Page 87 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“D-day?” Marla repeated, barely interested as her attention was again caught by the television screen, where a particularly heavyset man was attempting to car

ry his partner across a fake river before the other “couple” could get to the other side. It was kind of like that game one played as a kid in a swimming pool, where one smaller person sat on the shoulders of a stronger, bigger person and tried to knock a like competitor into the water. The two scrappier, tinier people would go at it tooth and nail while their bigger partners just tried to stay upright.

Except the competitors on television were battling for fifty thousand dollars and the opportunity to go “on to the next level.” It was amazing Marla watched such crap, but maybe it was because her time watching television in prison had been monitored. Who knew? And as long as it kept her out of trouble, who cared?

“What are you talking about, D-day?” she asked, turning her gaze back to Elyse.

“That time when everything we’ve worked for comes to a head,” Elyse said evasively. “Look, I’ve got to run…but I’ll be back.”

“Soon, I hope,” Marla said as a commercial for a new diet soda blazed on the screen.

“Hang in. It’s almost over,” Elyse said. “I promise.” She left Marla in her room and walked up the stairs. The place was beginning to smell musty again, and she was irritated with Marla for being such a slob. What was with her? Where was her spunk? She didn’t seem to possess the same fire. It was as if she’d completely lost her nerve. Luckily, Elyse had balls enough for the both of them.

“Goddamned princess,” she muttered under her breath as she locked the house and found her way to the car. She was starting to get nervous about it and thought it might be time to ditch it completely and get another vehicle or switch out the plates again.

Though her pulse was pounding and she wanted to get as far away from the bitch as possible, she was careful as she drove, not attracting any unwanted attention.

She wondered when her lover would show. Surely he wouldn’t stand her up again. She felt a little sliver of worry about it and didn’t like the turn of her thoughts.

Patience, she reminded herself, was a virtue.

It just seemed virtues were often vastly overrated.

Bayside Hospital

San Francisco, California

Room 316

Friday, February 13

NOW

I can hear them talking—the doctors, nurses, and others, people I cannot see, as I can’t open my damned eyes. How long have I lain here? Five minutes? Five days? For the love of God, can’t they, with all their expensive equipment, realize that I’m not as near death as they think? I just need a little more time.

I hear them talking about me, discussing me as if I’m just another case, not a living, breathing woman. Sometimes they argue—oh, please, let the believers hold sway!

It’s my life that’s in the balance.

One deep voice is holding out for my life, insisting that they give me a little more time to recover, to show some sign that I’m improving.

Jack?

Is Jack my champion? The one with all the faith?

No…not Jack, but a doctor, the one who insists that I’ll respond soon. His name is Reece; the nurses speak to him with deference, and, when he’s not in the room, talk about how “hot” he is, how good looking. This man, this Dr. Reece, could be my savior, my only chance for survival.

Dr. Reece, please, please don’t listen to them! Trust in me. In my life.

He’s speaking now, but his arguments are fading; the other voices, that of a woman doctor named Dr. Lee and a nurse, are persuading him that I’m a lost cause.

No, oh, please, no…

I can do nothing but wait anxiously, praying they will not end my life, but eventually even my one last hope is convinced. Dr. Reece finally listens to reason, to medical charts, to data and computers. He touches my arm, and I try vainly to respond.

Don’t do this!

Don’t give up on me!

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