Page 26 of Unforgettable
“Is that what they call it?”
“Out of ICU? Absolutely.” Elena moved closer. “You did good.”
“Couldn’t have done it without you.”
Elena shook her head.
“Yeah… you could have.” She hesitated. “I’m rotating off ICU after today, but I’ll come by and check on you.”
“I’d like that.”
Elena gave her arm a gentle squeeze before stepping back. She glanced at Brew and noticed something unspoken passing between them - then quietly left.
Later that day, Randi settled into a semi-private room on the East wing of the hospital. It offered a beautiful landscape view. For the moment, she was the only occupant. She welcomed the quiet and space, and realness … like a motel room minus the medical panel to the right of her headboard. The shift felt significant, like a step forward she wasn’t entirely sure how to take.
Her dinner tray sat in front of her. It was warm and delivered just a few minutes ago. A plate containing a grilled chicken breast, roasted potatoes, and sauteed vegetables smelled better than she expected. She stared at it, then at the utensils, then at her hand.
“Okay,” she murmured.
She picked up the knife with her left hand, awkward and unfamiliar. The fork followed, clumsily pressured between the inside of her thumb and point finger. She tried to steady the chicken, but she couldn’t bend her fingers to control the utensils. Cutting with her left hand proved more difficult than she expected it would be.
The awkwardness made her grunt as the chicken slipped on her plate. She adjusted and tried again, the movement unnatural and frustrating.
“Come on…” she muttered.
The door opened quietly. Brew stepped in and paused, taking in the scene.
She didn’t notice him right away.
The knife slipped again, harder this time. She lost the hold on her fork. The chicken shifted across the plate. Frustrated … again. The emotion became – was – part of her daily routine and couldn’t be escaped.
Randi exhaled sharply.
“You … have … GOT to be kidding me.”
“I can help with that.”
She jumped and froze, looking toward the door.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.
He moved further into her room, nodding.
“Long enough.”
The knife she held jabbed the air in his direction.
“Don’t you say anything.”
He playfully raised his palms in subjugation.
“Nope. Wouldn’t think of it.”
He stepped closer—closer than necessary. He pointed at the knife, still raised midair in her hand.
“May I?”
She hesitated, then shirked as she gave it up.
