Sammy Keyes and the Kiss Goodbye (16 page)

After another long silence, Lana took a deep breath and whispered, “Please wake up, Sunshine. Please come back to me!” And then, like a main line breaking open, she threw herself forward and burst into tears.

Only there was a problem.

She couldn’t really reach her daughter because the bed’s guardrail was in the way.

So she frantically pulled the barricade. Pushed the barricade. Tried to find the release latch for the barricade. But (being both overwrought and not mechanically inclined) she got nowhere.

Which made her cry even harder.

And the harder she cried, the more she wanted to wrap her daughter in her arms and just hold her.

Like she had when Samantha was a little girl.

Back when she could still protect her.

And now, once again, the reality of the situation seemed too much to bear.

What if her daughter never woke up?

What if she could never tell her she was sorry?

After the flood of tears subsided and only sprinkles remained, Lana wiped her cheeks, then reached over the railing to try again to hug her daughter.

But it was awkward.

Impossible, really.

So she reached over and kissed Sammy on the forehead.

But … that was very unsatisfying.

And it seemed like the wrong gesture completely!

Like something you would do to an old, tired relative.

Or a corpse in a casket!

If you had the guts to kiss a corpse in a casket, that is.

Which she did not!

Unless, maybe, it was Samantha.

No!

The image gripped her heart, and she fanned away another panic attack as she whimpered, “You cannot die. Samantha, please wake up. Please!”

But her daughter didn’t wake up.

And after the next flood of tears came and went, Lana stood there completely drained and overcome with fatigue.

In all her double shifts at Big Daddy’s, in all her long days on
Lords
, she had never, ever felt this tired.

Suddenly all she wanted was to curl up and close her eyes and go back to the time when it was just her and her daughter in the little bed on Hill Street.

Back to when she could wrap her sleeping child in her arms and feel her heartbeat steady and strong and fearless beside her.

Back to when life was mostly heartache and struggle.

But had never hurt like this.

After finishing his interview with Zelda Quinn and making a series of phone calls, Darren went to check on Lana and found her asleep in Sammy’s bed with an arm draped over their daughter.

“Aw, Lana,” Darren murmured, then marveled at how two people could even fit in the narrow bed, let alone how Lana had managed to fall asleep. (Lana was known for her requisite feather pillows and was, at the moment, crammed up against the guardrail like a board on its side, unsupported by a pillow of any kind.)

“What the …?” came a voice from behind, and before Darren could turn, a nurse elbowed her way past him without so much as an excuse-me.

The nurse was wearing a Scrabble-patterned smock with various medical terms puzzled together, including such indelicate intersections as
BLADDER
and
VOID, FLATUS
and
GUT
, and (over the upper left front quadrant)
HEART
and
ATTACK
. “Did you turn this off?” she asked as she toggled up a switch at the side of the bed.

“No, what is it?” Darren asked.

“The movement sensor. It was turned off.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if there had been movement, we wouldn’t have been alerted.” The Scrabble nurse eyed the still-sleeping Lana. “And if someone climbed in bed with the patient, we wouldn’t know it.”

“It’s her mother,” Darren explained.

“Oh, I’m aware,” the nurse said, then reached across the bed and gave Lana a shake. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you’re not allowed to be in the bed.”

Lana’s eyes fluttered open and she gave the nurse a groggy look.

“And don’t jolt the patient,” the Scrabble nurse instructed.

Darren, fearing that Lana might freak out at the sight of her still-unconscious daughter, hurried over to the other side of the bed and let the guardrail down. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Come on out.”

“How’d you do that?” Lana asked, because even in the fog of an interrupted sleep cycle, it registered that Darren had retracted the railing with no effort at all.

“Come on,” Darren coaxed. “Easy …”

“I’m serious, Darren,” Lana said as she slid out. “How did you do that?”

So he dutifully put the rail back up, then demonstrated how to release it.

“No more getting in with her,” the nurse instructed. “There’s a sensor that’ll alarm.”

