Danielle Steel - The Kiss

They left for the States the next day, so early that they didn't have time to stop and see him at the hospital before they left. Cynthia and the girls called him from the airport to say good-bye, and both girls were crying when they hung up. And he didn't say it to anyone, but after they were gone, he was sad. It was lonely for him, and he was beginning to understand the long hard road he had ahead of him. He was facing at least a year of excruciating rehabilitation work, maybe more. But he had no choice. He made some business calls from time to time, and a few people had heard about the accident and called him. But for the most part, he felt as though he were living in a cocoon, surrounded by nurses and doctors, and Isabelle still in a coma across the hall. It was not an easy time for him.

By two weeks after the accident, Bill was making a reasonable recovery, and Gordon Forrester still hadn't been back to see his wife. Bill had developed his own little routine of being rolled in to see her morning and night. He would lie there in his bed and talk to her for a while, in the hope that she could hear him in her deep sleep, and then he would go back to his own room.

The nurses had told him that Forrester couldn't come because their son was ill, and Bill worried about Teddy all the time on her behalf. He hoped the situation wasn't too bad. And he thought about Sophie frequently too, and hoped she was all right.

He had almost given up any hope of Isabelle coming out of her coma by the third week after the accident, and he wondered if Gordon was just going to leave her there, forgotten and unloved. There was no way to move her back to Paris, on the respirator, it was too dangerous for her, and Bill had started worrying about what would happen to her when he went back to the States. The doctors thought he might be able to go back in another month or so. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her, with no one to visit her, talk to her, comfort her, care what happened to her. He couldn't imagine how Gordon could abandon her now, but he had. Bill was thinking about it one night as he lay in his bed next to her, talking to her and holding her hand. The nurses no longer found it unusual anymore. They just smiled and chatted with him, when he visited her, as though they expected to find him in her room several times a day.

He was telling Isabelle how beautiful she was, and how much he missed talking to her on a warm, balmy night in July. The windows were open, and they could hear sounds from outside. And he found himself thinking of the night they'd gone to Harry's Bar, and then Annabel's afterward. All he wished now was that he could turn back the clock, and step backward in time to that night.

“Do you remember what a good time we had?” he murmured to her, stroking her fingers and then kissing them as he held her hand. “I love dancing with you, Isabelle,” he said. “If you wake up, we can go dancing again someday.” But for him, that was only a memory, and a distant dream. He was still talking to her and reminding her of that night, when he felt a gentle pressure in the palm of his hand. He thought it was a reflex at first, and went on talking to her, and then he felt the same gentle pressure again. Distracted by it, he stopped talking for a minute, and glanced at the nurse when she walked in. He didn't want to say anything, but his conversation with Isabelle continued in a slightly more determined way, and then he stopped, and tried to position himself so he could look at Isabelle.

“I felt you squeeze my hand just then,” he said clearly to her. “I want you to do it again.” He waited for what seemed like a long time, as the nurse watched them both, but nothing happened, and the nurse looked away. “Do it again, Isabelle. Squeeze my hand, just a little bit…. I want you to really try.” And then, as though she were reaching back toward him from another world, she did, almost imperceptibly. His face broke into a broad smile, and there were tears in his eyes. “That was wonderful,” he encouraged her, overwhelmed by what he had just felt. “Now I want you to open your eyes. Just a tiny bit… I'm looking at you, Isabelle. And I want you to look at me.” There was no sign of life in her face, but then her fingers moved again, and he wondered now if it was just a random reflex after all. And just as he was getting discouraged again, she wrinkled her nose, but her eyes were still closed. He could feel his heart race. She was coming back. “What was that? That was a funny face, but it was very good. How about a little smile?” There were tears rolling down his cheeks as he spoke to her, and all his efforts and strength and love were concentrated on her. The nurse in the room stood frozen in place as she watched. But she had clearly seen the quick grimace Isabelle had made. That was definitely not a reflex. “Can you smile for me, my love? Or just open one eye…. I've missed you so much….” He was begging her, willing her to come back to him, he wanted to just reach down into the abyss where she'd been and pull her back safely to him. He lay there talking to her for another half hour, with no results, and he looked exhausted and spent, but he refused to give up. “Isabelle… all right, make that funny face again … come on … wrinkle your nose.” But this time instead she lifted one hand several inches off the bed and then let it fall, as though the effort it had taken was simply too great. “That was very, very good. And very hard work. Rest a minute, sweetheart. Then we'll do it again.” He wanted to gather all the signs from her he could, to keep her engaged until she came back to him, and to life. He talked to her endlessly, trying to get her to blink, to move some part of her face, to open her eyes, or squeeze his hand again. And for a long time nothing moved, and then he saw the faintest fluttering of her eyes.

“Oh my God …” he whispered to the nurse, and she hurried out of the room to find one of the doctors to see what was happening. After three weeks of hovering near death, Isabelle was coming back. It was Bill who was lovingly, painstakingly bringing her home.

“Isabelle,” Bill said more firmly then. “You have to open your eyes, my love. I know it's hard. You've been asleep for a long time. It's time to wake up. I want to see you look at me. I want to see you, and I know you want to see me. Just open your eyes a little bit,” and a moment after he said it, she did. He hadn't even been expecting it. After all this time, he was willing to be satisfied with any sign she would make. But she had gone all the way this time, and the long-sleeping eyes opened just a crack. “That's it… that's right… can you open them more now… work at it, my darling … open those beautiful eyes….” The doctor had joined them in the room by then, but he stood back and did not interfere. Bill was doing fine on his own, and the doctor didn't think he could do as well. “Isabelle,” Bill tried again, “I'm waiting for you to look at me. I've been waiting a very long time,” and as he said it, there was a long, graceful sigh from the bed, and with only a slight flutter, she opened her eyes, and without looking at him, she closed them again, as though the effort was too much. “Come on, sweetheart, keep them open long enough to look at me. Please, my love …” Watching her come to life slowly as he talked to her was like watching her float slowly to earth from a distant place. And then finally, finally, she opened her eyes again, turned her head, and looked straight at him as she gave a small moan. He suspected the movement had made her head hurt. But then she smiled, with her eyes closed again, and seemed to struggle with a single word. She worked at it for a long time, and then finally, as she opened her eyes again, she said his name in a voice that was barely more than a croak.