I'd only set up the camera to prove once and for all that no one was coming into our home to my husband. His anxiety had become somewhat paralytic, shakes setting in as soon as it became dark outside, his sleeplessness starting to get on my nerves. I hadn't told him I was doing it, sending him to bed while I positioned it facing the front door and set it to run overnight.
He'd come apart over the few days that had passed since our meeting with Caius. It seemed like he never slept, only able to nap if I was next to him on the couch during the day, awake and listening to the building shift every night. He continued to resist taking medication, despite barely being able to move.
When he wouldn't stay in bed alone, I'd all but forced him to lie on the couch, hoping a blanket would seal the deal and he might finally fall asleep. It had been going well until my 'customer' came to collect her cake. The knock on the door made him wrench himself upright, panicky until he could see that it wasn't his perpetrator. My exchange with her only lasted a few minutes before she was gone again, but it took far longer for him to calm himself down. "I'm getting worse," he mumbled to me.
"You need to sleep."
"I can't; I don't feel right."
"You need to go to sleep, Carlisle. It's been days - it's no wonder you feel like crap." I really didn't have the luxury of sitting with him all afternoon; we were moving in two days, the packing still wasn't finished, and we still needed to clean this apartment to get our bond back - he clearly wasn't in any condition to help with any of it. The endless list of tasks loomed over us.
"I don't think it's just that; I really don't feel well."
I didn't trust that he had taken his medication this morning like he should have. I hadn't gotten many complaints from him, except for the nausea when he was pressured to have meals, but this morning he'd been so clammy and pale that I hadn't dug at him to have breakfast. Instead, I'd left him to take cautious sips of water while he tried to keep down his tablets and trusted that he was sensible enough to do what he was supposed to. Perhaps it was a lapse in my judgement to assume he'd gotten over the paranoia. "It's a start."
The doctor had assured us that his symptoms had the potential to flare up whenever he was a little run down or under stress. It looked more like his body was giving up. It had taken a couple of days for the effects of Caius to really become apparent, for the bruises to come out and the swelling to take full effect. The repressed allergies came back overnight, as did the food intolerances, until he was running a fever and unable to hold much down. Still, the doctor assured us it was to be expected and it would pass.
I tried not to let it scare me when he regressed back to only drinking the meal replacement again. Granted, he wasn't pushing it down a gastric tube, but he'd definitely backpedaled. I kept my mouth shut when he'd asked for that at dinner, tipping one of the bottles into a glass as casually as I could. At least it was nutrients in, something in an otherwise empty stomach. He could start eating solids again once the inflammation in his abdomen went down - surely he'd feel less sick then.
He threw it up straight away anyway. It took us both by surprise; he spat the first mouthful back into his glass while I panicked and kicked the trash can in front of him, his sudden onset of shakes confusing. I couldn't bring myself to touch him, hovering uncomfortably while I tried to make sure he wouldn't choke or pass out and fall face first into the mess. Either thing seemed likely with his track record.
His stomach kept heaving despite having nothing left to bring up, his frantic gasps for breath in between each spasm becoming more laboured. "I'm bleeding," he stammered eventually.
My fears that the source of the problem would be another ulcer were somewhat abated by the steady stream of blood trickling from his nose, dripping into the bin while he leaned forward. It seemed worse than when it'd happened while we were away. The world spun a little. I handed him a ball of tissues, my hand not leaving his shoulder as I prayed - again - that he wouldn't faint. "That's the second time this has happened, huh?"
"It's happening more often when I'm throwing up, but usually not so bad," he admitted.
I fought the automatic impulse to scold him for not telling me. "Does the doctor know?" I asked him instead.
"It's not been a big deal; they told me that it might happen when I first got the diagnosis, and it stops on its own. Just makes me lightheaded."
"As soon as it stops, you're going to bed."
.
.
I had assumed that the first few days after the incident would be the worst, until it came time to go in for another blood test. Alistair had stayed with us overnight to help pack up the last of our stuff, promising that he'd finish by the time we got back, and stopped his attempts to trade jobs with me once Carlisle had been sick before we'd even left the house. Suddenly he was all too happy to stay home.
