oxygen? Would he ever wake up? Would he be the same if he did?
“We need to be realistic,” one of the doctors had said. “There’s a fifty-fifty chance he won’t wake, ever. It all comes down to him now. How he responds. We’ve done all we can, but he experienced significant trauma.”
“He’s coming back.” Kris had laced their hands together, had cupped Dawood’s left hand in both of his. Kissed each finger, slowly. “He’s coming back.”
Hehadto. This was their second chance, their impossible happy ending. This wastheirs, their love story, and itdidn’tend here. Not after everything. Not after Dawood had fought back from the dead, not after Kris had put an end to Dan, to the betrayals, to the twisting of everything Dawood held dear.
If you are gone, my love, then I will follow you. I won’t let you go again. Never, ever, again.
If you breathe your last breath, the very next will be my last as well.
He kept his vigil through the long hours of the day and night. Mike and Tom came every evening, bringing him food, sitting with him, sometimes talking, sometimes in silence.
