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FORTY-THREE

NATALIE

“She is getting better,” the nurse says as soon as I walk into Cara’s hospital room.

Right away, I rush to Cara’s bed, trying to figure out what exactly changed, though she looks the same—motionless, peaceful.

“Her brain functions are improving,” the nurse explains. “That, by any definition, is a spectacular sign.”

I smile broadly. It is. Must be the muffins. Though Cara still hasn’t come to.

“Hey, babe,” I say as I set the box with muffins and a coffee tray on the side table. “Banana ones today. Also, hazelnut coffee. In case you missed it.”

I watched a movie once about someone in a coma, and the doctor said that smells, sounds, and touch can heighten brain activity.

It’s Sunday. Most people with regular jobs have the day off. I am with my friend who, only a week ago, was singing in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and making plans for the next week. Now we are here.

I pop the lid off Cara’s coffee, letting the smell spread around, overriding the hospital room stuffiness. Then I take a seat in the chair next to her bed and slowly drink mine with a banana muffin.

“Trixy escaped,” I tell her as I eat. “For a short while, at least. She managed to overturn a box of cereal. It was probably the most glorious five minutes of her life.”

I don’t like the taste of the muffin, but I eat it, somehow hoping that this routine will force the universe to set things straight—to what they used to be, with Cara safe and sound. Now that I think about it, I don’t even like muffins. It was always Cara and Lindsey’s thing.

“Someone broke into our place,” I say, updating Cara. “I’m pretty sure any expert search party would fail to find an elephant in our place, among all your mess.”

I chuckle through my nose, feeling sad rather than cheerful. I don’t know what I did to anger God or whoever runs this universe, but it’s unfair that I lose my two best friends in a span of four years.

Hold up, I haven’t lost Cara yet!

The muffin piece gets stuck in my throat, and I swallow hard, realizing I’m about to cry.

“You have to come back, Cara,” I whisper. “I’m not cleaning your mess or your room. Just saying. So hurry up.”

It must be exhaustion or general unease since I took the job because my mood falls abruptly. A lump forms in my throat, and in seconds I start bawling, sitting in the chair with my head low as my tears fall onto the stupid muffin.

It passes. Everything always does. That’s what they say after you lose a loved one. They are wrong. Grief doesn’t go away, but it becomes manageable. Many things pass, but not death. That’s a pretty permanent state, if you ask my opinion.

Five minutes later, I sniffle and wipe away the tears. My coffee is cold, my cheeks are hot, my head burns, and the self-pity is finally going away.

“Gotta go, babe,” I tell Cara. “I’ll be back tonight or tomorrow morning.”

I walk out, leaving the muffins and coffee on Cara’s side table, and the farther I get from her eerily quiet, disinfected room, the more determined I am to get dirt on Rosenberg.

I have to figure him out. He has to pay for what he’s done. I might be reckless, but if I quit now and Cara doesn’t make it, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

One more day, I tell myself.