The entire morning, my husband had been telling both of us that he was too ill to go whenever we'd tried to push him into getting ready. He did - reluctantly - but had still left it down to the very last second before he accepted that he wasn't going to win. 'Ready' was a stretch of the word - realistically all he'd done was pull on a hoodie over what he'd slept in and put his shoes on, and I was sure that was the best we were going to get. I kept my silent suspicion that it was the fear of seeing Caius again that was fueling both his argument and symptoms to myself.
"You look like you live under a bridge," Alistair heckled from the kitchen. I wondered if he had come to the same conclusion - he'd been unsympathetic all morning, more forceful with him than I could bring myself to be.
Carlisle ignored him.
"And you missed breakfast again; the cat has already tried to get into it. You've lost your rights to a bagel." In actuality, Fox had taken a bite out of it while Alistair's limited attention span was fixated on the television, the tennis player bouncing around in a short skirt apparently enough to sway his interest back to women, and by the time I'd caught her licking the margarine off of the bread, it had been a lost cause.
"Don't care, Al," he mumbled.
"What's wrong with you this morning? You're not usually this terrible to be around," he grumbled.
"I'm not feeling well."
"You're never feeling well."
"Worse than before."
"You've got a broken hip; why don't you worry about that instead?"
"It's not that bad. But-"
"You're not cancelling that appointment because you have a tummy ache; you're not a child." He'd moved from lightly teasing to actively making fun of him, Carlisle only half aware as I injected myself into the conversation to break it off. It didn't look like my husband cared all that much, but it certainly wasn't helpful and we really didn't have time for the bickering.
"Enough; let's go," I told them. With my hand against the small of his back, I herded him toward the front door while he dragged his feet.
"I really can't go, Gar," he whispered again. No matter how deeply he stuffed his hands into his pockets, it didn't stop the tremors in his shoulders.
"We have to." I was fairly certain that he'd feel a lot better the moment we got home again, and he was no longer faced with the prospect of leaving the house. It had all seemed to build up in time for his first outing since the incident. It wasn't as though we didn't believe that he didn't feel terrible - he was just so nervous and tired that it had exacerbated everything. I hadn't figured out the most appropriate way to suggest that it was at least partly self-induced. I was praying that the vomiting would stop by the time we got back; he'd spent the whole morning clutching a bucket after Al had made him get off the bathroom floor on account of worsening his fracture and insisted that he was being dramatic. They hadn't spoken much after that.
I gave up counting how many times he'd thrown up - or at least tried to - by the time we arrived. We were nearly late, and weren't about to make the appointment on time if he kept going the way he currently was. He'd spent most of the journey wanting to double over, not wearing his seatbelt properly to avoid it touching his middle, ignoring me when I warned him to sit back before he found himself launched through the windscreen the next time I braked too hard.
Any hopes I had that he'd lighten up a bit once we'd arrived were quickly dashed. He'd leaned forward against his knees as I parked, now that I couldn't complain about it, his free hand knotting in his hair to keep it off his face.
"We're going to be late, Carlisle."
"I don't care." His stomach heaved again, nothing coming up despite how hard his body strained. It might have felt worse for him, but it was easier for me to deal with.
"Do you think you have a stomach flu?" I frowned at him. He did feel feverish when I reached over to rub his back, and I tried to remember what he'd eaten in the last twenty four hours, if he could have gotten food poisoning without Alistair or I also getting sick. It really wasn't ideal for it to happen this morning - or this week at all.
"Don't know," he mumbled back. "I can't do this today."
"You have to; it's non-negotiable."
"I can't, Garrett."
"We can't let you get worse because of this," I reminded him. "You've made progress; you can't go backwards now; it's just a blood test."
"It's not the test - I'm sick; I have a temperature and I feel awful."
"It'll take fifteen minutes, and then we can go home."
Despite his fears that they'd turn him away while he was ill, they didn't seem to be too concerned, chalking it up to side effects from his last dose of the treatment. The nurse had let him lie down, much to his relief, but still made him free his arm from his sleeve to wrap the tourniquet around it.
"Are you feeling better now that we're here?"
He stubbornly shook his head but didn't elaborate, struggling to breathe steadily as the nurse dug the needle under his skin. I couldn't look, focused on his face instead, hoping his body wouldn't lurch while she had the sharp in his arm. The symptoms seemed to ease slightly when he was lying down. Maybe he was just calming down. It took his mind off the stab at the very least.
.
.
