Somehow, he gets me to a seat as I try to take in deep breaths of air. I slap my face repeatedly to gain some clarity. When the world stops spinning, I look at Tyson. “What hospital?”
“The media is saying New York-Presbyterian ER.”
On shaking legs, I stand. “Could you call me a cab or a car service?”
Tyson signals to one of his workers who comes rushing over. “Find a car for Ms. Goddess, she needs to get to the NYP ER.”
With his hand on my arm, Tyson guides me through the front doors to the waiting cab. As I climb in, I try to smile at him. I need to thank him, but he’s barking orders at the cabbie as he slams my door shut, then we are moving. I’m confused, scared and full of guilt. While I was running Kris down, he was maybe fighting for his life.
Closing my eyes, I concentrate on my breathing. There’s nothing in my stomach, but I can taste bile at the back of my throat.
In and out.
In and out.
If he dies, I’ll never forgive myself. I should have known something was wrong when he didn’t answer his cell. I should have known something was wrong when he was three hours late. Why did I immediately jump to the wrong conclusion?
The cabbie comes to a halt, and I open my eyes. The world is too bright.
“We’re here.”
Going through my clutch, I pull out a fifty-dollar bill, thrust it at the driver, and get out of the cab. I stumble in these ridiculous heels but manage to stay upright. There’s a lot of media outside—film crews, press, paparazzi. I navigate through them all to get to the doors of the hospital. The emergency room is wall to wall with people. Pushing my way through the crowd, I get to the reception desk, and there’s a glass barrier between the staff and me. An older woman looking at a computer screen ignores me as I stand there staring at her.
After a moment, I bend to talk into the slot in the barrier. “Excuse me?”
She flicks her eyes up to me and then goes back to what she’s doing.
Tapping on the glass, I repeat, “Excuse me?”
Tired eyes meet mine. Her lips go into a hard, firm line. “Yes?”
“Ma’am, my fiancé was in an accident, his name is Kris Livingston.”
The woman’s face breaks into a smile, and she nods her head. “Yeah, and I’m married to George Clooney. Security!”
A big burly man comes over and grabs my arm. “Another one. Take her out, we’ve got no time for crackpots tonight.”
“Wait, I have proof.” Pulling my cell out of my clutch, I go to my text messages and show the man the picture of Kris and me at the wedding. “See.” And I hold up my engagement ring.
“Honey, that’s a nice photo, but if you really were engaged to Kris Livingston, it would be all over the media. I’m sure he takes selfies with lots of pretty girls.”
Pulling my arm out of his grasp, I say, “We only got engaged yesterday. Kris is twenty-seven, he was born in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. His dad’s name is Leonard. Kris’ mom died when he was—”
“Lady, these are all things that you can find on the internet.”
He grabs my arm again and begins to drag me from the building as we get outside, a camera flash goes off.
“It’s Athena Goddess! She was with Kris Livingston yesterday,” yells a reporter.
The security guard swears, gives me a hard look, and drags me back into the hospital and up to the reception counter. “This one’s the real deal.”
The older lady looks at him, her lips turned down. “You sure?”
“Yep, the vultures outside recognized her.”
“Take her through.”
Pulling me around as though I’m made of nothing, I’m dragged through the hospital.
“Can’t you tell me how he is?” I ask.
“Not for me to say. My job is to keep the crazies out and keep everyone calm.”
We get in an elevator, and he takes me up to the ICU. When the doors open, he points at another reception desk.
“They should be able to help you. God’s blessings, Ms. Goddess.”
The doors close, and I walk toward the desk. A woman looks up at me and smiles.
“Hello, I’m looking for Kris Livingston.”
“Are you family?”
“I’m his fiancée.”
The woman leans back and gives me the once over.
“Have you called his father?”
The woman shakes her head. “The only person we’ve spoken to is his personal assistant.”
Pulling out my cell, I begin to dial Mr. Livingston.
“You can’t use that here.”
With my finger poised over his number, I look at her. “I need to call his dad.”
“Come with me.”
Thinking I’m being taken to a room to call his dad, so I don’t interfere with their equipment, I follow her down a long hallway. Instead, she takes me into a room full of equipment. There’s a body attached to all of these machines. The breath in my lungs leaves my body in a gasp as I realize the body is Kris.
“Oh my God,” I whisper as I rush to his side.
There’s bruising to one side of his face, and his hair has been shaved off. His chest goes up and down, rhythmically with one of the machines. Holding his hand, I give the nurse tearful eyes.
“What the hell happened to him?”
“Car accident. I’ll get the doctor for you. Wait here.”
I’m left alone in the room. The only noises are the sound of the machines and my labored breathing.
A woman in a long white lab coat comes in and smiles at me. “I’m Dr. Elizabeth Young.”
“I’m Athena Boswell.”
“And you’re his fiancée?” I nod. “I was expecting Sophia Thorne.”
“They broke up.” Holding Kris’ hand, I ask, “Is he going to be all right?”
“Mr. Livingston suffered a head injury, so we’ve put him in an induced coma.”
“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” I ask as the tears begin to fall.
Dr. Young puts her hands in her lab pockets and purses her lips. “Only time will tell. At this point, it’s really up to him.”
***
It’s been two weeks.
Today they are bringing Kris out the coma. Mom, Dad, TB, Ashlea, and Mr. Livingston are here. I’ve never prayed, bargained, or wished for anything so much in my life as I have for Kris to wake up. We’re in the waiting room. I’m standing looking out the window but not really seeing what’s there. My arms are wrapped around myself as I send up another prayer for Kris.
TB puts his arm around my shoulder. “You look like shit.”
I know I do. There are dark circles under my eyes as I can’t sleep, and if I eat, it just makes me feel worse, but I don’t want TB worrying about me, so I smile at him.
“Thank you so much. You’re the picture of health and happiness. Marriage agrees with you.”
“He’s going to be okay.”
My throat closes, and I nod.
Please, God, let him be okay.
TB moves away from me, and I glance at his profile. He too looks drawn and tired. Turning around, Dr. Elizabeth Young is standing in the waiting room, eyes on me. I look at her expectantly, and she drops her eyes to the floor. Her hand goes to the stethoscope at her neck, and she looks almost defeated. I take a step toward her, and her eyes meet mine.