One Sweet Day Read online

  ONE SWEET DAY

  ELLE TYLER

  COPYRIGHT 2019 ELLE TYLER

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  Cover Design Elle Tyler

  Edited by Kathryn F. Galán, Wynnpix Productions

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978,

  1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  Previously self-published as Infinite Dolls, 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  PRINT ISBN 978-1-5336-0135-3

  Library of Congress Control Number 2016902579

  For those with an invisible tether of hope,

  starry-eyes,

  and a rubber band heart.

  CONTENTS

  Part One: The Revival of Broken Beats:7

  Some Don’t Believe in Falling Skies9

  I Was Once Part of This World19

  I Was Never That Much of a Child23

  Secrets28

  I Crave to Write This Down29

  Her Warmth On My Arm39

  Once You Become Real46

  Let a Little Water59

  We Were Caught Up Like That63

  It’s Called Coercion67

  Few Things Happen By Coincidence72

  The Tether Was Too Tight75

  This Was Not a Home80

  Part Two: The Ocean Between the Waves85

  Fear of Falling87

  How It Begins Is How It Goes90

  Some… Thing107

  Part Three: A Love Cure143

  The Quiet. The Loud.145

  Fragile Hearts156

  Carry Heavy Armor156

  Little Lost Coin In The Dark176

  I Wasn’t Allowed To Kiss Her Properly180

  Angels Sing Hallelujah186

  Part Four: Thanksgiving199

  Everything Rested On Hope201

  An Old Attic219

  The Game Changer232

  Part Five: Graduation237

  A Plan to Fail239

  Breathe Little Breaths246

  Heart In a Headlock250

  To Remember263

  Part Six: Dance Me To the End269

  Birthday Wishes271

  Heaven and Earth283

  Good Fourth? Good Fourth.291

  Two Tangled Rhythms296

  Her Influence Bled Slowly300

  The Tick Tock of Crocodile Clocks309

  Where Do I Sign Up For A Heart311

  Rogue Waves316

  Two Heart Beats326

  A Scouts Honor331

  Redemption Song334

  Sunday Blessings342

  Epilogue347

  THE REVIVAL OF BROKEN BEATS

  Part One

  SOME DON’T BELIEVE IN FALLING SKIES

  1.

  THE THIRD YEAR of medical school is said to account for the highest percentage of drop-outs, but I couldn’t have prepared for that year no matter how hard I studied. The greatest lessons I learned had very little to do with science and everything to do with coincidence wrestling with faith.

  When Everly Anne entered room 221 of Weill Cornell, one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country, a shift occurred in the paradigm of many lives. At first, her influence bled slow, affecting negligible parts of human composition such as remaining calm in unsure circumstances.

  “Do you think we’re finally performing an autopsy?” the guy in the next seat over asked.

  “We did one last year,” I reminded him. “Cats, remember?”

  “Yeah, but I picked Cornell because not only do they allow cadaver dissection, but they actually encourage us to perform them. It has to be a human—too much buzz this morning for it not to be human.”

  I looked at him. He was a stump with boxy shoulders, his white coat too tight. Head like a block. Bug-eyed, with brown hair combed slickly to his scalp. “You seem way too excited about this possibility.”

  I prayed it was not cadaver dissection.

  He looked even creepier when he laughed. “If the human body turns you off, maybe you should reconsider your profession, Trovatto.”

  “How do you know my name?” In a sea of a hundred other students, I certainly didn’t remember his.

  “Everyone knows your name. Well, your father’s name.”

  True enough—once upon a time, Andrew Trovatto was a force to be reckoned with in the medical world.

  I could tell this guy knew that truth as we stared at each other.

  If only it were possible to burn holes through someone by looking at them long enough.

  His face brightened as he turned toward the sound of the door closing. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  As soon as she sat in front of the class, the room fell silent, only to quickly ignite with hushed speculation—rightfully so—as our attending, Dr. Timothy Brighton, wasn’t a man who entertained theatrics, much less provided them. Presenting Everly Anne as the center of attention, unexpected with her bright flame of peach-colored hair and a blank patient board, was bound to provoke theoretical drama.

  I couldn’t see her face. She never once looked up. That didn’t seem to bother the guy next to me, as he leaned over and snickered, “Now there’s a body I wouldn’t mind examining.”

  My eyes stayed on the girl. “Keep shit-talking during class and Brighton will be serving you up as the autopsy.”

  Dr. Brighton stood behind her as he spoke to the class. “I won’t be telling you anything about our patient for this differential. Each of you will have five minutes with her every day until the end of the semester—which conveniently is exactly the amount of time you have to diagnose her before she dies. I emailed a patient log you all must follow. I will be grading this log, in addition to a final group differential, so I expect impeccable notes.”

