Book Lovers

27

I CATCH HER, BUT I’m not strong enough to hold her up. “Help!” I scream as we slump to the ground, the worst of her fall softened.

The door to the office flings open, but I’m still shrieking Help, screaming like it’s doing anything, as if just shouting the word has power. Action over inaction. Movement over stagnation. An illusion of control.

Charlie comes running, crouches beside us. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” I say. “Libby. Libby.”

Her eyes slit open, flutter closed again. God, she’s pale. Was she that pale all afternoon? And her heart is racing. I can feel it shivering through her. Her hands are icy. I take one between mine, rubbing it. “Libby. Libby?”

Her eyes open again, and this time she looks more alert.

“Let’s get her to the hospital,” Charlie says.

“I’m okay,” she insists, but her voice is shaky. She tries to sit up.

I pull her back into my lap. “Don’t move. Just take a second.”

She nods, settles into my arms.

Charlie’s on his feet already, headed for the door. “I’ll pull my car up.”

Charlie is the one who talks to the receptionist in complete sentences when we arrive.

Charlie is the one who pulls me away when I start half shouting at the nurse who tells us we’re not allowed through the doors Libby’s ushered through. He’s the one who pushes me into a chair in the waiting room, takes hold of my face, and promises it’ll be okay.

You can’t know that, I think, but he’s so sure that I almost believe him.

“Just sit right here,” he says. “I’ll figure this out.”

Seven minutes later, he returns with decaf, a prepackaged apple fritter, and the number of the room Libby’s been moved into. “They’re running tests. It shouldn’t take long.”

“How did you do that?” I ask, voice hoarse.

“I was on the high school paper with one of the doctors here,” he says. “She says we can go and wait in her hall until the tests are over.”

I’ve never felt so useless, or so grateful not to be in charge. “Thank you,” I croak.

Charlie nudges the fritter toward me. “You should eat something.”

He ferries me through the hospital, stopping by another vending machine for a bottle of water, then to a pair of hideously outdated chairs in a hellishly lit hallway that smells like antiseptic.

“She’s in there. If they’re not out in five minutes, I’ll find someone to talk to, okay?” he says gently. “Just give them five minutes.”

Within twenty seconds I’m pacing. My chest hurts. My eyes burn, but no tears come.

Charlie grabs me, pulls me in around his chest, and wraps a hand around the back of my head. I feel small, vulnerable, helpless in a way I haven’t for years.

Even before Mom died, I wasn’t much of a crier. But when Libby and I were kids and I was upset, there was nothing that could make me tear up faster than having Mom’s arms wrapped around me. Because then — and only then — I knew it was safe to come apart.

My sweet girl, she’d coo. That’s what she always called me.

She never did the You’re okay, don’t cry thing. Always My sweet girl. Let it out.

At her funeral, I remember tears glossing my eyes, the pinprick sensation at the back of my nose, and then, beside me, the sound of Libby breaking, descending into sobs.

I remember catching myself holding my breath, like I was waiting.

And then I realized I was waiting.

For her.

For Mom to put her arms around us.

Libby was crumbling, and Mom wasn’t coming.

It was like a collapsed sandcastle leapt back into place inside me, rearranging my heart into something passably sturdy. I wrapped my arms around my sister and tried to whisper, Let it out. I couldn’t get the words past my lips.

So instead I dropped my mouth beside Libby’s ear and whispered, “Hey.”

She gave a stuttering breath, like, What?

“If Mom had known how hot the reverend here is,” I said, “she probably would’ve made it down here sooner.”

Libby’s saucer eyes looked up at me, glazed with tears, and my chest felt like a can being crushed until she let out a scratchy jolt of laughter loud enough that Hot Reverend stumbled over his next few words.

She lay her head on my shoulder, turned her face into my jacket, and shook her head. “That is so fucked up,” she said, but she was shaking with teary laughter.

For that second, she was okay. Now, though, when she really needs me, I’m useless.

