Chapter 15: Type B

The cardiologist met us at the doors of the cardiac ward in his white coat, with a folder under his arm.

He was thirty-four and he looked older.

"She's awake," he said. "It was her heart rhythm, and it's settled. She's asking for you."

"For me?"

"For you. Not for Brynn."

Winslow's hand rested on the back of my neck while we walked.

His thumb moved once along my hairline, and I leaned into it without meaning to.

"After this," he said low, so only I could hear, "I'm taking you home and I'm not letting you out of my bed until it's light."

"That's a lot of plans for a hospital corridor."

"I'm a planner," said Winslow.

Mrs. Livingstone lay propped on three pillows with a monitor beside her.

She looked smaller than she had at dinner.

Mr. Livingstone sat by the bed, holding her hand in both of his.

He stood as I came in, and then did not seem to know what to do with himself, and sat again.

"Coralie," said Mrs. Livingstone.

I took the chair on her other side.

Her fingers were cold and thin.

"I'm sorry about the dinner," she said. "I cried, and it made it worse."

"It didn't."

"It did. I'm so afraid of making it worse that I make it worse." She tried to smile. "I counted your fingers, you know. In the nursery. Ten and ten."

My throat closed.

"Don't let them say sorry for me," she said. "Make them say it to you."

I nodded because I could not speak.

When I came out, the corridor was full of Livingstones.

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