TWENTY
We decide to stick together for the next few hours in a postapocalyptic daze.
We consisting of Joe, Brad, Gemma, Sarah, and me.
Sarah and I don’t talk much, but when we do, it’s not hostile. We’re both exhausted and reek of despair. Even cheating and infidelity is small in the grand scheme of life. And what does it matter that Dom made both of us look like fools if he is not even here so we can properly yell at him? The anger is so redundant, and duller in comparison to the pain of losing him.
Joe drives us to Dom’s apartment, where I make everyone tea, moving on autopilot. Sarah cuts a Valium pill with a butter knife, then gives one half to Gemma and the other to Brad. She offers Joe and me something to take the edge off, but we both decline.
Joe locks himself in Dom’s bedroom and makes some calls. I don’t know what to feel. I don’t know what to think. I’m scared of processing everything that’s happening here.
Gemma, Sarah, and I are in the living room, sipping tea. Apparently, Dom just collapsed onto the street, right into incoming traffic. My guess is he was too exhausted to stay up on his feet. I’d always worried about him not getting many hours of sleep.
Sarah feels the need to fill the silence, because she is a doctor and because she was there during his last hour.
“He didn’t feel it.” She puts the mug to her lips, letting the steam create a condensation mustache above her lip. “Any of it. He suffered from a penetration injury. The impact forced a part of his skull into his brain. He was very much out of it. Didn’t know what was happening. I know it’s little comfort, but I thought you should know.”
“So why did it take hours? The surgery?” I ask.
She looks up at me, surprised that I’m talking to her. Her eyes drop to my engagement ring, and tears fill them again. I tuck my hand under my thigh, embarrassed.
She clears her throat. “He didn’t die immediately. They tried to stop the bleeding and to assess the damage of the ruptured brain tissue.”
“So even if he survived . . .” Gemma presses a mangled tissue to her nose. Some of it is stuck to her cheeks and lips, but no one says anything.
“Yes,” Sarah says gently, reaching to touch Gemma’s knee. “The recovery would have been extremely long, and although this is not my field of expertise, I would say the damage to his brain would have been substantial. He wouldn’t have been able to lead the life he’d had before.”
“Thank you . . . for explaining all this,” I say. Because in a way, it is a little comforting. To know Dom was spared the destiny of being in a long coma.
Gemma completely breaks and takes both our hands and says, “I’m so sorry, girls. I know how hard it must be for you to sit together in the same room. But can I just say, seeing how the two of you are dealing with this complex situation just shows me why Dom was struggling to make a choice.”
Sarah and I exchange horrified looks. I’m sure she doesn’t like being talked about like she is a pair of flattering jeans either. My acceptance of Sarah has nothing to do with my love for Dom and everything to do with the fact that she, personally, didn’t know of my existence and therefore didn’t do anything bad to me.
“This is fine,” Sarah says curtly. “It doesn’t matter. We all loved Dominic.”
Eventually, Joe gets out of Dom’s room and fills his parents in about all kinds of bureaucratic stuff. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You should call someone. I’m not letting you out of here until I know there’s someone to take care of you.”
Though I dread this phone call, I also know that it is necessary. I take my phone and lock myself in Dom’s room. A fresh wave of tears hits me at the scent of him. Of his bed, his aftershave, his laundry, his life. It seems so surreal that I’m not going to have him anymore. That his scent will fade, and his possessions will be tucked away or donated. That his body will no longer be warm and strong and vital.
I call Dad before Nora, thinking he is for sure not going to pick up. Why would he? I’ve been nothing but a shit kid to him over the past six years. But maybe parents have a sixth sense, because this time not only does he answer, but he does so on the second ring. Before I can tell myself that it’s okay to hang up. That I’ve tried.
“Everlynne,” he clips out.
At the sound of his voice, I break. With reckless abandon. I moan in pain, not even recognizing my own voice. I sound like an animal.
His tenor immediately changes. It is soft now. “Oh . . . don’t . . . don’t cry. I . . . um . . . Everlynne, please, tell me what’s going on. I hate to hear you like this.”