“Why couldn’t we be in the room for tests?” I get out.

Charlie inhales, shifting between his feet. “Maybe they think you’ll give her the answers.”

There is absolutely no conviction in his joke. When I draw back, I realize he’s not doing so hot himself.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Just don’t like hospitals,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to stay.”

He takes my hands, holds them between our chests. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“I can handle it.”

His mouth shrinks, the crease beneath it deepening. “I know. I want to be here.”

A group of nurses pass with a gurney, and an ashen cast seeps onto Charlie’s face.

I scrounge around for something to say, anything else to think about. “Sharon called me.”

His lips press into a knot.

“She told me you put me up for a job.”

After a beat, he murmurs, “If I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that.” My face prickles. “It’s just . . . what if I’m bad at it?”

His hands skim up my arms until he’s cradling my jaw. “Impossible.”

My brow arches of its own volition. “Because I helped edit one book?”

He shakes his head. “Because you’re smart and intuitive. And good at getting the best writing out of people, and you put the work before your ego. You know when to push and when to let something go. You’re trustworthy — partly because you’re so bad at lying — and you take care of the things that matter to you.

“If I had to pick one person to be in my corner, it’d be you. Every time. You take care of shit.”

With a sharp throb in my chest, my gaze falls to the floor. “Not always.”

“Hey.” Charlie’s rough fingers come back to mine. He lifts my hand, brushing his mouth over my knuckles. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong and do everything we can to fix it.”

“That fucking list.” My chest is too tight to let anything out but a whisper. “She’s been doing too much. I shouldn’t have let her. We slept out in the heat and — we’ve been working on this fundraiser. She should’ve been resting.”

Charlie sits, drawing me into his lap, every thought of discretion, of avoiding complication gone in an instant. I need him, and he’s here, I realize. Fully, not with caveats or stipulations. His hand slides up the back of my neck, tucked beneath my hair, and I’m wrapped up in him like he’s my personal stone fortress. Like even if I came apart, nothing could get to me.

“Libby makes Libby’s decisions,” he says. “Imagine how you’d react if someone tried to stop you from doing what you want, Stephens.” A hint of a smile tugs at his pout. “Actually, don’t imagine it. It’s inappropriate to get turned on in a hospital.”

I laugh weakly into his chest, another knot unwinding in my own. “I missed something. I’m here with her, and Brendan isn’t, and—” My voice catches. The rest tumbles out painfully: “It’s my job to watch out for her.”

“I know it’s scary, being here,” he says. “But this is a good hospital. They know what they’re doing.” His fingers move in soothing, rhythmic circles against the nape of my neck. “This is where my dad came.”

The words sweet guy sear through my mind, like the afterimage left behind by the pop of a camera’s bulb.

That’s what Charlie called his father. A sweet guy. The best person I know.

“What happened?” I ask.

After a protracted silence, he says, “The first stroke wasn’t bad. But this last one . . . he was in a coma for six days.” He watches the progress of his thumb running back and forth over mine. His brow tightens. The day we met, I mistook this expression for surliness, brooding, proof he was as warm and human as a block of marble.

Now all it does is bring out the lost look in his eyes. “This huge, handy guy who can fix anything, build anything. And in that hospital bed, he looked—” He breaks off. I twine my free hand into the hair at the base of his neck.

“He looked old,” Charlie says, then, after a fraught silence, “When I was a kid, all I ever wanted was to be like him, and I wasn’t. But he always made me feel like it was okay to be the way I am.”

I cup his jaw and lift his gaze. I wonder if he can see every word in my expression, because I feel them tunneling up from the lowest part of my gut. You’re more than okay.

He clears his throat. “My dad’s alive because of what they were able to do for him here. Between them and you, Libby’s going to be all right. She has to be.”

As if on cue, the doctor, a balding man with a Salman Rushdie goatee and brow, walks out of the exam room. “Is she okay?” I lurch to my feet.

