Chapter 36

The flight to New York rushed past me. Remi picked me up from the airport, and we went directly to the hospital. My feelings were tattered shreds that floated in the breeze. Panic, fear, and worry warred against each other while a sudden need to be with her tore at me fiercely the closer we got. I was so afraid to see her, but this might be my only chance.

"Are you okay, Sam?"

Turning my head towards Remi, I could see the concern in his eyes, even if he didn't look a whole lot better than me. "No. But I'll be alright."

"There is one more thing you should know."

"What is it?"

"The police are treating it as a suspicious incident."

With my thoughts being so chaotic and focused on Emmanuelle, I'd almost forgotten about that detail. But being reminded by Remi, I suddenly grasped all its ugly implications. "Who shoved her down those stairs? Who?"

His answer made my blood run cold.

"Irene."

At the hospital, we were ushered towards the ICU where I recognised Marguerite Renaud standing next to an older couple and a younger woman. All of them looked up when we came around the bend. Relief coated Emmanuelle's mother's expression when she saw her son.

"Remi, thank god, they're just about to take her inside," she said and firmly grasped his upper arms. He briefly leaned his forehead against hers before stepping back. He motioned at me. "This is Sam."

I nodded towards the worried faces as he introduced us, then let my gaze wander to the door we were standing in front of. The blinds of the room were drawn, and we couldn't see through the glass wall. Remembering Harry, it felt like I had spent entirely too much time in front of ICU rooms this year.

"We've already said our goodbyes. They've just started prepping her." To me, Emmanuelle's mother said softly, "After they're done, you can go in for two minutes before they take her away."

Remi cleared his throat. "Did they say anything about the odds?"

Emmanuelle's mother choked up, so it was her father who answered, "The nerve damage is quite severe, and the part of her spine that was injured is very tricky to operate on. But she is young and healthy, so they said she has the best preconditions to … to make it through. But they also said that complications are common with these kinds of injuries, and it's possible … that a part of the damage will be permanent."

The words managed to penetrate deeply into my cocoon of haziness. "What are you talking about?"

Marguerite Renaud sighed. "Even if she makes it through … she might still lose all motor function on her right side."

Emmanuelle's mother wiped a tear from her eye while Remi bit his teeth so hard that the veins in his neck stood out. To me, the shock of that revelation was like a punch to the gut.

Oh, god. She's right-handed.

"So, she could never paint with her right hand again?" My voice was barely above a whisper, and I was sure my already pale face had just got even paler.

"Yes."

My world spun and spun again. Of course, she might be able to learn how to paint with her left, but it would never be the same. She would never be the same. And it would likely destroy her career as a painter altogether and her along with it.

I didn't even notice how Remi led me to a bench at the end of the hallway and made me sit down. "Try to rest a little. I'm going to get some coffee for us. We're both burning the candle at both ends. Wait here for me, okay?"

I didn't know how long I sat there and stared at nothing, the words She could lose all motor function on her right side repeating in my head.

"It was nice of you to come despite your falling out." Marguerite Renaud's voice came from my left and made me flinch. I hadn't even noticed her sitting down. Then her words registered.

Had it been a falling out? Not really. It felt more like giving up.

"Anything I can do, I'm happy to do it."

She was quiet for a long moment, closing her hand around her knee and squeezing hard. "It is horrible to think that we could lose her. I don't think I've ever really told her that I'm proud of what she has accomplished."

So, the woman had regrets. Bad enough that it had taken something like this happening for her to realise all the things she hadn't said. But then again, I was hardly one to talk. I hadn't told Emmanuelle that I loved her either. Had the older woman guessed that I harboured regrets of my own, or was it just easier to admit this to a practical stranger, instead of her family?

"Will she really not be able to use her right hand again?"

"It's possible." She met my gaze then, and an understanding passed between us. "It would be the most horrible thing that could happen to her, I know."

"Art is her life." I stared at the opposite wall, lost in reverie.

The thought of what this accident might take from her was terrifying. I didn't even want to imagine what it would do to her. I forced myself to regard the legendary painter. "I know that her biggest dream is to be just like you. To have her art hang in Laurent Lambert's gallery, right alongside yours. Not being able to do that would kill her."

The hand which still clenched her knee turned even whiter. Marguerite admitted roughly, "I was always so hard on her. Pushed her from an early age just like my father did with me. The Renaud name … It was always about the Renaud name. About being better than everyone else. I think because of my strong drive I sometimes forgot that the purpose of creating art is to express yourself, not to paint how others want you to. I should have told her that I'm proud of her, that it's okay not to bend to society's opinions as long as she stays true to herself."

