Last Call (Cocktail 5)

My stomach hurt from trying hard not to laugh at how silly he was on pain meds. But as they wore off into something a little more manageable, he began to make a little more sense. He sipped at some water that I held, nodding when he was through.

“Go ahead and lay back; you shouldn’t sit up so straight,” I said, urging him back against his pillow. The doctor said he might be dizzy for a while.

“I’m good right now, actually.” He frowned, watching as I stretched my back out. “How’re you feeling? Don’t you want to get some sleep?”

“I slept on the plane.”

“You did not, you never sleep on planes,” he corrected.

Caught, I smiled ruefully.

“I’m fine—really. Tell me how you’re feeling. Are you super sore?’

“A little, yeah,” he admitted.

“And the rib?” I asked.

“Rib?”

“You cracked a rib, and a bunch more are bruised,” I said.

“I did?”

My eyes widened. “How much do you remember?”

“All of it. At least, I think I do,” he said, his eyes searching as he remembered. “Oh yeah, I bet I did crack a rib.”

“You tell me everything that happened. Right now,” I said, reaching for his hand and holding it tightly. “And don’t you dare leave anything out.”

He told me about the incredible cave and the scale of photographing such an amazing natural space. And of the rickety bamboo structure he used to scramble over to get his motherfucking photos. And the fact that he was hurrying to get the last bit of light before they had to move on to another shot. And the fact that he was not entirely secured into the safety harness he’d agreed to wear. And the fact that he tumbled ass over camera more than fifty feet down the side of a limestone cliff, knocking himself out in the process, and bringing down most of the scaffolding with him. He remembered falling, he remembered hitting the floor of the cave, and he remembered he’d saved the camera from any serious damage. Unbelievable. He also remembered how sure he was that he’d gotten the shot. Double unbelievable.

My tears had started again somewhere during the story, and now I sat next to him on the bed, holding his hand tightly and refusing to look anywhere but directly at him. Taking in his face, his hands, his arms, his legs, his toes twitching underneath the hospital blanket. I touched him wherever I could, wherever he didn’t have a bruise or a cut, which didn’t give me a lot of space to work with. But I held him as best as I could, and I stroked his hair lightly and I kissed between the scrapes and I told him how much I loved him. I couldn’t help it. And in between it all, with me comforting him, he of course held on to me as tightly as he could. Whispering words like, “I’m okay, babe,” and, “Everything’s going to be fine,” and, “Don’t cry.”

The don’t cry tipped me over the edge. Because now, with him in my arms as much as he could be, I was finally feeling everything I’d fought to keep at bay. My panic, my terror, my helplessness, my horror at going through life without him next to me, cracking jokes and copping a feel.

“I could kill you, you know,” I said suddenly, breaking free of his hold and sitting back to look at him in the eye. “Seriously. I love you, and I love what you do, and I would never ask you to give it up. But you’re not a cartoon superhero, with a devil-may-care smile on your face as you wrestle fucking lions before lunch, just to get the shot. Okay? If you ever do something like this again, get hurt because you’re getting the fucking shot, I will kill you myself,” I said, pointing my finger. “Without pain meds.”

“I promise, I’ll be more careful,” he said, telling me what I wanted to hear, but also promising me with his eyes that he was taking what I said seriously.

“I love you so much,” I said, threading my fingers through his, still needing the contact.

“I love you too,” he said, his voice becoming thick as the fresh round of pain meds kicked in. “So glad you’re here.”

“Eh, I wanted to come back here anyway. Maybe we could go spelunking?”

He chuckled, which made his ribs hurt, but he continued to smile. Which made me finally smile.

By the end of that very long day, which started for me on the other side of the world, Simon was feeling much better. By the end of that week, Simon was released from the hospital. The guy was born under some kind of lucky star. He had to continue to take it easy, with lots of rest and light activity, but he was cleared for release. The doctors recommended that we stay for at least another few days before attempting to fly home. Flying after sustaining a concussion, especially one as severe as the one Simon had, could prove uncomfortable at best. Seizures and nausea at worst, so I made the decision to stay over as long as we needed to, making sure he was up to such a long flight.

After spending that first night in the city, I hired a driver and took him away to recuperate. There was an island we’d explored one afternoon the last time we’d been to Ha Long Bay, and I’d been fascinated by the accommodations there. A tiny hotel, remote and isolated. More of a collection of luxury bungalows than a hotel, it offered the kind of piece and quiet we needed. Each bungalow was situated on the beach, with gorgeous sea views all around. There were sumptuous beds, complete with requisite mosquito netting, European-style bathrooms, and twenty-four-hour room service. The drive was only a few hours, followed by a short boat cruise to the hotel.