made her decision about the decorating.
Her quiet face lit up with pleasure; she clutched Aaron’s arm, and turned those warm violet eyes on him. “You were right. The ambience is a stunning mix of nineteenth-century glamour and mid-twentieth-century modernism. Did Mr. Shea put this together himself? Because if he did, he has a discerning eye.”
A form moved out of the shadows, took the shape of Irving’s man of all trades, and bore down on them. “Actually, Dr. Hall—I assume you are Dr. Hall?”
Aaron said, “Dr. Rosamund Hall, this is McKenna, Mr. Shea’s butler.”
She shook McKenna’s hand.
“I did the decorating, using original antiques from the mansion and adding the best of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, taking care to imbue this area with wealth and quiet elegance to match Mr. Shea’s image.” McKenna, a middle-aged, conservatively suited hobbit of a man, had a ponderous way of speaking that could possibly go on forever.
Aaron was preparing to intervene when, across the foyer, one of the doors slammed open.
A young woman walked out. Her hair was jet-black with purple highlights, her eyes were rimmed in black kohl, and she wore a plaid skirt, gold lamé platform heels, a studded dog collar, and matching leather bracelets that covered the tattoos Aaron knew were there. Holding an empty paper tube aloft, Charisma stalked toward the library and bellowed, “All right! Who left the toilet paper for me to change again ?”
Chapter 7
“I t’s a miracle.” Dr. Campbell slipped his stethoscope into the pocket of his white coat and beamed. “In this place, it’s not often I get to say that. Mr. White, you are a miracle.”
“I appreciate that.” Gary restrained his impatience, using the controls on the hospital bed to move himself into a sitting position. “Now, please, I’ve been asking for food and I’m getting no cooperation at all.”
The doctor’s tired face grew serious. “You have to realize, Mr. White, you’ve been in a coma for four years. You’ve been fed through an IV.”
Like Gary didn’t know that. Days and weeks and months and years of that eternal drip, drip, drip landing in his veins and echoing through his head, and every time, his rage and frustration—and fear—grew.
But Dr. Campbell was still babbling. “Until we do some testing, we’d like you to keep eating through a tube—”
“I want some food.”
The floor nurse moved restively. “I told you, doctor, he’s been very insistent and not at all cooperative. He tore the IV tubes out of his arm.”
The doctor, the nurses, the technicians lined the little private room in this cold, dim mausoleum of a nursing home where Gary’s living body had been stored, out of sight and out of mind, for the last four years. They stared at him as if he were the freak in a sideshow, and acted as if he should be happy to look on their faces.
Instead, he wanted to rant and rage.
But he didn’t. He kept his voice low and in a reasonable tone said, “I am the patient. You’re the medical staff. My insurance is paying you to take care of me. I don’t need to cooperate with you; you need to cooperate with me.” Then his voice changed, grew deep and commanding. “And I want to eat.”
Slowly, with great patience, as if Gary were simple-minded, Dr. Campbell said, “Mr. White, your muscles are atrophied, your digestive system is compromised, and until last night, when you woke up so unexpectedly, your brain showed little activity. We believed you were on the verge of death. Please let us revel in the miracle of your recovery while we do the necessary tests to determine how—”
Gary interrupted. “Let me make myself clear. I don’t want anyone to know that I’ve come out of the coma.”
“But your relatives!” the nurse said.
“I don’t have any relatives.”
“Just two days ago we had inquiries about your condition!” she insisted.
God, she was a stupid cow. “My employer
Her quiet face lit up with pleasure; she clutched Aaron’s arm, and turned those warm violet eyes on him. “You were right. The ambience is a stunning mix of nineteenth-century glamour and mid-twentieth-century modernism. Did Mr. Shea put this together himself? Because if he did, he has a discerning eye.”
A form moved out of the shadows, took the shape of Irving’s man of all trades, and bore down on them. “Actually, Dr. Hall—I assume you are Dr. Hall?”
Aaron said, “Dr. Rosamund Hall, this is McKenna, Mr. Shea’s butler.”
She shook McKenna’s hand.
“I did the decorating, using original antiques from the mansion and adding the best of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, taking care to imbue this area with wealth and quiet elegance to match Mr. Shea’s image.” McKenna, a middle-aged, conservatively suited hobbit of a man, had a ponderous way of speaking that could possibly go on forever.
Aaron was preparing to intervene when, across the foyer, one of the doors slammed open.
A young woman walked out. Her hair was jet-black with purple highlights, her eyes were rimmed in black kohl, and she wore a plaid skirt, gold lamé platform heels, a studded dog collar, and matching leather bracelets that covered the tattoos Aaron knew were there. Holding an empty paper tube aloft, Charisma stalked toward the library and bellowed, “All right! Who left the toilet paper for me to change again ?”
Chapter 7
“I t’s a miracle.” Dr. Campbell slipped his stethoscope into the pocket of his white coat and beamed. “In this place, it’s not often I get to say that. Mr. White, you are a miracle.”
“I appreciate that.” Gary restrained his impatience, using the controls on the hospital bed to move himself into a sitting position. “Now, please, I’ve been asking for food and I’m getting no cooperation at all.”
The doctor’s tired face grew serious. “You have to realize, Mr. White, you’ve been in a coma for four years. You’ve been fed through an IV.”
Like Gary didn’t know that. Days and weeks and months and years of that eternal drip, drip, drip landing in his veins and echoing through his head, and every time, his rage and frustration—and fear—grew.
But Dr. Campbell was still babbling. “Until we do some testing, we’d like you to keep eating through a tube—”
“I want some food.”
The floor nurse moved restively. “I told you, doctor, he’s been very insistent and not at all cooperative. He tore the IV tubes out of his arm.”
The doctor, the nurses, the technicians lined the little private room in this cold, dim mausoleum of a nursing home where Gary’s living body had been stored, out of sight and out of mind, for the last four years. They stared at him as if he were the freak in a sideshow, and acted as if he should be happy to look on their faces.
Instead, he wanted to rant and rage.
But he didn’t. He kept his voice low and in a reasonable tone said, “I am the patient. You’re the medical staff. My insurance is paying you to take care of me. I don’t need to cooperate with you; you need to cooperate with me.” Then his voice changed, grew deep and commanding. “And I want to eat.”
Slowly, with great patience, as if Gary were simple-minded, Dr. Campbell said, “Mr. White, your muscles are atrophied, your digestive system is compromised, and until last night, when you woke up so unexpectedly, your brain showed little activity. We believed you were on the verge of death. Please let us revel in the miracle of your recovery while we do the necessary tests to determine how—”
Gary interrupted. “Let me make myself clear. I don’t want anyone to know that I’ve come out of the coma.”
“But your relatives!” the nurse said.
“I don’t have any relatives.”
“Just two days ago we had inquiries about your condition!” she insisted.
God, she was a stupid cow. “My employer
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