Page 32 of Enemies to French Kisses
Laura
Hospital lighting must bean international phenomenon, because from where I’m sitting, this hospital room could just as easily be back home.
But it’s not. We’re in central Paris, the firemen having carted off Marc’s unconscious body. Not dead, thank the good Lord, but a tumble like that doesn’t let anybody off the hook. He’s been out cold ever since, though the doctor assured me he’s in stable condition, taking the time he needs to put the jumbled bits back in place—my words, not the doctor’s.
Bruises have already darkened in purple under his eyes, but his face is otherwise peaceful and his breathing is calm.
I’ll never forget that image of him flailing his arms for anything to break his fall. But he was going down backward thanks to the tug of the scarf that sent him spinning. The scarf, however, remained firmly in my grip on Valerie’s handlebar.
A crowd gathered, some gawking, one person screaming that they were calling an ambulance, and others looking at me withverydirty looks. I didn’t bother trying to defend myself. What could I say? After the scene I made shouting at him and then trying to zoom off with part of his wardrobe attached to me, I deserved their consternation.
One man told me that it might be best if I left before the authorities came, but I tried to explain that I knew Marc. The proper French to explain it wouldn’t come to me, so the man shrugged and walked away.
My phone buzzes in my hand with a text.
“Running behind?”
Nicolas. Fudge crackers.
“Was involved in an accident.”Also known as throwing my colleague nemesis down a concrete stairway.“So sorry, at hospital.”
He replies almost immediately.“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but the other guy is in rough shape. Raincheck on dinner?”
“I’d say so.”
That sounded a bit cold.
He quickly follows up with,“Hope everyone will be alright.”
That’s better.
The next couple of hours are uneventful. Regular checks from the nurses, who assure me his condition isn’t worsening. But he’s not waking up either.
“Il va se remettre,” the next doctor says on seeing my panicked face. “I’m Dr. Rousse, and I assure you, he will come around.”
He taps my shoulder and leaves, but I can’t focus on anything. Not my phone, not the sounds of people speaking quietly outside the room, not the news. I turn the TV on and off, opting to stare at the white wall and trying not to relive the sensation again and again of the scarf tugging on my handlebar.
I have to tell Guillaume. And say what? Hi boss, just landed our colleague, and seemingly your buddy, in the hospital. No biggie. At least it won’t be when he wakes up. If he wakes up. But he will, that’s what the doctors say.
No, that won’t work. But I can’t find other words to say it. This was an accident, after all. In no way did I ever intend to hurt Marc in any way, except maybe his pride.
He looks so frail lying there now, the hospital gown pulled taut against his chest, his biceps pressing against the sleeves. Don’t they have bigger gowns? That can’t be comfortable for him.
I adjust the fabric so that it isn’t cutting into him, my fingertips grazing his chest. His body is warm the way his hands were, and though his body is resting, his muscles are apparent in a way I’ve never seen in his business suit. He’s frail and he’s strong. Vulnerable, but a fighter.
Wake up,I think at him. I can’t say it out loud. It’s as if saying it out loud means I accept that there’s a chance he won’t wake up—and that is not an acceptable possibility. My stomach cramps at the thought of it and a rush of tears threaten to burst.
I’ve got to stay strong. I’m not the one in the hospital bed, after all. I’ve got to keep it together and help Marc in whatever way I can. It’s the least my conscience will let me do.
I brush a lock of hair that’s fallen into the middle of his forehead, and feel him stir. I pull my hand away quickly, eager for any sign that he’s finally waking. But there’s nothing more.
Disappointment sinks back into my core.
Come on, Marc. Give me a hard time again, please.
I’d better try that message to Guillaume again. The screen glares blue at me, but nothing comes. Maybe I’ll start with someone easier. Vincent.
