“You’re remarkably fine, yes,” she admits. “We were able to use an intravenous total parenteral nutrition line rather than a feeding tube. You were always able to breathe just fine on your own. It’s as if your brain just needed a rest. I don’t understand it, but these things do happen. To be honest, you’re somewhat of a miracle.”
I cringe at those words. “Let’s not go there,” I say.
She cocks her head. Guess she hasn’t heard how Rida used saving me as evidence of her gifts from God. How I terrified an entire city—chasing ISIS fighters from it, using that myth as my weapon. They called me the Miracle Woman.
I’m not a miracle or a hero. I’m just a woman who gets pissed off easily and acts on those feelings with violence. I’m also a woman who can survive. That’s all I am. A violent woman who manages to live.
“You do have a catheter in,” Dr. Guilder says. The words make me suddenly aware of it and I wince. “I can take it out if you think you can make it to the bathroom.”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
Mulberry leaves the room, taking Blue with him. Dr. Guilder and I spend a few painful minutes together and then she helps move my legs to the side of the bed. I’m wearing compression socks that go up to my knees and a hospital gown—the kind open in the back. My head spins a little as I come to fully sit up.
“I’m okay,” I say, as much to myself as to Dr. Guilder, whose focus on me is a little unnerving. It’s as if she expects me to fall…or slip back into a coma. I guess I can’t blame her. She doesn’t know what a lucky pissed off bitch I am. Women like me, we survive.
Dr. Guilder offers her arm, and I am not too proud to take it. I rise slowly, carefully, so fucking heavily. My legs shake with the effort. “I’m so heavy,” I say out loud.
“You’ve gained weight,” Dr. Guilder says. “Which is a good thing,” she adds. “Your son is doing well because your body has done well. Your blood pressure is under control. You’ve lost muscle tone but not as much as you could have—Mulberry has worked with you every day. He is very devoted.”
I ignore that because I can’t deal with it. At all. “Why did I go into a coma?” I ask.
Dr. Guilder doesn’t answer for a long moment. I take my eyes off my sock-clad feet and turn to her. “I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s not unheard of though, comas like this. As you can imagine I’ve done a lot of research in the last month. But I don’t know what made you go into it…or come out.”
“That’s comforting,” I joke.
“Your brain has suffered a lot more than the average person’s.”
“You’re telling me.” I return my focus to my feet. We are going for a walk, to the bathroom. Now. We are starting with the right one. I wriggle the toes so we all know which leg I’m seeking to command.
Dr. Guilder doesn’t say a word as I slowly, carefully, make my way to the bathroom. When I get to the toilet I grin. She helps me pee and then we make our way back to the bed. By the time I’m resettled against the pillows, I’m exhausted and sweat beads my hairline.
Mulberry returns with a plate full of food and I am suddenly ravenous. “Pasta,” I say. “You do love me.”
“I’ll leave you for now,” Dr. Guilder says. “But I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t overdo it.”
“I’m good,” I promise.
She nods, as if she believes me, but her brow is creased with concern.
“I messaged your mother,” Mulberry says. “And let the council know you’re awake. Dan is going to come see you soon.”
“Thanks. What about Robert?”
Mulberry doesn’t answer until I look up from my bowl of pasta. “I didn’t reach out to him.”
I swallow as fear grips my throat. “Are you stupid or just selfish?” I ask, the words biting and way meaner than I mean them to be.
Mulberry’s eyes storm over. “Sorry I didn’t want to answer your husband’s phone calls.”
“You know he will tear the world apart looking for me, right?”
“You’re so sure he loves you?”
My eyes go wide. “He’s a fucking psycho, you know that, right? A powerful psycho who is married to me—and scarily protective of me.” I put down my fork, no longer hungry. “Give me my phone,” I say. “Hopefully he hasn’t done anything too crazy.”
Mulberry stands and paces away, running a hand through his hair. “It’s on your bedside table.”
I spot it, and reach over, picking it up. There are messages from my mom, Merl, Dan, Lenox, even unemotional Petra sent a text. I navigate to my thread with Robert. My breath stops.
There are a lot of messages. A lot. The last one, sent last night, reads: I am coming for you.
“Shit,” I say out loud. I need to call him.
“Can’t you see this is all a setup, Sydney?” Mulberry says, drawing my attention back to him. He’s standing by the door. “He wants you to think he loves you, that he’s a good guy.”
“I don’t think he’s a good guy,” I say, my voice clipped. “But I do think he cares about me. And I know him, Mulberry.”
“He cares about winning. That’s it. That’s all he has ever cared about.” Mulberry runs a hand through his already mangled hair. “I can’t believe you care about him at all. It’s so…” He grunts in frustration and turns to the door but doesn’t walk through it.
I don’t say anything. Because there isn’t anything to say.
Mulberry turns back to me, his nostrils flared, cheeks red, breathing heavy. “I love you, Sydney. You’re having my baby.” He says it low, quiet. As if I’m the one who’s upset. As if I’m the one having a freakout and need reality reiterated for me.
“I’m well aware of the situation, Mulberry. I am also cognizant that those facts do not dictate my behavior in one direction. I’m not going to become some good little wifey to you.”
“Of course not!” Mulberry roars, then shakes his head. His voice reined in, he continues. “Of course you’re not going to do that. You’re going to be you. Always you. Just…” He stops, his voice trailing off into some unfinished thought.
“What?” I ask.