I drove Alistair to the airport the following morning. We needed to leave at 5am, Carlisle making it to the kitchen before getting dizzy and all but crawling back to bed. I gave him a few minutes to calm down before checking on him and suggesting he try again. His outright refusal surprised me enough to back off. His friend didn't give him the same courtesy; he badgered him for half an hour about not being able to stay home alone, that he needed to get up, accusing him of being difficult when he wouldn't budge. Their last words to each other were hostile when Carlisle finally snapped back. I just hoped he had enough common sense not to get up while he was alone.
"He needs one of those parenting cameras," Al murmured to me in the car. Despite rarely seeming phased about anything, he looked nervous about the flight, tense and quiet. More irritated than usual now that they'd argued.
I still couldn't help the laugh. "Like a nanny cam?"
He nodded and scowled out the window.
"I don't think he's dumb enough to move, Al; if he gets into trouble, I can call my sister in-law to check on him."
"He's got to be conscious enough to text you in the first place for that. If he passes out, he's going to end up on the floor for six hours until you get back."
It was something I'd thought about before, and it formed a knot in my stomach that he'd considered it too. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. "Well, only for another five hours now."
"Fantastic."
I called my husband as soon as Al had disappeared through the airport gates. Thankfully, he answered his phone after a few long seconds, my heart beating frantically while he tiredly assured me that he hadn't - and wouldn't - move until I was home. My lame attempts at pretending I'd only called for a coffee order hadn't gotten me far.
On moving day, he was still in a state. Forced to get up so I could strip the bed, he'd stumbled to the bathroom to keep himself out of the way, shutting the door to avoid any interaction with furniture movers and the noise they brought with them. Their loud voices and heavy footsteps disturbed the cat until her fur stood on end, her crying continuing until I shoved her through the door at Carlisle and left the two of them to be miserable together. It didn't take long for the men to take all of the larger items down to their truck, the house seeming even quieter than usual once it was empty.
He managed to rejoin me and lock her in her carrier once they were gone. That was the most help I could get out of him - his attempt to lift the crate off the counter with her inside had nearly been the end of him, after not having kept much down for the best part of a week. The effort caused a shudder to run through his body, clear panic on his face as he silently debated whether he could make it back to the bathroom before he was sick.
"No heavy lifting for you, huh?" I tried to tease, to somewhat smooth over that he hadn't shifted the cat an inch. A quick scan of the few items we had left upstairs turned up the bowl he'd been relentlessly clutching the last few days. I set it back on the counter in front of him, rubbing the small of his back as he tried to regulate the feeling.
"Guess not." Fighting not to double over, he rested his forearms against the benchtop, ducking his head against it.
"Are you going to faint?" I questioned skeptically. It didn't seem like an unreasonable guess with how he swayed unsteadily.
He didn't acknowledge the question, didn't acknowledge my awkward hovering until it was clear his situation wasn't getting any better. "I don't know what's happening; something isn't right - I'm in so much pain," he mumbled finally.
"Your stomach is still hurting?"
"And my head, and- it's everything; it feels like the flu again, but worse."
"Would you rather spend the day with Carmen? You can lie down for a while, and I'll come and get you once the furniture is unpacked." There wasn't much else I could offer him; he would either have to endure it, or take the suggestion; I was still holding out hope that everything would settle like the doctor had promised us.
"I really don't think she'd want me vomiting around her newborn." As true as that was, I was pretty sure that her soft spot for him would outweigh any worry she had about her kids getting sick; it was highly unlikely he had something contagious at this point. I was still convinced that it was stress induced. "I don't really want to be sick at her house, either."
I couldn't blame him for that. "Do you want to wait in the car, then? I'm almost finished here."
He declined that too, on account of it being too bright outside despite the overcast day. He froze there while I moved around him, tossing the last few things into bags so we could leave. The cat whined the whole time, pissed that she was locked up and my husband wasn't comforting her anymore. He hadn't moved, his hands locked on either side of his neck to stop the strain there, his sudden sink down against the cupboards not seeming entirely intentional.
The light outside caused a baffling amount of distress once he made it downstairs, taking away his ability to breathe until he was threatening to pass out. He wasn't really moving. Each step was uncoordinated. The few words he said to me didn't make a lot of sense, complaints of a headache and his neck hurting, that his joints didn't feel right and he couldn't see and he couldn't stand up any longer. I put the bowl back in his lap once he was in the passenger's seat without having much faith in his ability to keep hold of it.
