Page 97 of Je T'aime, Actually
After a while, Monroe gently stroked Poppy’s back and said, “Come on. Let’s get a coffee.”
She turned towards the bed and reached for Frank’s hand one more time. “We’ll be back in a bit, Frank. Don’t go anywhere.”
eighty-two
“Ron popped in earlier,” Poppy said, then added, “Frank’s boss from the garage.”
“That was nice of him,” Monroe replied, lifting her cup. The cafeteria’s coffee wasn’t awful once she’d added enough milk and pretended she’d never tasted a decent brew in her life. She set the cup down, still half full. “They’ll be glad to have him back.”
Poppy gave a sad little smile, but her eyes quickly filled again. “I hope so.”
“He’s going to be okay,” Monroe said gently. “We have to believe that.”
“You’re right.” Poppy straightened a little, steeling herself. She glanced at her watch. “Shall we go back?”
As they wound their way back through the quiet corridors, Monroe slowed her pace just a little. The walls all looked the same: endless pale blue and muted posters that no one ever really read.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the kids,” Monroe said softly.
Poppy looked over, her expression cautious but calm.
“They miss him,” Monroe continued. “And I think when they do come, it might actually help. Being able to see him, understand he’s still here—it might ground them a little. It’s scary, yes, but the not knowing is scarier.”
Poppy was quiet, her footsteps echoing slightly on the polished floor. “You might be right,” she said. “I still want to keep it brief. One at a time. But I think…tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Monroe said with a nod. “Whatever you need. I’ll be there.”
They pushed the door open together.
A doctor stood by the side of the bed, glancing at Frank’s chart and checking the monitor. She looked up as they entered.
“Oh, Mrs Harrington—just who I wanted to see.” She slid the chart back into the holder at the end of the bed. “We got the results back from the latest tests. All indications are that Frank will wake up when he’s ready. His brain activity is encouraging, particularly for someone with a head injury of this kind.”
Poppy stepped closer, her hands instinctively reaching for Frank’s. “So…what does that mean?”
“It means we’re seeing steady patterns on the EEG—nothing erratic, no dangerous dips. He’s stable. The swelling has reduced significantly, and we’ve started tapering off the sedation to let his body guide the next steps.”
Monroe let out a breath. “Can he hear us?”
“It’s possible,” the doctor said. “There’s quite a bit of evidence coma patients can register familiar voices. It’s not always conscious, but it can trigger a response. Keep talking to him.”
Poppy’s eyes shimmered. “We can do that.”
“Then you’re doing exactly what we’d hope,” the doctor said warmly. “We’ll keep monitoring, but right now, we’re optimistic. He just needs time, and familiarity.”
Poppy gave a quiet nod, her thumb brushing over Frank’s knuckles.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The doctor offered a small smile, then moved quietly out of the room, leaving them in the stillness, just the gentle beeping of machinery in the background.
Monroe stepped up beside her friend. “See? He’s still in there. And you know who could talk the hind legs off a donkey…”
“Kitty,” Poppy said with a soft laugh, nodding. “Okay. Let them come and see him.”
She turned her gaze to Frank and gently took his hand. “Come on, love,” she whispered. “Come back to us.”
eighty-three
