Chapter 26

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Dr. Lucas Hamilton

Friday April 21, 2023

Based on the noises I hear around me—and the smell of disinfectant and industrial floor cleaner—I'm in a medical facility. That realization is all I've got before I drift away again. Snatches of sunlight lengthen, like warm fingers crawling over my skin. I calculate it takes me an hour to fully open my eyes.

I'm alive, and I hurt everywhere. My skin, my leg. my balls, my hair. Even my toenails hurt. I itch everywhere, which means they've given me morphine. The skin on my feels tight, so I have some sutures. My leg hurts so fucking badly.

I take that in and do nothing with it. It's dark when I wake again.

Where is Sumner? He'll give me water. Or Rose will. I say, "'ose."

"Dad?" A plastic chair near my left shoulder scrapes over vinyl flooring. "Oh my God. Dad."

Thundering footsteps. Dr. Martens. It's Sophie?

She called me Dad. I must be dying.

Sophie opens the door to the hallway and shouts, "Someone, come quick. Dad's awake."

There is a satisfying scurry of feet outside the door.

"Doctor Hamilton, are you back with us?" It's a nurse I recognize, wearing cheerful cartoon scrubs. I don't know her name.

"It's about time, Dad." Sophie chides me. "I read The Goblin Emperor while you were comatose. That's a huge book. You might like it. It's all about a guy who has neither the desire nor the skill to run a country, except he does it better than anyone expected, and it makes people mad, because he's like…other…and they're all filthy bigots and snobs."

I manage to slow blink my eyes like a cat, but that's it. Sophie has already said more to me than she did tin the week before I left. Or ever, I think.

"I read Frankenstein too. Did you know Mary Shelley was only, like, nineteen when she wrote that? She practically invented science fiction, plus, she was Mary Wollstonecraft's daughter, but her mom died right after she was born. Isn't that sad? To be Mary Wollstonecraft's daughter and not even get to know her. That would suck."

The nurse has said nothing, but she raises the head of the bed. I'm thrilled because she picks up the little plastic pitcher and pours me a cup of water. I am so thirsty I sip as much as I can. It exhausts me. I barely manage to smile at Sophie before drifting away again. I dream of Sumner. Dust storms and dungarees. The First Lady, getting me out of a scrape.

Since no one gets to stay in a hospital as long as they need to anymore, someone from patient services works with my housekeeper and Sophie to make certain I have a safe place to land. I arrange for home healthcare workers and a PT. I don't want Sophie to feel responsible for me.

Not that I think she will, but I don't want to be a burden to anyone.

I learn I was in a coma for two weeks. Thank God, the housekeeper made arrangements to stay at the house with Sophie. The nurses say Sophie came every day after school and sat with me. She has a reputation for reading through anything that happens to be lying around here. Since I came to, I mostly drift in and out of sleep.

One day—who knows what time it is—I wake up with Sophie, trying to see inside my head.

She says, "You look sad."

"That's my resting ouch face."

Was Sumner real? Was anything real? I don't know. It felt real, so while I'm glad to be here and glad Sophie is worried enough she's willing to call me ‘Dad,' I ache for the I left behind. I want to complain to whoever runs the Carnival that I didn't find everything I was looking for, but then I wonder if he's like a Fae or the Djinn. Maybe I found everything I was looking for, but I can't have it.

"Press the little button, Dad. You know you want to."

"Morphine makes me itch." For the first day or two, the drugs kept me from losing my mind. Now I need to be clear-headed. I can't stand for Sophie to see me out of control.

"But it also helps you," she reminds me. "And control is an illusion."

Did she really say control is an illusion? Or am I dreaming again.

"There's a limit to how much drugs help." I pat her hand where it lies beside mine. "I think I'm past that."

Someone brings me a stack of magazines and journals to read. I've tried to focus on them, but it's as if I've developed sudden-onset ADHD. As soon as I start reading, I find myself staring at Sophie and thinking how beautiful she is or pining for Sumner and wondering how he's coping with losing a second soulmate after only a week. I barely have the attention span to read a recipe.

It turns out, I'm not getting my life back soon. Myy patients have been transferred to other physicians or they're on hold. They tell me it will be nearly a year before I'm well enough to start working full time.

After three days of excruciating boredom for all of us, I'm allowed to go home. Thrown out, more like. They're done with me, I can go take care of myself now, buh-bye.

There is a mountain of paperwork to see to first. They give me a packet with instructions and go over them with me, which means reading them aloud and asking me if I understand every few paragraphs.

I point out that I know how to spot an infection. They are not impressed. Damien comes to visit when he's working. He's not being a creep either, though I don't know whether he has learned better, or he's put that on hold.

Dogs don't chase broke-down cars.

At last, the moment comes when I'm ferried out of the room in a wheelchair. I like to dress well, but I look like a freak. I'm shaggy, unshaven, still healing from bruises and road rash, and I'm wearing half a pair of sweats and a muscle shirt that says Welcome, y'all, to the Roadkill Café . A gift from Damien.

There are helium balloons attached to the wheelchair. I'm carrying a basket of tulips. I won't die of embarrassment, but I feel everybody's eyes on me as we pass like the world's lowest budget parade.