“She’s resting,” he says. “But she gave me permission to speak with both of you.” He nods toward Charlie, who stands, tightening his grip on my hand, anchoring me.

“What happened?” I ask.

In an instant, my mind cycles through every ailment it knows of.

Heart attack.

Stroke.

Miscarriage.

And then it snags: PULMONARY EMBOLISM.

The words repeat. They echo. They reach back to the beginning of my life and forward to the end of it, this outstretched Slinky of a phrase, looping through time, fucking with everything, warping my life in places, ripping through it in others. Pulmonary embolism.

The doctor says, “Your sister is anemic.”

The words slam into a wall. Or maybe run off a cliff — that’s how it feels, like I’ve stepped off a ledge and am hovering before the drop.

“Her body is lacking in iron and B12,” he explains. “So she’s not manufacturing enough healthy red blood cells. It’s not uncommon during pregnancy, and especially unsurprising for someone who’s already dealt with this issue in a previous pregnancy.”

“Libby hasn’t had this before.”

He studies the clipboard in his hands. “Well, it wasn’t as severe, but her levels were definitely low. I spoke with her ob-gyn, and apparently your sister was a bit more stable in her first trimester, but they’ve been keeping an eye on this since the beginning.”

My fingers are tingling again. My brain works to clear the smoke and start a checklist, but it’s just not happening.

“What do we need to do?” Charlie asks.

“It’s pretty simple,” the doctor says. “She’ll need to take an iron supplement, and eat more meat and eggs, if possible. She’ll also want to do the same with B12. We’ll get you a printout on the best sources for those, though I assume she’ll remember from last time.”

Last time.

This has already happened. I didn’t just miss it once, but twice.

“She’ll possibly have to deal with nausea, but having more, smaller meals throughout the day should help. I’d like to see her next week, to make sure she’s doing better, and then after that, she’ll need to have regular checkups with her doctor until delivery.”

That’s manageable. It’s fixable. List-able.

“Thank you.” I shake his hand. “Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure.” He smiles, a remarkably warm, patient smile. “Just give her time to rest. The nurse will let you know when you can see her.”

As soon as he’s gone, I feel exhausted, like a thousand-pound weight just lifted off me, but only after hours of carrying it.

“You okay?”

When I look at Charlie, he’s blurry; my vision is distorted.

“Breathe, Nora.” He grips my shoulders, taking an exaggerated inhale. I match it. We stay in sync for a few breaths until the pressure releases. “She’s okay.”

I nod, let him pull me into his chest, wrapping me up tight against him.

I try to tell him I’m just relieved, but there’s no room for words— for logic, reason, arguments. My body’s decided what to do, and it’s this: nothing, in Charlie’s arms.

He buries his mouth against my temple. I close my eyes, letting the waves of relief crash over me.

Gradually, they draw back, and I’m left floating, drifting in a current of Charlie: his faintly spiced scent, the heat of his skin, the fine wool of his light sweater.

A picture of my apartment flickers across my mind. The yellowy-red streetlights catching raindrops on my windowpane, the sound of cars slushing past, the radiator hissing against my socked feet. The smell of old books and crisp new ones, and the cologne whose cedarwood and amber notes are meant to conjure up the image of sun-soaked libraries. The creak of old floorboards, the shuffle of footsteps, half-drunken singing as revelers make their way home from the tequila bar across the street, stopping for dollar slices of pizza dripping with oil.

I can almost believe I’m there. In my home, where it’s safe enough to relax, to undo the brackets of steel in my spine and slip out of my harsh outline to—settle.

“You’re not useless, Charlie,” I whisper against his steady heartbeat. “You’re . . .”

His hand is still in my hair. “Organized?”

I smile into his chest. “Something like that,” I say. “It’ll come to me.”

At the creak of Libby’s door, my eyes open.

The nurse smiles. “Your sister’s ready for you.”