  I raised my hand. “Why aren’t we doing this in the clinic?”

  He shrugged at my question. “Do you need to be in the clinic to diagnose a person? Do pretty nurses standing nearby help with your process?”

  “I meant why aren’t we diagnosing patients with real illnesses?”

  “What she has is real. You’re up first, Trovatto. Your five minutes will begin as soon as you take your seat.” He motioned to the chair positioned across from her.

  I had dealt with patients all semester. This should have been easy. But as I sat down, I felt strangely nervous. I finally saw her face as I reached the desk. A strange wave of déjà vu hit me in the gut.

  I’ve seen her. I know her. Impossible.

  Shaky hands are not impressive.

  Who cares if I impress her? She’s just a patient. Just a girl.

  And in reality, it was all true. She was just a girl. I was just doing my assignment. The questions on the patient log were just elementary. But while I hadn’t experienced a falling sky yet, I had discovered there was this thing about the word “just”: it always led to doom.

  �
�Just” had found me several times throughout my life, like when I was fourteen and my pop shoved money in my pocket and told me, “Just go down to Mrs. Rossinburg’s store and tell her Dr. Trovatto needs a bottle of vodka to treat someone with the shakes.”

  “Just” is a corruptor and co-conspirator. Or when my mother just needed to rest, and she’d be better. “Just” is a liar and a life-stealer.

  So maybe my nerves knew from experience that these questions were anything but just questions. Or maybe the falling skies of life are built with “just” forming the constellations.

  “Your name?” I asked.

  “Everly.”

  “Full name. You’re my patient, so answer as if I was a real doctor, okay?”

  “You are a doctor.”

  “Sort of.”

  “You cut me off too soon,” she corrected. “I was about to say, you are a doctor, so if we were in the hospital they would ask for my full name, date of birth, and last four of my social. That’s how real doctors and nurses do it. The Joint Commission isn’t really big on sending bronchitis patients up to the OR to have a leg amputated.”

  I kept my eyes on the laptop screen. “You must spend a lot of time in the hospital if you know about the Joint Commission.”

  “Everly Anne is my full name.” She turned a smile into a thin line. “And what you usually learn most about patients comes out in real conversations, not interrogations.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because no one wants to admit to things they’ve done wrong, much less to their own weakness.”

  I stared at her for a moment and closed my laptop. “Okay. How about we start over? I’m Callum Andrew Trovatto, third year med.”

  “This kind of puts us where we were, because I’m still just Everly Anne.”

  “Just.” Simplifies nothing. Complicates everything.

  “What were you doing before you came here today, Everly Anne?”

  “I had coffee uptown.”

  “Oh, are you feeling tired?”

  “No. I just said I had coffee.”

  I sigh in defeat. “Have you been feeling fatigued lately? Is that why you’re drinking coffee?”

  “No, I drink coffee because I have a friend who can’t, and I promised him I’d consume as much as possible in his honor.”

  “How many cups on average would that be?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you more interested in why my friend can’t drink coffee?”

  “I’m not being graded on him, so no. I only care about how much caffeine you’re ingesting every day.”

  Everly looked away, fully unimpressed, fully uninterested.

  “Sorry,” I tried to apologize. “I’m still interrogating you, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, but it’s your first time, so I’m going easy on you. Most doctors aren’t so lucky… not even the green ones.”

  “This is a tame version?”

  She nodded. “You’re still sitting here, putting up with me. So yeah, this is tame. Most would have called in a nurse by now.”

  Brighton called time.

  “I guess I can’t call it a wash since I figured out one thing.” I stood and took my laptop as Everly stared up at me. “This is why we’re not in the clinic.”

  ***

  She wore yellow the following day. It was only significant because it was officially the sweetheart of summer, and while most women walked around New York in skirts, dresses, and shorts to tolerate the blistering heat, Everly Anne wore gray over-the-knee socks stretched so high up her legs, they kissed the hem of her yellow dress.

  I watched her from my desk while the autopsy ignoramus Logan questioned her. Everly’s body language may as well have been a road block. Arms crossed. Head down. She seemed more interested in tapping her shoes to the carpet than dealing with him. I should have been pleased. But I was just terribly annoyed.

  His mood didn’t seem much better as he took his normal seat to my left. “Bitch,” he muttered.

  “Failures only blame other people for their shortcomings, you know.”

  He looked at me. “She won’t even answer the easiest questions. Just talks in circles about stupid crap. I’m gonna fail because of this bitch.”

  “Allow me to repeat myself.”

  “Allow me to remind you that your daddy’s name isn’t what it used to be, and when Brighton fails you, too, Dad won’t be able to wiggle any favors out of the board.”

