Page 27 of Dead Set on You
“Your primary physician can write a script for sleeping pills.”
“No, that’s not necessary, Doc. I have those already.”
She reaches out a hand and rests it on his shoulder. “I know this is tough for you. It’s hard to see loved ones suffering, but we are doing everything possible for Evie right now. Our goal is to keep her stable and allow her brain time to heal.” Her voice softens. “However, the more time that passes, you have to prepare yourself for the possibility that she might not make it.”
Loved ones?Not make it? “Mamma Mia,” I breathe, feeling like oxygen’s suddenly the scarcest element in the world.
“You already know this, Rafael, but what you’re doing is helping. Spending time with those in a coma, sharing memories and talking to them, can make a difference.” Dr. Wagner squeezes his shoulder. “As long as she’shere, there’s hope.”
I’m here, but I don’t feel hope. I feel the opposite of hope—desperation. Like someone has tossed me off the top of the Willis Tower and I’m tumbling through air. I grasp for something to steady myself. My hand goes through the bed frame and wall.
Anxiety makes my chest cave and my legs weak. Sound fades. The room blurs. The ground gives.
Far away, Rafael is having a conversation with the doctor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was concerned, but that would be absurd.
Feeling like I might finish dying right now, I drop into the pleather chair—and stay there. Sitting is allowed. I try to grasp the seat. My hand moves through it. Touching is still a no-go. Apparently, the afterlife has arbitrary physics and a messed-up sense of humor—and I’m the butt of some cosmic joke.
I want to cry. Idon’t.
Instead, I push the air out and press play on the mental jukebox, humming “Dancing Queen,” a tune that’s Swedish disco, sparkly despair, and an urgent need to escape. The opening notes sound like a battle between a car alarm and a bagpipe. But what do I care?
I keep going and going. Even when Rafael throws me a look—half pain, half prayer—as if he’s begging the universe to make it stop. I glare back and sing louder.
He visibly stiffens before turning back to the doctor, and I feel slightly better. I continue, belting out a few more tragically projected lines that have Rafael rubbing the back of his neck before the doctor leaves.
And I’m left alone with the bane of my existence.
“You’re a very convincing hallucination,” Rafael says.
I snap my head in his direction. “You’re a very convincing asshole,” I fire back, managing to sound more stable than I feel. Sniffing back tears, I stand too quickly and stumble forward.
Rafael’s hands shoot out—but they pass through me. The sensation is warm, like sunshine on a summer day.
We both jerk back in surprise.
Rafael looks down at his hands like he’s realizing he has ten fingers for the first time. “What just happened?”
I rub my arm, trying to shake off the strange sensation. “I told you I wasn’t a hallucination.”
“Then what are you?”
I grasp for the quickest response. “A … spirit,” I say. It takes effort not to make it sound like a question.
Rafael lifts a brow. “A spirit?”
“Evie’s spirit.”
His gaze flicks over me. “The resemblance—and attitude—are pretty spot-on.”
“As is my patience.” I hold his gaze, my tone sharper now.
“Let’s say I believe you and youareEvie’s spirit,” he says. “What the hell do you want with me?”
Good question. One I’m completely unprepared for.
I look from him to my body.
I consider the facts I’ve turned over all morning—waking up in his apartment, on his sofa, wearing last night’s clothes, with my last memory being the OhLaLove dinner.