Ruefully, Marguerite shook her head. "That my granddaughter was always so successful was in no part thanks to me. And the Renaud name? What does that damned name even matter? Her last exhibit clearly showed that she was never successful because of her name but despite it."

"It would mean so much to her to hear you say that."

"I swore to myself that I will tell her as soon as she wakes up," she stated with watery determination.

If she does, a little voice inside my head said. It caused a wave of anxiety that made bile rise in my throat. What if she didn't?

No, don't think about that.

Remi stepped out of the elevator and came toward the bench with two steaming cups of coffee. His grandmother wearily got up and, after squeezing his elbow, trudged back toward the rest of Emmanuelle's family. He passed me the coffee, examining me as he did.

"What?"

"I'm just really glad you're here. Really glad."

He averted his face to draw a shuddering breath, and I nudged his shoulder in comfort. Then I took a sip. It might as well have been acid. It sure tasted like it, but I still gulped it down. It felt like I was running on fumes.

Shortly after, a nurse came out of the door of the ICU room. Remi took the empty cup from my hand. "I think you can go in now. Are you going to be okay?"

I nodded before I walked toward the door. I did it quickly, not trying to think too much about it, like ripping off a plaster from a wound.

The sight of her lying in the bed made my breath catch, and I stumbled for a second at the short flashbacks that assaulted me. Her hand was cool on the blanket when I touched it, dark hair framing her face like a halo. The bruises were as prominent as the beeping from the machines. The fluorescent lighting emphasized the violet tinges on her eyelids, and if the person responsible for doing this was really Irene, then I hoped she'd face the consequences of her actions.

"I know you can hear me. I have experience with this kind of thing," I murmured as I sat down, never letting go of her hand. "You really scared me by getting hurt like this, but the doctors are going to fix everything. I just need you to hold on, Elle. I need you to fight. Can you do that for me?"

No answer was forthcoming. She was so pale, face stark white against the sheets of the bed. I'd never seen that beautiful face so gaunt and flushed of life.

"You still have a lot of things, and people, waiting for you, so don't go and do anything stupid, love," I pleaded. At that moment I understood only too well Marguerite's anguish about all the things she wished she'd said.

When the nurse came into the room again a minute later, I got up and leaned close to touch my dry lips gently against her forehead. They rolled her away, and the real agony started.

Hours upon hours of waiting followed, with none of us straying away from the doors leading to the operating theatre. The fear took root deep inside and grew like a weed with every minute that passed without any news. After more than seven hours, a doctor came through the swing doors, and we all jumped up from our seats. I felt like I had just aged twenty years.

"The surgery finished without complications," he started. Emmanuelle's mother pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle a sob. "And we believe we managed to repair the nerve damage. And I do mean all of it. It'll be a while before we can test that fully and be sure, but, for now, she's weak but stable." He smiled reassuringly. "There's a long road ahead, but she has a good chance to make a full recovery now."

The words almost made my legs give out in relief, and I had to lean against the wall to remain upright. Emmanuelle's family hugged each other hard, asking if they could see her.

"Soon," the doctor promised.

I managed to smile when I caught Remi's tearful look, but other feelings were starting to resurface, as well, and I knew it was past time for me to get out of here. It was better not to be around when she woke up. I wasn't ready to face her, and I had no idea how to face the feelings that I still had for her.

A little shaky on my legs, I sat down on a chair and got my phone out of my pocket. I picked the first flight I found, not even looking at the price, and bought the ticket. Glancing towards the others, I could still see more hugging and excited conversation going on. No one was paying attention to me.

I padded down the hallway, took the elevator down and left the hospital, no one being the wiser. It was raining when I stepped outside, but the air was fresh and pleasant, and I pulled deep breaths into my lungs.

Emmanuelle was alive and would be fine again. Hopefully, the nerve damage would heal completely, just like the doctors hoped. She would be able to go back to her life. A life without me in it, but a life, nonetheless. And, even more importantly, she still had the chance to follow her dreams; the world would not be robbed of her art. My grandfather had been right to convince me to come here. Knowing she'd be okay made it easier to breathe, and the fact that I could return home now made it easier still.

Maybe I can send her a Christmas card, I thought as I stepped off the sidewalk, where a cyclist pummelled into me full force.