Come Back Tomorrow, page 1
Also by Amy Argent
Embrace Tomorrow Duet
Come Back Tomorrow (Coming Soon)
Copyright © 2021 by Amy Argent
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7369405-0-1
ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7369405-1-8
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Cover design by Jada D’Lee Designs
Illustrations and Turning Tree Press logo by Jared Pace
Edited by Susan Atlas
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Turning Tree Press
First Edition
For Jared, my partner on every journey
and
For everyone who’s battled cancer and didn’t get
the happy ending they deserved
Sometimes the bad things that happen in our lives put us directly on the path to the best things that will ever happen to us.
Nicole Reed
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Special Excerpt from Whatever Tomorrow Brings
Chapter 1
The door has barely closed on my last patient when I hear a quiet tapping. I‘ve already switched into chart-annotating mode, so I don’t even look up as I call, “Come in.” The door swings open, and I glance up to find Jenny, one of my best friends and a nurse on the oncology floor, leaning against the doorway.
I grin up at her but then continue with the notation I’m making. I don’t want to forget the exact words my last patient said regarding finally coming to terms with his wife’s death. “What’s up, Jenny?”
“Hey, Tori, I have some work for you.”
“On your floor?”
“Yes.”
Sighing, I pause in my notation. I love my job at the hospital. I’ve been a practicing psychologist here for six years, and I get a great deal of satisfaction from working with my patients, particularly when I’m able to help families through the grieving process after losing a loved one. But I have another job, mostly in my off-hours. About two years ago, I overheard a few of the nurses talking about a terminal patient on the oncology floor who had no family coming to see him, and I knew I had to meet him. Over the next few weeks, we formed a friendship, and I was able to help him find some happiness in the last days of his life. After that, I made it a point to ask the nurses to tell me when they had a patient like that who got no visitors, and the rest, as they say, is history. I am now the go-to psychologist when a terminal patient with no family is discovered, and I’ve made it my mission to offer them friendship and comfort at a time when they are most in need. It’s work I feel compelled to do, but I’m not taking any new patients at the moment.
“Jenny . . .”
“I know! You’re taking a break for a while, but this one I just couldn’t let go.”
Over the last year, I befriended and supported four elderly patients as they made ready to leave this world. The last died just three months ago, at about the time I broke up with Peter, my boyfriend of four years. I really thought he was the one, but we had . . . irreconcilable differences. In the weeks that followed, I was very depressed. Hell, sometimes I think I still am. My therapist told me to take a break for a while, to take some time for myself to heal from both the break-up and the amount of time I’ve spent face-to-face with death.
I rub my temple, trying to ease the ache that’s formed there.
“What have you got for me?”
“William Everson, twenty-nine, Angioimmunoblastic T-cell Lymphoma, stage four B.”
My gaze snaps to her. “Twenty-nine?”
Jenny just nods, her hands clasped together in front of her. Jenny has been working on the oncology floor for five years now, and I swear she’s seen everything. This one has her rattled. My curiosity is piqued.
“He was brought in for a secondary infection a week ago. He was delirious at the time due to fever, but he begged us not to treat him. He has a DNR in place, but that only applies to intubation, not antibiotic treatment. Even after he was back in his right mind, he still asked us not to treat him, but that would violate the hospital’s ethics code. No one has come to visit him the entire time he’s been here. He wants to die, and quickly. He’s completely given up.” She finishes, and there are tears in her eyes.
“Should he have given up?” I ask softly.
“You need to see him.”
After finishing my notes on the day’s patients, I head up to the oncology floor. Jenny is still working, so I check in with her at the nurses’ station.
“He’s in room four-twelve. He was having some pain today, so he’s had morphine, but I think you should still be able to talk to him.”
Nodding, I head down the hall, stopping outside the door and steeling myself. Jenny’s reaction to this guy has me on edge.
Not wanting to invade his privacy, I knock softly but hear no response. I don’t want to knock hard enough to wake him if he’s sleeping, so I open the door just a bit and peek in. If he’s asleep, I’ll come back another day.
Angling my head around the door, I draw in a sharp breath. Even as sick as he is, William Everson is stunning. His hair is a mass of brown, wavy locks strewn with brassy red highlights, made even brighter by the fluorescent hospital lighting. It’s relatively short on the sides but long on the top and hangs down onto his forehead. He has bushy eyebrows that match his hair and a chiseled jaw that squares strongly in the front. His shoulders are broad, and although his hollowed cheeks tell me he’s underweight, clearly he has a muscular build. Oh, wow.