"Is it a migraine?" I asked him out of pure confusion, reaching across him to do up his seatbelt. The sudden change in symptoms was mildly frustrating - the nausea was easier to deal with than whatever the hell this was.
"Feels worse."
"You'll be able to go back to bed soon; I just need to find the sheets. Maybe you won't feel so bad once we're settled." It was too many words - he wasn't listening to me anymore. The bowl fell onto the ground and rolled under the seat at the first corner. I wasn't sure that he even noticed.
He didn't say much until we arrived. Even Fox howling in her cat carrier, strapped into the back, hadn't broken through to him past the shrill sound making him wince. The truck had beaten us there, the men already unloading stuff with the spare key I'd given them. My prompts for my husband to come inside weren't getting me far. I unbuckled his seatbelt, somewhat forcing him to stand up, folding my arm around him as he leaned into me.
"Come upstairs," I tried again.
"Don't leave me alone," he mumbled into my shoulder. He tried to catch my hand as I pulled back, his fingers sliding through mine before he was able to grasp hold of me. "Garrett, don't-"
"I'm right here, Carlisle." I kept an eye on him while I got the cat out of the vehicle, holding her carrier in one hand and his wrist in the other to pull him in the right direction. "Do you think the medication is not agreeing with you?"
"I don't know - I can't think straight. I don't think I can help unpack." He stumbled, nearly tripping on the steps leading into the buildings. He caught himself on the rail, not daring to take another step until I tugged him forward.
"I'm not expecting you to do that, baby."
"My vision is reallyblurry."
"Are you sure that you don't have a migraine?"
"Maybe."
It was a painful twenty minutes before I could banish him back to bed. While I'd been talking to the movers, he'd drifted away, getting as far as the doorway leading into what was going to be Al's room before giving up and sitting on the floor again, a repeat of his episode in the kitchen an hour earlier. Apparently that was as much as the men could tolerate - they'd put up with him pretending they didn't exist, but they quickly showed themselves out when they couldn't deal with the weird behaviour any more.
He stayed there while I dug out sheets and blankets and threw them over the mattress, ignoring my prompt to get up when I moved past him to free the cat. I got as far as the kitchen before he called me to come back. Armed with Fox and prepared to use her as an incentive, I tried to swallow away my frustration before I reached him. "You can't stay there."
"There's too much pressure," he mumbled to me. His words slurred slightly despite how hard he concentrated to get them out.
I struggled to grasp what he was talking about as I pulled him to his feet. Still off kilter, he immediately stumbled into the wall, starting to slump down against it until I tugged him upright again. "In your head?"
"Mmm. Think I'm having a stroke."
Fox didn't appreciate the height I dropped her from, my hands on his shoulders to try and stall his descent as he started to go down again. "I think you're tired; you've really not had a good week." A good month. Year, maybe. It felt like a lifetime at this point.
"Can't walk, though." That didn't seem like an over exaggeration. Even with my guidance, he could barely get one foot in front of the other, his knees not wanting to hold him. "I-" There didn't seem to be an end to the sentence, the oncoming collapse knocking the response out of him.
His watch alarming that his heart rate was too high shelved what I almost accused him of. Shaking so badly his teeth chattered, I barely had time to get him in bed before his consciousness lapsed, his body's desperate attempt to throw up only straining his stomach.
I didn't know what to do with him. The silent tears were confusing, worsening as I crouched beside him. "You okay?" I asked uselessly. "You haven't been this bad for a while, huh? Will you drink something?"
His attempt to shift his hand away from his neck didn't get far, a soft gasp escaping at the slight movement it created. "I'm having a stroke."
"You're not having a stroke, baby; you're twenty four." Before I could force the water onto him, I caught sight of the sliver of skin that had been exposed when he'd moved, his shirt lifting slightly when it had snagged under his sleeve. I pushed the hem of it up over his waist, the mottling across his skin not fading under my fingertips when I touched him. The bruising - if that's what it was - didn't look like anything I'd seen on him before. "What'd you do to yourself? Is this from falling earlier?"
"Having a stroke."
"Did you hit your head?" It was across his chest as well, on his arms when I forced his sleeves up. "Is this painful?"
