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“Who’s Graham?” Tara asked as Cornell turned back toward the waiting area with the chairs.
He sighed, rolling his neck. “No one you want to know. He was a student and came by the house.”
Tara’s eyebrow shot up. “Why was he at your house?”
“It’s a long story, Tara. I… I don’t want to get into it now.”
Tara crossed and uncrossed her legs. “I’m sorry. She’ll be okay though. Head injuries are tough, right? You know that.”
In his football tenure—as a player and a coach—Cornell had seen dozens of concussions. Sometimes players were knocked out cold on the field. Sometimes they got up quickly, masking their symptoms in hopes to return to the next play. Other times, they got up quickly but were in a daze, unsure of where they were at the moment or what day it was.
But what Cornell had never seen was someone so concussed that they feared for their life even in the hands of doctors, in the safety of a hospital, desperate to escape even with a broken rib.
And beyond the concussion, Cornell had never heard his name said the way Ali had, as if he were the only one who could not just help her but save her.
Bobbi stomped into the waiting room. “Where’s John?”
Cornell stood up. “He went to go call a neurologist. Is she… ”
“She’s out. Go and be with her, will you? She… ” Bobbi sighed, smiling through tears. “You’re the only one she knew was there.”
Quickly Cornell was on his feet and went back to Ali’s room. A nurse who was making notes looked briefly over her shoulder. “The doctor gave her a sedative. She’ll be asleep for a while.”
“Are those… why does she have those on?”
The nurse sighed and looked at him apologetically. “Soft restraints. She ripped out her IV earlier. And as you saw, she wasn’t very interested in staying in bed. It’s not uncommon for patients with head injuries to be combative.”
A strong distaste rolled into Cornell’s mouth as he stared at the restraints, at Ali—his Ali, sweet, petite, and soft—chained up like some kind of captured, feral animal.
“They’re for her protection,” the nurse said as she walked by. “When she wakes up, we can hopefully take them off. If you need anything, press the call button. We’re waiting for a room to be ready.”
Cornell nodded as she walked out, focusing on Ali.
There was something noticeably different in just the way Ali lay, the rise and fall of her chest. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulders tight and tense, as if she was bracing herself for something. With the sedative, Cornell imagined she would be in a deep, restful sleep.
“Ali, I’m here,” he said, sinking into the chair by her bed. Cornell didn’t know if Ali could hear him at all. “I know you’re so tired. I’m so sorry. Everything is going to be okay, though, when you wake up. You just need to rest now, okay? I won’t go anywhere.”
Relief began to fill Cornell as he stared at Ali, counting her breaths. Even with the severity of the situation, having his eyes on her right in front of him made him more at ease. But the sight of her wasn’t without cost—painful, bone-aching cost.
He wanted to reach out and smooth her hair back. But it was already caked and matted with blood, and Cornell feared touching the stitches on her forehead. He pursed his lips, wondering if she would even be able to open her swollen left eye after the sedative wore off. Gritting his teeth, Cornell had to fight the urge to kiss away the split of her bottom lip, to brush away the redness and inflammation of her skin that was sprinkled with bits of deep bruising Cornell knew would get worse before it got better.
His hand ached, eager to reach out and simply touch her, certain that on some level, it would make both of them feel better. Cornell held himself back, conscious not just of her injuries, but of the sheer size difference between them. Ali appeared so much smaller suddenly in her vulnerable state.
“You can’t ever do this to me again, okay?” Cornell shook his head. “I don’t even know what happened, but you can’t ever do it again.” Never.
Ali’s hand, weighed down by the restraint and the IV cannula, twitched on top of the thin blanket draped over her. Carefully, Cornell reached out, brushing his fingers along her forearm in soft strokes. “I’m here, baby,” he told her again. “I won’t go anywhere.”
Her breaths seemed to grow deeper and more restful with each delicate stroke of her arm. Cornell removed his hand, only to pull the blanket higher up when Ali shivered.
But his hand stalled midair, shaking when he looked at the place he had just touched, soothed. His own body chilled as he squinted, looking closer at her arm, unsure if the shock of the night made his eyes play tricks on him, or if the bruise staining her fragile arm looked like a handprint.
* * *
After midnight, John pulled Cornell begrudgingly out of Ali’s room as she continued to sleep. “They’re going to do an MRI. I’ve made some calls. I want to rule out any serious head trauma.”
Cornell looked back over his shoulder through the door. He could only see the shape of Ali’s foot covered by the blanket. “Can you get them to take those off?” he asked about the restraints. The sight of them made his stomach turn.
John sighed. “They’ll have to for the MRI, but they might put them back on until she’s awake and clearheaded. You should go home and get some sleep.”
