“He’s not waking up.”
Mr. Livingston makes a sound like a wounded animal, but I don’t understand what she means. I take a step toward her.
Dr. Young lifts her chin and says, “It’s not unusual, sometimes it can take up to a week. We need to give him time.”
“What aren’t you telling us?”
Dr. Young shakes her head. “You know everything I know. You can go in and see him now.”
She leaves, and I look at the others. Mr. Livingston has his head cupped in his hands, Mom and Dad cling to each other, and Ashlea has her arms wrapped around TB. None of us move, none of us speak. I nod my head and rock back and forth.
“Mr. Livingston, let’s go see Kris.”
“I can’t.” He draws in a ragged breath. “I don’t want my last memory of my son to be him lying in a hospital bed. I won’t.” He looks at me, his chin trembles, and his shoulders shake. “I won’t!”
Mom immediately goes to him and wraps an arm across his shoulders. “Don’t you say that, Leonard. Our boy is going to be fine. Don’t you dare think that way.” Mom lets out a strangled sob as they cling to each other.
Feeling like my feet are made of concrete, I walk into Kris’ room. Nothing has changed, the machines are all still here keeping him alive. Even though he can’t see me, I smile down at him and kiss his forehead.
“Hey, lover, it’s time for you to wake up now. We all need you to wake up.”
***
Three weeks.
Mr. Livingston won’t come in and see Kris, he refuses to. He sits in the waiting room with drooped shoulders and stares at his hands. Mom is the only one who can get him to talk, and I’ve noticed he won’t look at me. I think he blames me.
Gabby, Kris’ personal assistant, has been taking care of all of us. I catch her staring at me from time to time, and then she’ll look away.
Does she blame me too?
TB and Ashlea have gone back home. Both needed to get back to their jobs. I ring them every morning and night to let them know how Kris is doing. Occasionally, he’ll squeeze my hand or his fingers will move or his eyes twitch, but he’s not waking up. The doctor said it’s early days, but I’m beginning to lose hope.
Why isn’t God answering my prayers?
***
Four weeks.
Andy and Dottie Westin are coming to visit Kris today. It’s the early hours of the morning, and I’m in the bathroom trying to get makeup to cover the dark circles under my eyes. Staring at myself in the mirror, I think I’ve done an okay job. I think I look better. The hotel staff at The Langham have been exceptionally good to us. They keep the press away, but as time wears on, there are less and less of them outside. Mr. Livingston refuses to speak to them, and I’ve become the face of the family. Not a job I particularly want. Gabby said I should only do what I feel is right, but I have to protect the family, and Mr. Livingston isn’t coping. He’s never liked big cities and for him, it’s very claustrophobic and impersonal. Every day, he’s a little worse as he waits for Kris to wake up.
There’s a knock at my hotel door, and I go to answer it. Standing on the other side is a man that I would guess is in his sixties, fairly tall with a woman behind him. Both smile at me.
“Athena?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Andy Westin, and this is my wife, Dottie.”
Tears form, and I move to one side to let them in, but Dottie puts her arms around me and holds on tight. We stand like that in the doorway for what feels like an eternity. The makeup that I so carefully applied runs down my face.
“Andy, order some coffee.”
Dottie takes my hand and walks me over to the sofa and sits beside me.
“I hope you don’t mind us coming here. We just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m so sorry. It’s been a rough couple of weeks.”
“Oh, honey, it’s been a rough month.”
A month.
A fucking month, and he still hasn’t woken up.
Wiping my face, I stand. “I’ll be one minute.”
Rushing into the bathroom, I wash my face and remove the makeup. Taking a deep breath, I walk back into the living room area.
Dottie and Andy were talking but stop as I come back into the room.
“Are you okay?” asks Andy.
“Of course, she’s not, dear.”
Andy quirks an eyebrow at his wife, then looks back at me. “Is there anything we can do?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m so sorry about that.” I wave my hand in the air and shrug. “Maybe if he hears your voices, he’ll remember he has a job to do and wake up. Maybe today will be the day.”
Andy places his hands on my shoulders. “Maybe. He’s young, he’s healthy, you just have to have faith.”
***
Five weeks.
Five weeks of holding his hand, reading my books to him, and still Kris refuses to wake up. The doctors can’t explain it. They keep telling me, there’s no reason he won’t wake up, but still, he doesn’t. I’ve yelled, I’ve pleaded with him, but he’s still the same.
Dad had to go home. Mom moved into my hotel suite, and Mr. Livingston still won’t see his son, but he won’t go home either. He sits all day and some of the night in the waiting room, just staring. The longer Kris stays asleep, the more I can see Mr. Livingston fade away. The only person he talks to is my mom or the hospital staff. The press no longer follows us around, they’ve all but disappeared.
“Athena?”
I look up, and my mom is looking down at me. “Yes?”
“Come on, honey, time to eat.”
“I’m okay, you go ahead.”
“Athena,” she repeats forcefully.
“I’m fine. I’m not hungry.”
With her hands on her hips, she lashes out, “Athena Boswell, you do as you’re told. Now, get up and get your ass out of here now.”
“You just said ass.”
“Damn straight, I did. Move,” orders Mom.
I kiss Kris on the forehead. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere.”
Mom takes my hand and walks to the waiting room.
“Leonard, get up. We’re going for lunch.”
“I’m okay.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion, Leonard. Get up.”
Mr. Livingston stands, Mom holds out her hand, and he grasps it. Like lost children, we hang onto her as she guides us outside into the sunshine and takes us to a restaurant down by the waterfront. When we enter, the maître de welcomes us. “Hello. Name, please?”
“Boswell,” replies Mom, and I’m surprised that she has a reservation.
The table is in the sun overlooking the water. Mom positions herself between us at the table so that Mr. Livingston and I are facing each other. The older man looks at me, then out to the view, and I do the same. Seeing his pain reflected back at me is torturous.
Mom picks up a menu. “They say the seafood chowder here is very good.”
“Won’t be as good as TB’s,” says Mr. Livingston.
“Probably not, but I’m going to try it. Leonard, Athena, pick up a menu and order food. It’s on me.”