"Aches. Having a stroke."
"You're not having a stroke," I repeated. I was sure I was watching the marks spread up his throat in front of me. "What the hell-? Focus, Carlisle; what's this from?"
He didn't try to answer me that time.
I threaded my fingers through his hair, desperately trying to remember when the acopia started. The rash and the fever didn't make sense, the few words he got out making even less. For another hour, I gave up unpacking and sat on the bed with him, supervising more than comforting while he tried to shut everything out and shivered despite the blanket over him.
I felt stupid for calling an ambulance over a migraine. There wasn't anything else I could do - aside from begging me for help, nothing he said was coherent anymore, what I presumed was pain making him restless and stiff. I sheepishly opened the door to the paramedics when they arrived thirty minutes later, leading them around the boxes and down the hallway to get to my husband. They took one look at the marks on his body and all but threw him onto the stretcher, strapping the monitoring to him in a flurry of activity in the back of the truck.
Besides rambling protests to being moved so quickly, Carlisle wasn't present enough to respond to any of their questions. Their reactions had made me nervous. Even more nervous as they started relaying their concerns over the radio to the dispatcher before we arrived, the parts of the jargon I did understand making me queasy. I caught his hand in mine, leaning forward against my seatbelt to be able to touch him. "Sorry, baby," I whispered around the lump in my throat.
We should have called them hours ago - I should have called them hours ago.
.
.
We'd barely reached the ER before the convulsions started. The nurse hit the emergency buzzer on the wall the second his body spasmed, the beeping sending a flood of people into the room. I could only catch glimpses of him through the sea of bodies, pushed out of the way. Someone pulled me out of the room and shut the curtain before I could ask what was happening. The alarm still screamed. My knees were weak under me.
I missed the woman's name as she ushered me into another cubicle, assured me that someone would come and see me shortly, and promptly hurried back down the corridor where we'd come from. The beeping eventually switched off. I prayed it was a positive sign. Sat on my hands to keep them from shaking. Counted each breath in and out so I didn't completely dissolve into panic.
My ears rang as the doctor explained that they'd intubated him. That he had a tube down his throat and a machine breathing for him. That he had inflammation in his brain that had caused him to have a seizure. An infection in his bloodstream. His organs had started shutting down. He was being admitted into the intensive care unit, and I should call his family in case the worst happened.
I felt numb as I sat beside him. Once we reached the ICU, most of the noise died down, leaving the whooshing and whirring of the ventilator to make me jump with every artificial breath it gave him. I'd never truly felt his isolation until then. Until I realised I had no one to call for him except Alistair. Alistair, who was in another state and wasn't on the best terms with him. He hadn't spoken to his other friends for months, not since he really deteriorated, and it didn't feel appropriate to invite them back into our lives now.
The breathing tube, tied in place, was so intrusive that I almost couldn't look at him initially. The robotic clicking of the infusion pumps seemed deafening as the nurse retreated to her desk near the doorway, my own breaths disruptively loud as I slipped my hand over top of my husband's. He was colder, paler, so still it was disconcerting. "Can he still hear me?" My voice was disembodied, hollow, far away. I already knew the answer to my dumb question.
"He's heavily sedated, but keep talking to him," she told me softly.
I nodded, lightheaded. I didn't want to take my eyes off him, like he'd melt away if he wasn't in my direct sight. Somebody had shuffled in the door behind me, and I assumed it was more medical staff until they touched my shoulder.
"How's he doing?" Eleazar asked softly as I quickly risked a glance up at him.
"I don't know," I whispered back. A few terrible seconds passed, where my brother tried to take everything in and I didn't know what to say. "We moved house this morning," I eventually got out.
He sighed softly and pulled up the chair beside me. "Big day, then."
"Why are you here?" I winced at my own words, at how fucking ungrateful it sounded, but I couldn't fathom for the life of me how he'd found out what had happened so quickly. Still, when I glanced at the clock, it was four hours since we'd left home.
He didn't seem to take offence. "Mom called me."
"How did mom know?"
"You told her, Garrett."
I felt like I was swallowing cotton wool. "I told her what was happening?"
"Not a lot, but you told her that he was in the hospital again, and that it wasn't looking good." He was being careful with his words, guarding his sentences.
"I don't remember," I mumbled. I squeezed Carlisle's hand, desperate for any pressure in return but not getting so much as a twitch.