Completely lost in my ogling, I push the door open a little farther, and it squeaks loudly. He whips his head up, and the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen meet mine. I start breathing again with a gasp and shake my head. I smile at him tentatively, and what happens next blows me away.
His gorgeous face breaks into an absolutely incredible smile. His eyes seem to turn an even deeper green, and small laugh lines appear at the corners as his cheeks pucker into a boyish grin. His full pink lips narrow to reveal perfectly straight, white teeth, and the spread of his cheeks fills in the hollows so that if not for the circles under his eyes, I don’t think I’d even be able to tell he’s sick.
The smile stays there as he looks me over. He’s waiting for me to say something.
I shake my head again and take a few more steps into the room. “Hello, Mr. Everson.”
“Hi there,” he responds lazily, his head rolling a little to one side.
Looking closer, I notice the glassiness of his eyes. Exactly how much morphine has he had today? “My name is Tori. Would you mind some company?”
“If by company, you mean you, I wouldn’t mind at all.” His eyes rake over me in a way that makes certain parts tingle.
I clear my throat and sit in the chair at his bedside. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Everson?”
He grins at me again, his tongue poking out between his lips to moisten them. “Please, call me Will.” Then his brow furrows adorably. “What did you ask me?”
I can’t help but chuckle as I realize what kind of conversation this is going to be. He’s seriously high from the morphine. “I asked how you were feeling today.”
“Right . . . sorry. Well, I think I was having a crappy day, but then the nurses gave me this.” He holds up the button of the infusion pump for the morphine. “And then you came by. So at the moment, I’m feeling pretty good,” he says with a grin.
I can’t help but grin back at him, and I also can’t bring myself to ask him any serious questions. He’s in too good a mood, and I don’t think I would get any straight answers anyway. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“You’re . . . Never mind,” he murmurs, blushing to the roots of his hair and looking away.
“What were you going to say?”
“I was going to say . . . you’re pretty, but it didn’t seem like a good idea for some reason,” he answers, looking perplexed.
“That’s okay. You can tell me I’m pretty.”
He closes his eyes, then opens them again slowly.
“Hey, I think you’re getting a little tired. Why don’t you rest now, and I’ll come back and see you tomorrow,” I suggest, moving as if to stand up.
He grasps my hand, surprising me. His fingers are warm and soft, and my skin tingles underneath his fingertips.
I look
“Will you stay? At least for a few minutes? You’re the first visitor I’ve had,” he says softly, and I remember why I’m here. Oh, damn.
“Of course. You close your eyes and rest, and I’ll stay right here.”
“Thank you,” he whispers as his eyes fall closed, finally succumbing to the pull of the morphine.
I sit there for a while, just watching him sleep. He’s gorgeous. Jesus Christ, Tori—he’s dying. You’re not supposed to notice how good-looking he is! But I can’t help it. He’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen despite the obvious signs of his illness.
And I have so many questions, questions that don’t even come to mind for elderly patients. How did he end up in this place, seemingly at the end of his life, at such a young age? Where are his family and friends? Is he keeping them away somehow, or is there truly no one who cares about him? I find the latter very hard to believe. Hell, I’ve known him for all of five minutes, and I can already see why Jenny is taken with him. I can feel his pull on me, too, even though we just met.
He seems pretty easygoing. Maybe it won’t be too hard to get to know him and find out where the people who care about him are. But God, he’s so young. This is so . . . different from anything I’ve ever done before. I’ve never befriended a terminal patient who wasn’t elderly. Can I really do this? I already suspect this will be the hardest “terminal” friendship I’ve ever made, but as I watch him sleep, I know I can’t turn my back on him now. I already told him I’d come back tomorrow.
Chapter 2
I arrive at Will’s room around the same time as yesterday, and this time when I knock, I hear a muffled “Come in” from the other side. I take a deep breath and brace myself for the sight of him, but even knowing how attractive he is, he still takes my breath away. Again, bright green eyes meet mine, but today they’re sharp and clear, and the creases at the corners that appeared as laugh lines yesterday are now more firmly etched. His skin is pale, almost gray, making the hollows of his cheeks and the circles under his eyes even more noticeable. It’s clear just to look at him that he’s very unwell. What a difference a day makes.
His lips curve into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s a slight wrinkle in his brow.
“Hello again,” I say brightly, but I stop as the wrinkle deepens. “I’m going to guess by the look on your face that you don’t remember talking to me yesterday.”