“I set off an alarm?” Lana asked, looking back and forth between the nurse and Darren.

“No,” Nurse Scrabble said as she inspected the IV bag, “but next time you will.”

Having slept through the initial part of the whole sensor discussion, Lana didn’t really understand the distinction. She was also distracted by the back of the nurse’s shirt (which had
DUODENUM
intersecting with
CONSTIPATION, GALLBLADDER
, and
BILE
) and was simply glad to see the tasteless shirt exit the room. “This is a strange place,” she whispered after the Scrabble nurse was gone.

Darren (being both male and a rock guy) could see the humor in the shirt, but not in the situation. Instead of dwelling on it, though, he focused on the positive. “I’ve got some good news,” he said, putting an arm around Lana’s waist. “A pediatric neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins is going to confer with Dr. Jha about Sammy’s case. His name is Dr. Kumar, and he is one of the top coma specialists in the world.”

“Really?” Lana asked, suddenly awake. “When?”

Darren checked the battery level of his cell phone. “Sometime this evening. He said he’ll arrange to have the brain scans sent so he can review them before he speaks with Dr. Jha.”

“
You
talked to him? How?”

Darren nodded. “Friend of a friend of a friend.” He slipped his phone away and said, “Although why a neurosurgeon would be a fan of mine is something I don’t quite understand.”

Lana gave him a sweet smile. “Well, I do. And thank you.”

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said gently.

“But I feel better knowing that someone with some credibility is involved.” She looked past the curtain, then dropped her voice. “This place doesn’t give me much confidence.”

Which, for Darren, was it in a nutshell. And while not wanting to alarm Lana by adding fuel to the fire, he did have his concerns and was not about to leave Sammy without supervision.

Even though ostensibly there was nothing to supervise.

And theoretically there was nothing he could do.

It didn’t matter.

“If you want to take a break, I’ll sit here for a while,” he told Lana.

But Lana pulled two chairs together and sat down defiantly. “I’m going nowhere,” she said.

Now, with Lana wanting for the past fourteen years to be going anywhere
but
nowhere, the irony of her statement hung for a moment in the air.

But only for a moment.

Then Darren sat down beside her and held her hand, grateful she was there.

Grateful to be with her, going nowhere.

Out in the waiting room, a rotation of sorts had occurred. Having captured the footage of a lifetime, Zelda Quinn and her cameraman had beat a hasty exit to get at least a short segment ready in time for the five o’clock broadcast, and the full piece together for the six o’clock. The teachers
(and former vice principal) had also left, assuring one another they’d be in touch should they hear any news.

And finally the oddball adults had left the waiting room (but not until they’d each inscribed a message on the silky-smooth fabric of the lone unicorn). Justice Jack had jumped onto his High Roller in pursuit of “Commissioner Borsch” to see where his talents as a superhero could best be put to use, and Madame Nashira and Slammin’ Dave had both piled back into André’s car, deciding that waiting could be done just as well in their respective places of employment.

But as the trio rolled across town, André (who had also missed lunch and was suddenly famished) had an unexpected hankering. “Anyone else feel like Italian food?” he asked.

The question surprised even him because André was not a socializer. Especially not with tenants. He’d learned many years ago that getting chummy with residents was asking for trouble. Before you knew it, they’d want favors. Or deadline extensions. Or free rent.

But aside from the potential follies of fraternizing with Gina, he’d also tossed the question out there for Dave’s consideration.

What had possessed him?

He didn’t fraternize with men in bright blue boots!

He just didn’t.

So the minute the Italian-food suggestion made it past his cigar stub, André wished he could take it back.

He needn’t have worried, though, because both his
neighbor and his tenant declined. And the idea might have been dropped entirely, but after letting Gina out at her House of Astrology on Main Street (where the astrologer hoped to divine some information regarding Sammy’s future) and then pulling into his usual parking space near the Heavenly, Slammin’ Dave asked, “Have you tried Mindy’s?”

