You, You, You

LET ME CARRY YOU

Eddie’s P.O.V.

I turned the doorknob and made a quiet entrance.  I closed my eyes as my feet shuffled through the doorway, and I savored the sweet scent of tiny white wildflowers and incense.  I could hear birds chirping through the open window, feel the gentle breeze as it swept across my face.  The sounds of Quadrophenia were emanating at a low volume from the turntable to my left and if I had kept my eyes shut, I could have sworn I was in the dream again.  

As I opened my eyes to the harsh reality of Isabelle lying unconscious in the hospital bed, I swore instead that life had become a nightmare.

She had just come out of her third surgery in the week following the stabbing.  In those seven days, I only left her side to use the bathroom or make a quick phone call.  The nurses could see that “visiting hours” meant absolutely shit to me, and they were kind enough to wheel an extra bed into the room next to Isabelle’s so that I could sleep beside her through the nights when her fate seemed so uncertain.

They assured me after this third successful surgery that my Izzy would pull through.  She had lost a lot of blood after the incident, and the trauma to her lower abdomen was extensive.  They kept her under sedation for the entire week, which was like torture for me—all I wanted was to know that I’d speak to my baby again.  I needed so badly to hear her voice close to my ear.  To get even just one word from her would have meant everything to me.  

Through those first couple of nights when I didn’t know if I’d get to go home with her beside me, I barely slept at all. A few minutes at a time were all I could spare—all my body would let me have.  Instead of sleeping I watched her, held her pale hands, touched her motionless eyelids with my fingertips.  I whispered to her in the dark, told her all of the things we’d do when we got home, reminded her of her favorite songs, cried for her, even pleaded with her to be all right.  I sang to her when the sun came up.  I hummed lullabies when it went back down again.  I tried to make the hospital room seem as close to the cabin in our dream as I could, down to every detail the nursing staff would permit. 

All the guys as well as Izzy’s bandmates visited each day and brought me food, though I wasn’t very interested in eating. Most everyone had very little to say while they were there—wasn’t much to be said anyway.  To be honest, it was exhausting to have other people around, nice as they were to offer sympathetic looks and hands across my shoulders as I hunched over Isabelle.  I was always relieved when it was time for them to leave, all except for Liz.  

Liz stayed after hours with me sometimes and talked to me in a way that lifted my spirits what little distance they could be lifted.  It was obvious how important her and Izzy’s decades-old friendship was to her, and she was just as distraught as I was.  Some nights when I curled up in the extra bed next to my baby, Liz would pull up a chair, put her feet up next to mine and we would rest like that—my hand on Isabelle’s arm and Liz’s hand on my back.

On the morning of the eighth day, I awoke with a jolt from a deeper sleep than I’d had all week.  I peered behind me and saw that Liz was no longer sleeping in her chair—she most likely had gotten up to get some coffee for us.  I took a deep breathe, closing my eyes against a too-familiar pain that always crept into my chest upon waking, and then I felt it.

Izzy’s arm shifted beneath my hand, the feeling of her skin moving across mine enough to flip my stomach and lift my head from the pillow all at once.  I looked at her with wide eyes and saw her struggle to emerge from her sedation, her forehead creasing above her nose and her eyelids in motion for the first time in a week.  I pushed myself upright and sat cross-legged as close to her as I could, rubbing my palms gently over her forearm.