Sophie meets me at the curb in full Goth mode today. She's wearing a black ballgown with a crown of skulls and spikes. First, I think, God, I adore her . Then I wish Sumner could see her. She's glorious. She's terrifying. She's a cross between a baby porcupine and a baby sloth, and I have no idea which is coming at me next: her need for security, or her natural defenses. I'm not sure I care. There's no way I'm letting her go now.

Was anything I remember real? I don't know. I asked people to wait before telling me about the accident. I'm not ready to hear the truth yet. I haven't talked to Sophie about the carnival. I haven't asked where she went and what it was like. I don't want to compare notes.

If I find out the objective truth, will I believe it?

I don't want to eat the apple.

I don't want to open the box.

Javier Martinez Hermosa is an energetic man in his mid-fifties, gregarious and down to earth. He's got a driver, so I'm not surprised when he bounds out of the backseat and shouts, "Lucas! Glad I caught you. There's someone I want you to meet."

The people I'm supposed to meet are almost always community bigwigs who pay for the privilege of having wing or a building of the place I work named after them. I wait for this person to get out of the car with a degree of resentment I can't help showing on my face.

It's not as if I can stand up.

I'm not presentable right now.

I don't want to paste on a winning smile, and I don't see why all those things aren't apparent to Javi, who presumably wants me to make a good impression. Then his guest steps out, and my chest walls give my heart a deep and painful squeeze.

And in my shock, I say, "Sumner?"

It can't be. It's not him.

First, how could Sumner be here? And second, I see slight anomalies. Are his eyes quite as blue as Sumner's? Does his streak of silver hair normally curl at the end like that?

Don't get me wrong. I'm fucking gobsmacked, a word I have never used and never will again. Okay, maybe once. I'm gobsmacked. I stare at the man holding his hand out to me, and then I look to Javi, who seems out of breath.

"Thank goodness." Javi pats his chest. "I hoped to catch you before you left your room. This is Dr. Calvin Boettiger. UNM is creating a graduate program in bioethics, and I told him you spent time with Médecins sans Frontières. He seemed absolutely determined to meet you immediately. Wouldn't take no for an answer."

Boettiger waves politely. "I'm particularly interested in the work you did in the Democratic Republic of Congo."

"How do you relate that to bioethics?" I close my eyes and open them. He's still there. Sophie stands beside me. I hear her deeply resentful sigh. It's music to my ears.

Boettiger smiles at Sophie. "Bioethics covers a broad range of topics, including humanitarian crises, of which there seem to be more every day. I'd like my students to learn how motivated individuals in the health care field can assist without exerting a negative cultural influence."

"Colonialism," Sophie draws the word like a dagger, "is so last century."

That's my girl .

"Indeed." Boettiger nods. "You must be Sophie. I've heard a lot about you."

No! That is not Sumner.

It can't be Sumner.

I no longer believe in time travel or prophetic dreams. Sure, Dr. Boettiger is equally handsome. He's a made-to-order silver fox. I probably saw him at some fundraiser and imprinted on him like a duckling. Maybe my subconscious had a field day with his image while I was in a coma, but that can't be Sumner Delano. I would be stupid to believe—to hope—it is.

"As you can see. I'm about to go home?—"

"Sure, let me help you." Dr. Boettiger lurches forward and opens the car door for me. He smells like Sumner. "Lean on me. We've got this. There you go."

Even Sophie seems impressed as he lifts me out of the wheelchair and transfers me gently into the car. Javi looks on benignly.

"Give the man your card, Cal. I'm sure he'll get bored and start looking for a project in a few days."

"Don't tell me you bore easily." Calvin takes a card from the inside pocket of his jacket and hands it over. When he helps me put my seatbelt on, I'm consumed with worry over every missed bath and shave and haircut. "My favorite cousin used to say that only boring people get bored."

"My dad is not boring." Sophie says stoutly. "He's the most not boring person ever."

Mrs. Hennigan, our housekeeper, seems worried. "I think we need to leave, Doctor Hamilton. I've been parked here for quite a while."

"It's not the airport," I say. "I work here."

Dr. Boettiger leans into the car and looks me over. From his deliberate slow perusal and satisfied smile, he likes what he sees. I tell my stupid, pitiful, hopeful heart that it can't be Sumner, but my heart still clings to the idea. Maybe I'm the sloth in Sophie's family tree. My head says don't be an idiot . It cannot be Sumner.

My heart shouts, Dumbass, you know this man.

He winks at me.

"So you're the most not boring person ever, hm?" Dr. Boettiger's lips curve into a wicked smile. "In that case, I should tell you my safe word is ‘blasphemer' because it's so fun to say."

My mouth falls open in shock. As Sophie opens the front passenger door, my gaze locks with Sumner's. How did he get here? When did he get here?

Am I supposed to believe I can have it all? Oh my God, can I?

Sophie slides into the passenger seat next to Mrs. H. "Come on dad, say goodbye to your friend. We have to go home now."

I reach up and catch hold of Sumner's tie. "You. Get in this car. You're coming with me."

Sumner—Calvin did he actually picked the name Calvin? Whatever he calls himself, he gives me a slow, besotted smile.

"You're a little slow on the uptake, dearest." he whispers. "I thought you'd never ask."