And then he was back to talking about the dog, and making arrangements to give me a key to Cohen’s place, but I sagged with relief against the back of the couch. I turned the phone away from my ear and bit my fist, fighting back a cry. This was all too similar to the call I got about Paul all those years ago. But Cohen was still alive, and I prayed he was going to be okay. I repeated the mantra in my head.
“So can you… I mean take the dog out, feed it, stuff like that?”
“Sure.” I replied.
He said he’d be by with the key in a few minutes, so I quickly changed into jeans, and threw on Cohen’s Chicago Fire Department sweatshirt over my top.
As soon as Bob had been out to do his business, I hopped in my seldom-used car and I high-tailed it to the hospital to be there when Cohen woke up, praying the entire time that he would be okay.
***
After parking outside the ER, I jogged into the hospital reception area, boggled by all the signs I saw. I settled for approaching the information desk to inquire about Cohen’s whereabouts.
“Are you family?” a frowning middle-aged nurse asked me wearily.
“I’m his…” Friend? Neighbor? “Girlfriend.”
She frowned and shook her head. “Sorry, family only sweetheart. You’ll have to wait over there.” She pointed to a cheerless waiting area behind me, complete with upholstered chairs, carpeting and wallpaper all in the same annoyingly cheerful pastel pattern.
I stalked away into the waiting room, and sank into a chair to wait. A pain above my left eye throbbed and I pressed my palm to my temple, applying pressure to squelch the pain.
I was surprised that I didn’t see his mother Denise. I was sure she’d be a wreck. Unless there was a family-only waiting room. It probably had plush chairs, and magazines from this decade. And coffee. I was ready to kill someone for a cup of coffee.
I tuned out the squeak of shoes against the tile floors and the hum of mechanical equipment, along with beeping pagers that remind me of Cohen. I sat for an hour with my head in my heads, reflecting on all that could have been, and all I might have already lost, praying that Cohen would be okay and that he’d give me another chance.
I drifted in and out of consciousness as I played through various scenarios where Cohen was fine and I was completely forgiven, to Cohen crippled for life and angry and bitter towards me. I would probably deserve that treatment for walking out on him the way I did, but he didn’t deserve to be hurt. I just prayed that he’d recover from this accident. The rest I could take.
Hushed voices drifted in from the nearby hallway, and I mostly tuned them out until I heard the name Cohen.
I rushed out of the waiting room to find two doctors retreating into the distance, and a nurse standing in the middle of the hall with a file full of paperwork.
“Excuse me, but did I overhear you talking about Cohen? Can you tell me how he is?”
She surveyed me up and down, as if deciding whether she should respond. “Are you a relative of his?”
Were they all trained to ask that? “Close enough. I’m the only one who’s here for him right now.”
“He’s been in surgery for two hours. His mother has been contacted, but my understanding is that she’s trying to find someone to stay with the younger sibling so she can get here.”
“I can do it.” The words flew from my mouth before I could even process them.
The nurse looked at me quizzically. “Okay.” She narrowed her eyes at me then flipped through the file. “Other than that, we don’t know much. He did extensive damage to his shoulder, and is still in surgery.”
I nodded, and shouted “Thanks,” before scurrying away down the hall.
It was only by a sheer miracle that I found Cohen’s mother’s house. I was a terrible driver and horrid with directions since I rarely drove, but somehow divine intervention saw to it that I arrived. I stopped my Honda against the curb and approached the house. It was dark and chilly, but the porch light was on, which was promising.
I tapped softly on the door, aware that Grace was probably asleep. A second later, the door opened and a puffy-eyed Denise stood before me.
“Eliza?” she asked.
I nodded. “Hi. I heard what happened. Can I come in?”
Her eyes darted down to the Chicago Fire Department sweatshirt I was wearing, and a flash of recognition crossed her features. “Sure.” She held the door open, and I passed by her.
“Our landlord called to ask me to take care of Bob, which I did, by the way. And then I went to the hospital, but they wouldn’t tell me anything, because I’m not family.”
Her chin lifted at this and she crossed her arms. “Haven’t you done enough?”
Her tone was sharp, and completely unexpected. I’d just driven halfway across town in the middle of the night because I was worried sick about Cohen. “Excuse me?”
“Cohen, that’s what I’m talking about. Before the accident, he’d been distracted and moping, quite unlike himself the past few days. He said you’d stopped speaking to him suddenly and he didn’t understand why.”
I sunk to the sofa at the weight of her words. I had caused another accident. First Paul, now Cohen. The weight of all my mistakes rushed back to me at once, and my breathing hitched. No.
“You sniffed around him like a dog in heat, even after I warned you not to hurt him—now look what you went and did. Exactly what I said not to. I don’t know what happened between you two, but he didn’t deserve that.”