  There’s a soft spot under everyone’s arm where the torso joins the pit. When I acted out of line as a kid, my mother knew just where to hook her fingers and make me regret existing.

  The beauty of this kind of pain is it causes your mouth to clamp shut.

  He looked at me like I was crazy, and perhaps I was. In the middle of class, I had him hooked, strained, and half way toward me as I allowed my anger to take over my better judgment. This guy wasn’t worth full throttle, but my father was more than worthy of a warning.

  “Since you’re so concerned with my father, allow me to tell you something about him. He has a saying—‘How it begins is how it goes.’ He must have said that to my sister and me at least once, every single day. This is your beginning. And so far, you’re a failure. One thing my father rarely was—wrong. You’ll finish as the failure you started because you are nothing short of a coward… Can’t even get a girl to talk to you. Now, let me tell you about me. I was raised by a good man with intuition and intelligence as vast as the sea. I sat under his desk listening to him dictate differentials while you were most likely—based upon your current failures—pissing your pants and making mud pies. If I fail this class, it’s on my shoulders. I don’t need my father’s help. That was the purpose of childhood.”

  I let him go with a shove. It’s impossible to not rub that spot, despite how much you’d rather look like a man and take it in stride. Logan was not an exception to this rule.

  I could tell Dr. Brighton had been watching me when I looked forward. I put my attention on Everly until he called my name to take a seat with her. I had a better plan mapped out for this round of questions.

  No laptop. No interviews. Pay attention, and let her lead. Act intrigued by whatever came out of her mouth.

  But you know what they say—make plans so God can laugh.

  When I sat down across from her, she looked up. The blankness of her eyes pulled me back to age thirteen. All the lies of “just” suddenly rushed inside of my thoughts.

  She just needs a little fresh air and sunshine.

  It’s the medicine. It just makes her a little sleepy.

  Just one bite of food. Just take one, Julep.

  My own mouth betrayed me. “I fuckin’ hate the word just.”

  Everly blinked away the fog. “Why? It’s just a word.”

  I shushed her. “Don’t say that. It can hear you and then your whole life is doomed.”

  Her smile spread slowly. “Do you need a ginger chew? When I contemplate life’s woes, I like to snack on a ginger chew.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, sure.”

  By her feet, Everly dug into a backpack made of rainbow patchwork until she found an orange-wrapped candy. We watched one another for a moment, and I believe this was where the first star fell into my eye.

  “So, did he use the word ‘just’?” she asked as she popped the candy into her mouth.

  “Who?”

  “Logan. The student you… grabbed.”

  “You saw that?”

  “It was more interesting than what I was being asked,” she replied.

  “He was trying to push my buttons. I believe it will be his only success in this class.”

  She gave me another smile, but it faded too quickly. “He’s going to become the type of doctor who prescribes pills for every little whimper.”

  “Probably,” I agreed.

  “You only have five minutes with me, you know,” she said. “You’ve wasted half that time by not asking me questions for the differential.”

  “Depends on your v
iewpoint, Everly. I watched you all morning, and this is the most I’ve seen your mouth move. Maybe I have made excellent use of my time.”

  She rolled the candy into her cheek. “Not by Timothy’s standards.”

  “Timothy isn’t my patient.”

  I looked away from her to open my ginger candy, and when I looked back up, she leaned in close. “If I faked a seizure to get out of being questioned by your classmates, would you play along?”

  “I doubt Dr. Brighton and his wall of accolades would believe you.”

  She whispered, “Don’t doubt me before you even know me.”

  I looked down to my candy and rolled it between my fingers. “Don’t hit your head when you fall out of your seat.”

  Not two seconds later, Everly had Dr. Brighton and every other person in the classroom circled around her as she pretended to faint (not seize) and slid from her seat to the floor. I hurried to her aid in hopes of buying a little of her trust and then lied through my teeth as Brighton tried to push me aside, telling him she just got overheated because of all the clothing, but that only caused him to insist she be rushed to the ER.

  I waited outside of her room until he exited. “Go home,” he ordered.

  “May I see her?”

  “I’ll add the time you didn’t get to tomorrow’s class.”

  “I don’t care about that. I only want to see her. I won’t ask her anything about how she feels.”

  His stare turned cold. “Then what’s the point?” Brighton turned, and I watched as he stalked away, clearing the hallway like an angry bull.

  Everly was sitting in her bed, watching television with a tray of food in front of her when I entered. She smiled too brightly at me for what had taken place.

  “Don’t look so happy. You just got me on Dr. Brighton’s bad side.”

  “He only has a bad side.” She pushed her tray toward me. “Want some chocolate cake? I hear it’s delicious.”

  “Then your hearing must be impaired. Hospital food is atrocious.”

  She looked at me still full of smile. “I know.”