"Don't worry about it." Eleazar was still in his company uniform. He wouldn't look at my husband again, focused on the corner of the blankets instead, his eyes occasionally drifting to the way I frantically clutched at him.
"Did you come from work?"
"Yeah. Mom and dad are driving over too."
I frowned, the room spinning when I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. "I don't think he'd want that, El." The dizziness didn't clear with a couple of deep breaths. I couldn't remember if we'd eaten today. My husband definitely hadn't.
"They don't have to visit him; they're not here for Carlisle."
"What for, then?"
"You, Garrett."
The wave of panic that hit made my ears ring and my eyes start to burn. "I don't need them; he'll be alright." Grabbing at his hand again, I willed him to do something. One of the monitors beeped, the nurse stepping out from behind the desk to silence it, adjusting one of the pumps, her fingertips brushing over Carlisle's wrist. I held my breath until she retreated.
Eleazar didn't say anything for a few minutes. He was focused on the measurements on the screen when I found enough courage to look at him. "Is his friend still here? The one that was staying with you?"
"Alistair flew home a couple of days ago." I fidgeted my phone out of my pocket, to at the very least text Al that he needed to come back, but his number was already in my call log next to my mother's. I didn't remember that either. Didn't know what I'd told him.
"Should he be here too?" he suggested hesitantly. "Does he know?"
"I don't know - I don't remember." I passed him my phone as if it would rectify the situation.
He took it from me anyway, letting the screen time out before he managed to say anything about my uselessness. "Should I call him again? Do you want me to tell him?"
"I don't know, El," I whined. The nurse was taking more blood from the port in his arm. My anxious hovering, watching as though I'd know if she made a mistake, must have been off-putting. She didn't seem bothered. "Is he okay?" I asked anxiously. My brother held my arm as I shifted, stopping me from standing, from getting further under her feet.
She nodded. "He's tolerating the medications well."
"Is his blood pressure better?" That was the part of the ambulance trip I remembered. The paramedics forcing fluid through his IV to keep it from dropping too low, radioing it through to the hospital when they couldn't get control of it.
"We're giving him medication to keep it up; he's doing better than he was when he arrived."
"When can they take the tube out?" My fingernails dug into the seat under me as I gripped it to stop them biting into my palms. Eleazar tightly squeezed my shoulder.
"Once he's more stable, and the infection is under control; the antibiotics need time to work."
"How long will that be?" The room was swirling. I tried to swallow the tightness in my throat. "How soon?"
She patiently forced a smile. "The team will assess him in the morning."
"But they'll check him overnight if he gets worse, right?"
"They know what they're doing, Garrett; relax a little," my brother urged.
"But-"
"They're looking after him; he's not going anywhere." He didn't relax his hold on me until I sat back in my seat.
.
.
Eleazar sat with me well into the night. I watched them slowly titrate down some of the medications and the amount of oxygen he needed, endless fluids running through the lines in his arms, the feeding tube back in place and formula running through it. The doctor drifted in and out of the unit until the early hours of the morning, her presence sending a rush of adrenaline through me with each appearance.
At six AM, the splitting headache started. Shuffling my chair closer, I leaned my head against the rail of the bed, shifting his arm toward me and wrapping his hand in both of mine. My brother signed quietly. "Garrett, let's go for a walk," he suggested lowly. "We've been here twelve hours; let's get some fresh air."
I wasn't sure if I'd stood up at all in that time. My joints felt locked. "I'm not leaving him, El. If something happens-"
"If something happens, they can call you and we can come back up. You need to look after yourself while he's like this; you need to be healthy if you're going to be there for him. Come down with me and stand outside for a few minutes."
"I haven't fed the cat," I told him anxiously, nauseous as soon as the realisation hit me. How upset my husband would be that I'd already let her miss a meal, and that she'd been abandoned in our new home.
He nodded. "We can drive back to your apartment."
I wasn't sure for who's comfort it was that I didn't want to leave him alone. It froze me to my chair, welded our hands together, and stopped me pulling free of him. "Can you stay here with him until I get back?"
"You're not getting behind the wheel, Garrett; you're in no state to drive anywhere."