“Mindy’s?” André replied, the car in park, but still idling.

Dave got out of the car and pointed. “It’s around the corner on Main. Where Alphy’s used to be? Best Italian food I’ve ever had.”

“Thanks, man,” André said, and while Dave (and his bright blue boots) walked away, André sat in his car with his engine (and his mind) running. Why had he even asked about Italian food? He had no time to go out!

He had a hotel to run.

He had … well, things to do.

Or, at least, read.

Besides, it was between mealtimes. The place might not even be open.

But something about the events of the day, something about the reminder that life was finite (and always much too short, even if you were lucky enough to get old) kept him sitting in the car with the engine idling.

Plus, he realized with a helpless sort of sadness, he just didn’t want to be alone.

So he put the car back in gear and puttered away from the Heavenly and around the corner to Mindy’s Cucina d’Italia, where he parked curbside.

André found that the restaurant
was
open, but it was empty. And feeling alone to begin with, he almost turned around. Eating alone in an empty restaurant was sure not going to make him feel any less alone!

But the little bell on the door had jingled, and now a woman appeared from the kitchen area. “Don’t be shy,” she said with dancing eyes. “The food is good!” And before he could find a way to resist, she’d secured him at a corner table with a menu. “Something to drink?” she asked. “Water? Or maybe a glass of Chianti?”

Coffee would have been more his style. Or maybe a beer. But wine? After working at the Heavenly for so many years, wine had a very negative association (caused by the recycled state in which it was left in hallways or corners for him to clean up).

But the setting here, with its checkered tablecloths and lacy half curtains, was nothing like the Heavenly. And the truth was, nothing went with Italian food like a good red wine.

“How about a glass of Chianti on the house,” the woman said with a warm smile. “Seems like you could use one.”

She returned moments later with the wine and a basket of bread. And after leaving him alone for a few minutes to consider the menu choices, she appeared again and looked at him expectantly.

Perhaps it was the wine (which was already half gone), but instead of just placing his order, André asked, “How’s the lasagna?” and (to his bewilderment and extreme embarrassment) his eyes began stinging with tears.

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe,” the woman assured him. “It’s beyond wonderful.”

He handed back the menu. “Then that’s what I’ll have.”

She took the menu but paused to study him. “I know it’s none of my business, but … are you okay?”

He nodded.

“Are you new in town?”

He shook his head, and since he couldn’t seem to get any words past the lump in his throat, the woman backed away and disappeared into the kitchen.

André, of course, felt like a complete fool, but when the woman returned with the steaming plate of lasagna, she seemed to have nothing but sympathy. She placed his meal in front of him, then slid into the chair across from him and said, “Do you want to tell me about her?”

“Her?” André asked.

“Well, it must be a girl, right?”

André looked away, and even though the situation was not what the woman was thinking, his head bobbed.

“So tell me about her. This girl who’s made you so sad.”

And since they were alone and the wine was now gone, he studied her kind brown eyes, then took a bite of the best lasagna he’d ever tasted and began. “Her name is Sammy.”

As the teens began the walk from Billy’s house back toward the hospital, Marissa was gripped with a horrible, heart-stopping thought: If her mother followed through with her plan to move them to Ohio this summer, it would create a void. A void that Heather would fill.

Heather had always been resourceful and determined, and now that Sammy had “celebrity connections,” Heather would do whatever it took to become Sammy’s new best friend. She’d already shown obvious signs of it, and with Marissa out of the way, it would be easy! Sure, Holly would put up roadblocks for a while, but she had other things going on. Like dogs and becoming a vet and denying her undeniable crush on Preston Davis.

And Dot wouldn’t know how to stop her—she was way too nice.

And Casey? He used to stand up to Heather, but since that trip to Las Vegas he was always telling everyone to go easy on her.

No, without someone truly committed, the resistance would fall pretty quickly.

She
was the only person who would stand firm and stop
Heather, or in no time Heather would become Sammy’s new best friend.