Page 111 of Dead Set on You
I’m in a hospital. I’m attached to tubes. And I have no idea how the hell I got here.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEA WEEK LATER
Recovery for coma patients can take several weeks, says Dr. Wagner, neurologist at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. She’s on the bossy side, but she seems capable and answers my questions, and what more can I ask for?
Will I recover? Yes.
When can I go home? Depends on me.
Will I regain my memory from the night of the accident? Maybe.
Well, they’re half answers, but I understand. Brain injuries are complicated, and I’m lucky to be alive. Waking up after almost two weeks in a coma without significant disabilities is rare. She doesn’t use the wordmiracle, but her implication is clear.
Gemma does use the wordmiracle, and she hasn’t left my room in three days, save to go home and shower and sleep. She alternates between asking me if I need anything else (I don’t) and frantically typing into her phone.
I want to know about work—about what’s happened at Media Lab in the time I’ve been gone—but I’m afraid to knowabout what’s changed. It doesn’t take a wild imagination to guess. Rafael got the promotion, and he’s probably made himself comfortable in the corner office.
I don’t think too long on it, but it’s likely I’ll have to find a new job, because there’s no way I’m working for Rafael Vela. Even if he did send me a bouquet of beautiful hydrangeas and a Kate Spade planner with a note that saidGlad you’re back, E.
I wanted to toss the planner across the room, but it was too nice to do something so atrocious to it. Instead, I had Gemma disinfect it and set it with my things.
“All right, Evie, do you have other questions for me?” Dr. Wagner asks.
“When do I go home?”
Her smile is kind, professional, and devoid of annoyance, even though I’ve asked the question several times. “When you can walk from one end of the hallway to the other three times without needing to stop.”
I return her smile, checklists of how I get to that point coming together. “Perfect.”
When she’s gone, Gemma replaces her beside my bed. “How do you feel?”
“Tired. Frustrated.”
“Be patient with yourself and the process.”
I think of Rafael making himself at home in what was going to be my office. “Not among my greatest traits.”
Gemma laughs, her hand taking mine. “Work is right where you left it.”
“Is it?”
“We said we’re not talking about anything that can stress you out.”
“Did we?”
She squeezes. “Yep. Work, recovery plan, and Rafael—all off the table.”
I crinkle my nose. “Can I get clues?”
“Nope.”
“Not even one?”
“Not even one. We need you to get out of here, and that means taking it easy.”
I bury my face in the pillow, groaning in frustration. “This is going to be awful, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s going to be just what the doctor ordered.”
