Page 110 of Ghost

Ghost

I’d been pacing the waiting room floor for five hours. George sat at the end of a row of chairs with his head in his hands, in and out of sleep.

Andy stared out the window as she held Kimberly’s hand. The remaining members, short of Baker had fallen asleep. Baker paced the floor at the opposite side of the room.

I couldn’t sleep. Hell, I couldn’t relax. Not until I saw Abby.

We’d received two updates, both of which gave us no useful information, only that she was alive and fighting to stay alive. They had no idea what was wrong with her. I feared that lack of knowledge wasn’t in my – or in Abby’s – favor.

“Coffee?” I asked.

“No, thank you.” George looked up. “I’ve had so much I’m on the verge of a heart attack.”

I sat down beside him. “Yeah. Me, too.”

“I’ve prayed so much I don’t know what else to say,” he said. “It’s in His hands now.”

I spit out a laugh, and then regretted it. I didn’t want to be disrespectful to George, but praying seemed a little far-fetched. Abby didn’t need a prayer, she needed a competent doctor. I second-guessed my decision to drive to Scripps and wondered if I should have taken her elsewhere.

“Her parents are on their way,” George said. “Terrible this is how you’re going to meet them.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful about you praying. I just…”

He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Believe me, I understand.”

“If it works for you, keep it up.”

He offered a crumpled smile. “I will.”

I wondered about food poisoning, some type of parasite, or even if she might have had an allergic reaction but guessed the hospital’s staff would have already checked such things. We’d given them all the information we thought they could use about her recent health, and nothing seemed to help.

I wondered if she might have ingested something from the ocean on the day we surfed. While I continued to grasp at straws, George lowered his head into his cupped hands.

I didn’t need her in perfect health. I didn’t care if she had a fever. I just needed to see her. I wanted to give her the ring, lift her spirits, and have her pull out of the funk she was in. She was a fighter. She’d proven it at least once in her life, when she beat cancer.

I felt guilty for having recovered from my brain tumor. I would trade brain cancer for her health any day, and it sickened me that I couldn’t. That there wasn’t a way that I could fix her. It was my duty to fix her. I was her protector, and I couldn’t do my job.

With my eyes fixed on a flickering lamp in the distant parking lot, I sat with our engagement ring in my pocket and my heart in my throat. The pain of not being able to change anything enveloped me.

I wadded into a ball. Feeling small and incapable, I began to softly cry. After a moment, I closed my eyes. I needed to look rested when she saw me. I needed to be strong.

“Mister Reeves?”

“Mister Reeves?”

“Mister Reeves!”

I jumped from my seat. A doctor I didn’t recognize stood in front of us. I nudged George. “Someone’s here.”

He crossed his arms and raised his brows slightly. “Mister Reeves?”

“Porter Reeves, yes, Sir.” I shoved my hand into my left pocket and squeezed the ring in my hand. “What’s the latest, Doc?”

“Mister Reeves, we’ve done everything we can,” His gaze dropped. “I’m sorry--”

My face flashed hot with anger. “Everything you can?” I scoffed. “Do we need to take her somewhere else? What? You’re giving up? Where is she? I’ll take her somewhere else.”

“Mister Reeves.” He lifted his chin. “She’s gone. I’m sorry.”