Ripple Effect

Chapter Twenty-One: ...the eternal essence of the soul.

Henry

10:31 AM

Henry's heart reversed a beat and his grip on the takeaway coffee cups slipped as he halted outside the room on the ICU. Elizabeth no longer sat at the edge of Will's bed, the same position she had occupied for the past four days, but she had hauled one of the armchairs over to the table in the corner and was hunched over an open binder, her reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she dragged the tip of her index finger along the lines of text.

The image overlaid the trace in his mind, the memory of being twenty-one years old, transfixed as he stared at her through the arched window of the library at UVA: the way the sunlight shimmered on her hair, tied up in a ponytail, but with loose strands wisping around her face; the way she would pause from time to time and tap the end of her biro against her lips as her brow furrowed and she peered down at the page; the way she would look up, a split second of startle when she caught sight of him, before she rolled her eyes and then smiled so bright that everything around her faded into a haze.

The memory dimmed and returned him to the ward, where the covers of the cot bed still held to the hospital corners he had folded the morning before, and the slight jitter in Elizabeth's movements seconded the theory that, once again, she had foregone sleep. But as he watched her through the glass wall, it felt as though something about her had changed, as if, just for a moment, the agitation that itched beneath her skin had eased and she had found a glimpse of peace.

If only there were a way to preserve it, like a vein of air bubbles trapped in amber, a kind of nutrient that would never fade. But something told him it was too fragile for that, and even if he were to leave her there, undisturbed, engrossed in whatever she was reading, sooner or later something would happen, or nothing would happen, and still the moment would deflate.

He nudged the button on the wall, careful not to slosh the coffee through the holes in the white plastic lids, and then waited for the swoosh of the glass door to whisk away the ghostly outline of his reflection before he stepped into the room.

Elizabeth cast him half a sideways glance. "Hey." Then her gaze settled on the file again.

"Good morning," he murmured. He placed one of the takeaway coffee cups—triple shot latte (extra foam)—down on the table in front of her and then smoothed his palm over her shoulder blades. The wool of her chunky-knit cardigan fuzzed against his skin. He leant in and kissed the top of her head, and the faint scent of her coconut shampoo unravelled through him. "I missed you."

"You've only been gone a few hours." Her tone dragged, and the distance in her voice made it feel like the pane of glass still separated them.

His heart stung. "Even so."

Silence fell between them. Thick. The kind that ached and strained.

He squeezed her shoulder, lingered there for a moment longer, waited for a response that he knew wouldn't come, and then his grip loosened. He moved to step away, but before he could, her hand darted up and covered his own, her fingertips so cold that the chill bit into his skin.

She held his hand to her shoulder whilst she continued to stare at the page. Her voice kept its distance. "Thank you for the coffee."

He stumbled for a reply before he landed on a tentative, "You're welcome."

A pause. He expected her to let go and for them to drift apart again, but her touch remained.

He perched on the arm of her chair, careful not to let his fingers slip from beneath hers, and he studied her as her chin dipped and her gaze fell away from the file. A frown settled on his brow, and he squeezed her shoulder again. "Everything all right?"