“Who decides such things?” I open the front cover and read the first page.
“Vivid writing and iconic imagery,” she sighs. “Gatsby’s green light, the dream he’s so convinced he wants to possess. It never lives up to reality, and in the end it kills him.”
“You remember it a lot better than I do.”
“I saw the movie twice.” Her green-hazel eyes blink to mine, and she gives me a grim smile.
“I seem to recall some of that.” I drop it back on the table. “I’m with the reviewers. I hated that fucking book.”
“Too boring?” The smallest hint of a tease is in her tone, and my shoulders relax. If she can forget her worries for just a few moments, I’m happy.
“Too annoying. Gatsby’s delusional. Nick Carraway is a judgmental prick, and Daisy’s a materialistic murderer satisfied with letting others clean up her messes.”
Her lips press together. “Gatsby built her up in his mind. She became a fantasy he wanted, something unreal.”
“So she stays with her racist, cheating husband.”
“Everybody cheats.” Our eyes lock a moment before hers cut away again, and I’m unhappy with the irritating turn our conversation has taken.
“No they don’t.”
If she’s trying to draw some parallel here, she’s going to have to do a better job. I have a clear-eyed vision of what I want, and it’s not a fantasy. I know who she is, and most importantly I know who I am.
A physician who looks far too young to be treating her mother appears in the public area, calling for the Knight party. Amy is on her feet at once, nearly jogging in his direction. I’m right behind her, but I’m also ready to be told I’m not family. I have to wait while they discuss Sylvia’s prognosis in private.
“Miss Knight?” The young doctor’s manner exudes calm concern. I’m thankful for that. His eyes flick to me. “Is this your husband?”
I clear my throat, but her slim hand grasps my forearm. “No—he’s... family.”
We are not related, dammit. I give a tight smile and a nod. The young man motions for us to follow him into a glassed-in area. Amy’s arms are crossed over her body again. I’m right behind her, ready to catch her if she falls.
“It was a mild heart attack, but your mother is doing very well.”
A blast of relief exhales from us both the moment the words leave his mouth. “Oh, thank God,” Amy mutters, covering her face with her hands. I wrap my arms around her waist.
“We didn’t pick up anything on her scan a week ago.” He looks down at the chart. “At this point we think it might have been a coronary artery spasm.”
Amy’s head pops up. “She had a scan?”
“An angiogram.” The young physician returns her frown. “She didn’t mention it?”
“No.” I can see her thoughts flying behind her eyes.
“It’s a troubling diagnosis, as she doesn’t exhibit the usual risk-factors associated with spasm,” he continues. “Her cardiac muscle has suffered trauma as would be expected. However, your rapid response and the skill of the EMS team curtailed any permanent damage.”
Amy nods, but her arms tighten over her waist again. My hands move to rub her shoulders.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say softly, right at her hair.
“Thank you,” she says. I don’t know if it’s to me or to the doctor. Probably both.
“We haven’t detected any additional trauma, but she needs to stay with us for observation. I expect her to go home fully recovered.”
“Oh, God, thank you,” she whispers. Another little shudder, and I hold her arms. I’m here.
“We’ll prescribe a program for rehab and try a few medications to prevent it from happening again.” Amy nods as he continues speaking. “I’m sure you want to see her, however I’d rather limit visitors for now. She needs as much rest as possible.”
“How soon before she can go home?” I ask, feeling it’s something all the Knight children will want to now.