Page 50 of Dead Set on You
“Okay,” I breathe.
His eyes trace my face as if to ensure that I get it (I don’t). I mean, I do, but Rafael does this—he disarms people and makes them question their entire existence (or at least the last five years of it), and I am not—not—one of those people.
But I am someone who can play the same game … and lead him to believe otherwise.
“Got it,” I say, my voice perfectly even. “Now, can we move on?”
Rafael watches me for another second, like he’s got me under a microscope and can detect my lie. My pulse thrums in protest. I look away first, not waiting for an answer, and return to the table. I feel his gaze trail after me. I hold strong.
Resisting the Vela effect is like attempting to resist Earth’s gravitational pull or a vampire’s compulsion. It requires special preparation, and I have years of it.
“You sure you’re fine?” Rafael asks, settling back in his seat.
“Not if you keep asking me,” I mutter. “Now, where were we? Screaming banshees?”
Rafael’s mouth quirks, another cookie in hand, and gestures toward the laptop. “Forget all that. Spirit or ghost—they all have something in common.”
“Which is?”
“They’re all tied to a place or a person, and—” He pops the cookie in his mouth and swallows, because he’s a grown child with a sugar addiction. “Damn, those are good.”
“Which is …” I try again, less patient.
“I think that might be tied to how we get you back. A person or a place.” He shrugs. “Dr. Wagner said something that’s kind of the same.”
“The doctor from the hospital? Who up and forgot her HIPAA oath when you smiled at her?” I arch an eyebrow.
He frowns as if I’ve just told him I dip my fries in Frosties or something equally nonsensical. “Yes, that one. I’ve known her for a while. She treated my grandmother a few years back,” he says.
Oh. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She’s going to outlive us all.” Rafael smiles to himself. “Anyway, Dr. Wagner said that in some coma cases, like yours, the voices of loved ones can sometimes help with recovery. Something about how hearing stories stored in long-term memory can help wake up the brain and speed up recovery.”
I let the information sink in. Stories. Loved ones. Recovery.
My mind immediately runs through the list of people I can send to the hospital. For starters, Gemma. She has stories. Like the first (and last) time I got drunk. It was during our college internship. Tripoli and Sons’ holiday karaoke party. I bayed my way through “Dancing Queen.” Gemma chuckled and at times snorted—snortled—her way through it. There were videos. One made it to YouTube, all because of gin and Gemma’s insistence.
Or my first-ever road trip, when we (very carefully) drove cross-country to Yosemite. I’d gotten food poisoning from a sketchy restaurant with an all-you-can-eat breakfast, and I couldn’t make it to the bathroom on time. We pulled over in the woods, where I promptly contracted poison oak. Downthere. The subsequent ER visit involved a Dr. McSteamy and lots of calamine lotion. Retelling that story might actually induce cardiac arrest.
There’s a repertoire of Rafael stories she could choose from. Ones involving modified presentations and canceled appointments. Or the time I bought an exact, much-smaller replica of one of his suits and Gemma made the switch on dry cleaning day. I almost snorted my coffee when he walked into the office with a suit two sizes too small. Rafael skipped Friday doughnuts for the first time that week.
“So Gemma needs to go to the hospital is what you’re saying,” I say, more energized about this bit of information than anything else. “Call her.”
Something flashes across his face, but I don’t have time to dissect it.
“She’s been there. Almost every day,” he says. “It wasn’t only her who came. Cristina and Dana came. Even Charlene.”
The words sink in like stones, dragging something heavy down with them. It gets harder to keep the disappointment, the momentary sense of defeat, from my face. From my voice.
“So Dr. Wagner’s method didn’t work?” I clarify, trying my best to keep my voice flat.
Rafael clenches his jaw but nods.
“Then why tell me if it’s pointless?”
“In case there’s someone else.” He leans in, just slightly. “Maybe someone we don’t know about? A family member? A friend? A … boyfriend?”
My throat closes up.
