Even without the MRI, the doctor concluded that Claire’s initial unconsciousness was due to a blow to her head. There was no way of knowing the cause of that blow, only that evidence suggested that it had occurred. He immediately put her on additional medication to reduce swelling of her brain. Her medication also included something to keep her sedated. The doctor explained that it was for the best.

Day after day, either Tony or Catherine sat by her side. They only left the room when Dr. Leonard or his nurse insisted. Even then, it was only for a short duration. The doctor couldn’t confirm that Claire could hear the world around her; nevertheless, Tony talked as much as he could. Everything felt wrong. Usually the suite was filled with the sound of Claire’s voice, and Tony found the silence deafening. Often he’d ask her to wake. “Claire, talk to us. Open your eyes.” Sometimes he’d read—usually things related to Rawlings Industries—but he continued to speak. The only time Tony allowed the blanket of quiet to cover the room was at night. He no longer slept with his head on her bed; instead, he had a large recliner brought to her bedside and slept there.

For over a week, Tony relinquished full control of Rawlings Industries to his vice president, Tim. Tony asked Patricia to not contact him, unless it was a dire emergency. He received emails, and those, too, he’d read aloud. That was how he’d learned that the New York negotiations had finally resulted in a deal. Truthfully, he wasn’t happy. It was that deal that took him out of Chicago; it was that deal that left Claire alone. It was that deal that Tony held responsible for the condition of the woman before him. Despite years of work and hundreds of thousands of dollars, Tony emailed Tim and told him to sell off the investment and securities firm and to do it as soon as possible. He didn’t care what happened to the damn employees, their pensions, their benefits, or anything else. Anthony Rawlings wanted the damn firm out from under the Rawlings umbrella.

As time passed, Claire’s bruises began to fade. Tony hoped and prayed that if the swelling on the outside was decreasing, that meant that the swelling on the inside was too. Claire’s IV now contained some kind of nutritional supplement. In essence, the nurse explained, Claire was being fed from the tube in her arm, and Tony hated it. Claire wasn’t that big to begin with; yet each day she seemed to shrink behind the nightgown and blankets. Multiple times a day he’d move her arms and legs as the nurse taught him to do. Each time he lifted her limbs, they felt lighter in his grasp. It was also during those times that he saw her otherwise covered bruises. The areas that used to be red first faded to blue/purple, and were turning green and yellow. Each time he was faced with these markings, Tony made himself see beyond the green discolorations. The only green he wanted to see was behind her lids.

Although, Dr. Leonard warned that she might not ever wake, Tony refused to believe that. Claire’s eyes would open and when they did, she’d be coherent. The possible traumatic brain injury that the nurse discussed was nonsense. Claire was too strong for that.

It took almost two weeks, but finally it happened. Slowly, Dr. Leonard had discontinued the medicine to keep Claire from waking. Since that time, there had been small signs of movement. Sometimes her lids fluttered or her fingers twitched, but then one afternoon with both Catherine and Tony present, her eyes opened and she looked right at Tony. He could hardly speak through his relief. Finally, he found his voice. “Claire, are you awake?”

Catherine must have heard the change in his voice, because immediately she was at the other side of Claire’s bed. “Ms. Claire, please come back to us.”

Tony spoke fast. “She opened her eyes. I saw it—just a second ago.” He reached for her hand—it was still so cold. “Claire, can you hear me?” He continued speaking to Catherine, “Go get the doctor. He’s getting something to eat in the kitchen. Let him know she’s finally waking.” With a different tone, one of desperation and affection, he pleaded, “Claire, please open your eyes.”

She obeyed, just as he’d taught her to do, but when she did, she immediately squinted. He jumped up and shut the heavy drapes. With only the light from the bedside stand, the colors within the suite muted, making her bruises less visible. Tony smiled as tenderly as he could and prayed that she would be able to talk. He didn’t want to think about the nurse’s warnings. Fighting back those thoughts, he lifted her hand and said, “It was too bright in here. I closed the drapes for you. Is that better?”

Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. His chest tightened as a tear fell from her once again closed eyes.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to talk,” he said, trying to reassure her. “Please open your eyes again. It’s so good to see your beautiful emerald eyes.” Tony didn’t know if it was his imagination, but her hand felt warmer. Her eyes opened and moved to the needle taped into the bend of her left arm. He explained, “That’s how you’ve been eating for almost two weeks, and it has some pain medicine too—to make you more comfortable.”

Her expression went from uncertainty to—Tony wasn’t sure—terror? With her eyes open wide, he tried to reassure her by talking. After all, he’d been doing nothing but talk for over ten days; now he couldn’t seem to stop. “Can you remember what happened? You had an accident.”

She stared.

He wanted to know she understood. Did she even know who he was? What was she thinking? He continued, “You had an accident in the woods. When we found you, your jeans and boots were all muddy, and you had multiple injuries. Did you fall? Did you slip? Did someone or something out there hurt you? We’ve had the woods searched. Nothing was found.” He leaned toward her. “Claire, we’ve been so worried about you.”