His eyes narrow. “That was you?”
I nod. “I’m Tori.”
He closes his eyes, huffing out a breath. “I was in a lot of pain . . . yesterday . . . so they pumped me full of morphine.” He doesn’t seem to be able to breathe deeply enough to speak a full sentence. “I didn’t realize . . . you were real. I thought . . .”
“You thought . . . ?”
“I thought you were an angel.” His cheeks color as he looks away. But his gaze soon returns to mine, and this time it holds suspicion. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted to see how you were doing. I came to see you yesterday, but as you said, you were a bit out of it, so I told you I would come back today.”
“But . . . why?” He repeats his question, the smile fading from his face. “Do you work . . . in the hospital?”
“Yes, I do,” I reply, holding firmly to his gaze because I know what’s going to happen next. “I’m a clinical psychologist—”
“Oh God!” he exclaims, shaking his head. “This is because I tried . . . to refuse treatment . . . isn’t it? Now the doctors think I’m . . . not right in the head. I have the right to decide . . . how I want to spend . . . what remains of my life! No one . . . can take that . . . away . . . from me!”
He tries to take a few deep breaths, but he just can’t do it. His face scrunches in pain as his arm flattens the sheet to clutch over his now visibly distended abdomen. “Fuck!” he swears, as a pained grunt escapes him.
His reaction and the pain it’s causing him hit me like a bucket of cold water, and I freeze, wide-eyed. Rattled by his inability to catch his breath, I move toward him. “Do you need me to—”
“I’m . . . all right.” He pants, raising a hand to stop me as he cradles his belly.
Oh my God. How did this go so horribly wrong? “Mr. Everson, I’m not here because of anything you did, and I’m not here to interrogate you! Please, try to calm down. No one is going to take anything away from you.” I take a few more tentative steps toward his bedside, my hands raised in supplication.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. Please, just let me finish.”
His eyes remain closed, but his breathing slows, and he makes no move to object.
“I’m a clinical psychologist here at the hospital, but I’m not here in an official capacity. Someone brought your situation to my attention, so I came to see if you might want a little company.”
“My . . . situation?”
“Yes. Your cancer is terminal, and you’ve been here for a week and have had no visitors.”
“Is that a crime?” His green eyes pin me, daring me to answer.
“No, but no one should have to die alone.”
“Everyone dies alone.”
“Yes, in the strictest sense, we do. But until that last moment, no one has to be alone, and I don’t really think anyone should be.”
“So that’s why you’re here? Pity? Or am I some sort of . . . psychology project?”
I sigh. “No, Mr. Everson, you’re not a project, and I’m not here to pity you.”
I decide to come clean. Most patients never really ask why I show up. They’re just grateful to have me, but Will obviously needs a thorough explanation. “One of your nurses, Jenny, is a friend of mine, and she’s concerned about you. The nurses know me, and they know I’ve befriended certain patients and been there for them when they really needed someone. Jenny asked me to come and meet you.”
“What if I want to die alone?” he asks, but the fire is gone from his eyes. He closes them wearily, and it occurs to me that maybe he’s had as much as he can take today. In all honestly, so have I.
“I can see that you’re tired, and I’ve upset you. I’m not going to ask you any questions, but with your permission, I’d like to come back to see you again. I’m not asking anything of you other than to tolerate my company, if you’re up to it. Can I come back tomorrow?”
He tries to draw a deep breath, but it catches before he’s able to fill his lungs, and even though he isn’t focused on me, I see desperation and despair in his eyes. He’s going to say no, and there’s no way I can let him. I can’t let him choose to die alone.
“Please?” I whisper, allowing my clinical façade to drop and tears to well up in my eyes.
He closes his eyes and gently nods his head, and I turn on my heel and leave the room before my tears can fall.
As I walk down the hall, though, I start to fall apart. Jesus Christ, what the hell just happened in there? I can’t lose my professional detachment regarding Will. Not now—not before the work is done. I always lose it in these relationships, but usually it happens on the day the patient dies or very close to it. Why, then, am I standing here crying on the first day I’ve really talked to him?
Maybe it’s because Will is different; the other patients I’ve befriended have been older and at least somewhat accepting of what was happening to them. The young man I just left is unprepared and terrified. And unlike the others who had no friends or family left, Will is choosing to be alone.
The memories fly through my mind unbidden, and regret slides up the back of my throat like bile, to choke me. I thought it had been long enough, that all this was behind me. Oh God, can I really handle this?