"I can't leave him by himself, El." Tears instantly started to well up, my chest tightening. I didn't want to voice the awful train of thought I was getting carried away with. That no one would be with him if something terrible happened. Something worse than what already had happened. "The doctors are supposed to review him this morning; I need to stay."
Eleazar just nodded. I impatiently watched the clock, ignoring the pounding in my forehead and blurring in my vision. When the curtain slid back, I prayed it was the medical team, that they were coming in to say they could take the tube out, that he was going to be fine and everything was under control and they could wake him up enough to speak to me. Instead, Carmen awkwardly nudged through the fabric, forcing a pained smile onto her face while she balanced a tray of disposable coffee cups in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. My brother stood to hug her. I mumbled a greeting from my seat, unwilling to break contact with Carlisle.
"Carmen is going to sit with him while we're gone," he explained.
I wasn't sure how to protest to that. Anxious, I looked to Carlisle to fix it. The artificial breath that the machine pushed into him produced a gentle rise in his chest that made me falsely hopeful. Carmen murmured my name, handing me one of the cardboard mugs when my eyes met hers. "Thanks."
"I'll stay while you go home," she told me softly. She was struggling to swallow back tears, shaky as Eleazar put his arm around her. It was a relief when she asked him for updates, leaving me to wallow a few seconds longer while I didn't have the stability to answer her. I desperately tried to burn him into my memory, like I hadn't been studying him for the past two years, though he barely resembled my husband now. All too soon, Eleazar was tugging at me to get up, forcing me to release his hand and ushering me through the curtain.
"Where are your kids?" I asked in the elevator. It was a lame attempt at conversation. I couldn't offer anything else. It was fucking freezing in the corridoors, the cold air biting at my bare arms through the numbness I'd been lost in.
"With mom and dad." We were quiet the rest of the way down to the carpark. The harsh sunlight outside made my eyes water as I stepped through the threshold of the front doors, my ears ringing over the hum of the traffic. The silence in the ICU was almost preferable. "Eat something," he told me in the car, handing me the bag that Carmen had brought with her - sandwiches. "We'll go home and feed the cat, you can sleep for a couple hours, and I'll take you back."
"No- Eleazar, I'm not- I can't leave him that long."
"Just eat, then."
.
.
Eleazar called Carlisle's manager for me. I hadn't been able to do more than dial the number before the lump in my throat strangled any sound that wanted to come out. He took the phone off of me and I fled down the hallway. I didn't want to face him. Instead, I took shelter in our bedroom, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the bed while I listened to the conversation through the wall. It seemed to drag on for an agonisingly long time. My brother traced me through the apartment once he'd hung up.
"Did they fire him?" I asked stupidly.
He shook his head. "They've put him on leave for a few weeks, until he's well enough to meet with them."
"He can't have any leave left, Eleazar - he's been sick for months."
"I know; his manager approved it anyway."
I groaned; I didn't want to know what he'd said to them. Nevertheless, I was grateful for the effort. Carlisle would need to quit, obviously, but the longer he could go while still being paid, the better.
I watched the camera footage from our old apartment while I waited for the cat to finish her breakfast. Fast-forwarding through the reels, I really didn't expect to find anything unusual. Until the front door handle jiggled. The door slowly pushed open. The intruder slipped inside and softly clicked it closed, tiptoeing out of view.
Carlisle hadn't been imagining it.
It wasn't caius, though. Heidi's slender figure instead.
The second thing I hadn't believed him over.
I wished he could rub it in my face. Instead, I took the video to Eleazar.
"One crisis at a time," he sighed. "We can take it to the police on the way back to the hospital."
.
.
Alistair couldn't get an open flight back. The near hysterical phone call was seared in my memory. He was panicking, hyperventilating as he spoke to me, my brother offering to pick him up from another airport if he could get a flight to a nearby state. I didn't have any reassurance to offer him. It would have been a thousand times better if we were together, if he was able to be here, and I couldn't bring myself to falsely promise him that everything would be alright.
The next few days passed in a blur. Carmen would stay with my husband during the few hours I forced myself to sleep every day. I called out of work for the following two weeks - they could fire me if they wanted; it didn't seem important anymore. Whether he was in hospital that entire time didn't matter either - he wouldn't be in any state to be home alone.
