Page 4 of Never Too Late

Two days that I spent lying in bed either staring at the ceiling or sleeping.

After the funeral, I didn’t have the energy to go to the restaurant where the wake was. As she promised she would, Mrs. McConnell took care of everything and she decided that the wake would be held in my grandmother’s favorite restaurant. I knew people expected me to come, to hear how sorry they were, how they loved Evelyn, and how she was almost a mother to all of them, but all I wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for three days.

Which was exactly what I did.

Well, two days.

“She’s alive,” Michelle, my colleague and best friend, softly said.

“I’m alive,” I confirmed.

I knew she was still angry with me.

When I got the call from Mrs. McConnell, she was with me and she witnessed me shutting down after hanging up and telling her what happened with no reaction other than going to my suitcase and packing for my trip.

She wanted to come with me but I wouldn’t let her, instead I told her I needed her to take over my patients. I knew it was the only thing that would keep her in Seattle.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. I couldn’t stand for her to be mad at me.

“I’m sorry too, honey,” she answered, and I knew she let it go. “How are you?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I said truthfully because I didn’t. I still didn’t let the fact that I lost the woman who took care of me for most of my life. Even when I became an adult, she was there whenever I needed her. “I don’t think I’m aware of it yet.”

“That’s understandable,” Michelle replied. “Do you know when you are coming home? Dr. Ames has been asking about you. And also, you need to know that Maggie is back. She’s fine for now, but I think you need to consider that the meds aren’t working anymore and you should start preparing her for a transplant.”

I sat up, my mind whirling about Maggie, my patient for the last four years. We have been postponing her lung transplant for the last two years, hoping we could come up with some miracle drug or treatment, but as ever, the fibrosis was unbeatable.

Before I had a chance to say anything, Michelle went on. “And Nathaniel’s been asking for you. He said you needed to talk.”

Nathaniel Reaves.

Tall, brown hair, brown eyes, and a body that most women drooled over. And that’s including our female doctors and nurses. I thought he was beautiful. I still wouldn’t give him a chance in the beginning.

He was an orthopedic surgeon who was at the top of his field, and he wasn’t shy about letting you know. Or the fact that he treated the best athletes in the world. It’s just a sad fact that he slept with their cheerleaders too.

It was unfortunate that I came to surprise him in Denver and found him in bed with one of them.

He ran out after me and came to my door repeatedly, begging me to open it. He was still trying to get me to forgive him. I couldn’t.

Seeing him in bed with another woman hurt more than I could ever imagine.

Setting aside that a man that I gave my heart to, slept with another woman. A man I shared my body with, not to mention planned a future with. The betrayal of all of that, of me, was what hurt the most.

He knew he was the first person I let come into my life after what happened in Hopeful. He said he was honored.

He said he would treasure that until the day he died.

And then he turned around and broke his promise.

I was reluctant from the start. But I made a mistake and told my grandmother after she heard him calling me out on a date, that he had been doing it for the last four months. She said I should say yes. That was before she got to know him and realized she didn’t like him. I still didn’t say yes.

Then.

I did two days later. After years of pining for the man who I thought would be my everything until the day I died, my grandma had enough and she shared that with me. As always, she demanded I start living my life. Not just existing.

“What did I tell you about grief, darling?” I knew she meant business because her hand was at my cheek and if I even thought about not listening and paying attention, that hand would slap me. She had done it before. She didn’t do it hard, but a light tap on your cheek made sure you damned pay attention. “You give it a moment. It’s okay to feel sadness, it’s okay to cry, it’s even okay to scream. But grief, sweetheart? If you let it consume you, if you don’t fight it, it will take over.”

“There are five stages of it,” I said in my defense.