The Next Time You See Me by Holly Goddard Jones Page A

he muttered, rocking side to side, trying to lift himself. He grasped at air, sensed something hard being tucked into the space beside his shoulder and a firm hand pulling him toward whatever it was. The pressure made him gag, and he vomited hot, metal-tasting water.
    “Is that better?”
    Wyatt groaned over the bedpan.
    Something was pulled out from beneath him, and he heard the crisp snap of the bedding being patted smooth. “Lean you back now?”
    He nodded.
    He was lowered gently to his pillow. His chest, which had been pinched as he’d lain on his side, opened up, the ache over his left breast suddenly apparent. It was bearable—he could vaguely recall when it hadn’t been—but there was a dull throb emanating from a knot of muscle, as though he’d exercised vigorously or gotten punched.
    He lifted his hand to rub the knot, felt the pull of the cord or cuff again. He sobbed before he could stop himself.
    “There, now.” A cool hand was on his forehead. He caught a whiff of vanilla. “It’s hard right now. The worst is over.” A pause. “You can move your left hand, you know.”
    He lifted it to his face, embarrassed, and wiped his eyes.
    “So here we are again.”
    He blinked, confused. The light in the room was so bright it was bluish, but he could make out the IV in his forearm, the bed rails, the thin, rough top sheet and woven thermal blanket. He could see his sock-clad feet sticking out at the end of the bed, startled looking, and on the sink across the room a vase of yellow carnations with a white bow tied around the rim, like a delivery to the funeral parlor. He was in the hospital; that was evident. But leaned over him was the woman from the other night at Nancy’s, he realized with a start, and his addled mind tried in vain to account for her. Had she found him on the road near Sheila’s house? Did she have a little boy?
    “Sarah?”
    “You remembered,” she said. She smiled in a sweet but reserved way. “I’m flattered.”
    He felt exposed and ashamed, lying on his back with his feet jutting from beneath the bedclothes, gown shifted around so that his pale, freckled shoulder was showing. He hadn’t wiped his mouth since vomiting. “What are you—” He stopped, worried he was being rude. “How did you know I was here?”
    She stepped back and swept her arms down with a flourish, indicating her outfit: pink hospital scrubs, an ID tag clamped on the breast pocket of the top. “I work here,” she said.
    “Oh,” Wyatt said, remembering. “That’s right.”
    “It’s Tuesday morning.” She reached up, checked the level of fluid in whatever was draining into his arm. “You’ve been in and out. You had a heart attack.”
    Wyatt had figured as much. He nodded a little.
    “The paramedics got a clot blocker into you at the scene, so itwasn’t as bad as it might have been. You’re lucky that woman found you and acted as quickly as she did.”
    He turned his face into the pillow, aware that he was leaking tears again. “She should have left me.”
    “That’s the medication talking,” Sarah said briskly. Her warm hand, those oddly slender fingers, grasped his. “You’ve got to trust me on this one, Wyatt. Tomorrow you’re going to remember why living’s so good, even when it’s so bad.”
    He felt himself shaking his head, denying her. She had no idea what she was talking about.
    “You think of one thing you love, Wyatt—just one thing’s all it takes—and hold that thought for a while. There’ll be a doctor coming in soon with the bottom line, and you’re going to hear some stuff you won’t like much, but I can promise you that you’ll be able to go home in a few days. You’re going to be alive to do it. That’s something.” Her fingers tightened. “What’s waiting for you out there?”
    The question threatened to sink him further, because the first thought that sprang to mind was, Nothing. Nobody. Mother and father both dead. No brothers or sisters. No friends. He