I started reading to Carlisle whenever I was there. It helped to be talking, to not sit in silence and listen to the machines ticking over. I was picking novels he'd read before, the pages worn and folded, letting my hands rest where his would have as if it could somehow bring us closer. We finished 'The Green Mile' the first day. 'The Shining' a day and a half later. 'Carrie' two days after that.
I still sent him texts whenever we were apart. The nurses never teased me for making sure his phone was charged and in reach, but I knew it was ridiculous. I'd fill his memory card before he would see them at this rate. I stopped going home for longer than to feed the cat and shower once Carmen was unable to stay. It felt like the world stopped.
I missed him so much.
.
.
The confirmation that his residency had been approved seemed hollow. It was becoming abundantly clear that he wouldn't be able to stay here much longer; his insurance had been hesitant to accept the latest claim, his cover under my policy barely covering the cost that was left, and we wouldn't be able to front the cost of repeat episodes. The doctors had tried to prepare me for the seizures to continue once the infection died down, that he'd need ongoing care, his medical dependance increasing after discharge. He needed to move back to the UK.
I'd go with him. I'd already backed out of the lease on our new apartment; as soon as he was allowed to go home, we'd move in with my parents. We'd be able to save a little money, and they'd be able to help while he was unwell. Guilt had stopped me suggesting it at first, but my father had offered it anyway.
Once they trusted him to breathe on his own, they traded the ventilator for oxygen. He remained sedated, the room dim at all times - low stimulus, for fear of triggering another seizure. For the first few hours, I kept my hand on his chest, measuring the rise and fall of each breath, before I felt safe enough to relax. It was only after days of watching the nurses shift him that I dared to touch more than his hand for fear of breaking him.
It was another twelve hours before the sedation was low enough for me to have my first glimmer of hope that he would come out of this. It was barely movement, little twitches in his hand, what almost felt like he'd tried to squeeze my fingers in return. I didn't go home at all that night, my heart drumming anxiously as I silently pleaded with him for more, to say something, anything. His nurse brought me a blanket and a hot drink at some point.
My husband became restless in the early hours of the morning. His attempts to shift were becoming more frequent, purposeful movement against the monitoring attached to him. The books seemed more important now - he didn't struggle quite so much when I was speaking to him. The nurse assured me that the doses were weaning down, that he wasn't requiring as much support with his blood pressure, that he was progressing how they expected him to. I still felt like a monster when I traded him for a nap in the afternoon, unable to stand it anymore.
I went home to shower and feed the cat, the coffee I brewed far too strong and doing nothing for my jitters. Holding Fox helped a little - attention starved, she let me carry her around the unpacked apartment, purring as her claws weaved in and out of my clothing, pushing her nose into my face as I took hurried swallows of my drink. I wished I could take her with me; she didn't deserve to be home alone all the time. I still wasn't sure what we were going to do with her when we moved - Carmen had offered to take her in, but I couldn't bear to make the final call without asking Carlisle.
The mixture of caffeine and sleep deprivation didn't do anything for my stability. The guilt of leaving the cat - and my husband's definite disapproval if he knew - had eaten me alive all the way back to the hospital. Clutching our next novel, my heart was racing as I waited for the elevator to get back upstairs, the fluorescent lighting blurring my vision a little. I should have eaten before I'd left home.
"Hi." That was all it took to reduce me to a blubbering mess. Hearing his voice for the first time since I'd been so sure I was going to lose him forever. Having him actually awake. Hopefully coherent.
"Carlisle- oh my god." I automatically dropped what I was carrying, reaching for him, struggling to find a way to hold him without getting tangled in any of his lines. The tears were irrepressible, soaking into his shirt as I leaned into him. "Are you feeling okay?"
"Yeah. You?" He didn't sound right, his voice scratchy and breaking, the clear effort it took to get the words out painful.
"So happy to see you." I kissed his temple, letting myself lean into him a little as he clumsily tried to put his arm around my shoulders to keep me there. He didn't quite manage to get his arm off the bed, but got his hand up enough to catch hold of the front of my shirt. I covered his hand with mine, squeezing lightly. "Do you remember what happened?"
"Little bit. I got sick?"
"Yeah; you're getting better, though." It really didn't seem like the right time to tell him about everything. Instead, I forced myself to let him go and sit in my seemingly permanent chair, still keeping hold of his fingers. He looked exhausted already. "Go to sleep; I'll be here when you wake up again. I love you so much."
.
.