Chương 13
I swallowed it and immediately forgot whether I had swallowed it.
Rachel assured me I had.
“That’s comforting.”
“You asked me twice.”
“That’s less comforting.”
She tucked the tax folder into a new encrypted cloud archive Dana had told us to create.
Then she closed the laptop.
“You need sleep.”
“I need to see Lily again.”
“You were there forty minutes ago.”
“And?”
“And Noah and Sam would also like their mother eventually.”
Guilt hit with embarrassing speed.
Rachel saw it.
“That was a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“No.”
She rubbed her face.
“Sorry.”
“I know.”
For the first time since arriving, Rachel looked tired.
Not dramatic tired.
Regular tired.
Her mascara had smudged beneath one eye.
One shoelace was untied.
She had been operating entirely on adrenaline and resentment.
“You should go home.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
“I mean shower.”
She looked down at herself.
“That obvious?”
“You smell like wet subway.”
“I drove.”
“Then wet parking garage.”
“That’s worse.”
“Go.”
She hesitated.
“I’ll come back.”
“I know.”
The words felt different this time.
She noticed.
Then she nodded and left.
I slept for twenty-seven minutes.
I knew because I checked the clock before and after.
When I woke, someone was sitting in the visitor chair.
For one terrified second I thought Ethan had arrived.
It was Evelyn.
She had changed into black pants and a cream sweater.
No hospital gown.
No wheelchair.
“You escaped.”
“I was discharged.”
“Adrian allowed that?”
“He does not own me.”
Something in her tone suggested this argument had been rehearsed for decades.
“He seems to disagree.”
“He was born disagreeing.”
I smiled.
“Where is he?”
“On a call.”
“With people he’s frightening?”
“Probably.”
She looked toward my untouched lunch tray.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I had eggs.”
“Those hospital eggs don’t count.”
“You’re very invested in this.”
“I’m old.”
“That isn’t an explanation.”
“It becomes one eventually.”
She opened a paper bag and produced a turkey sandwich.
I stared at it.
“Did you bring me contraband food?”
“I brought you lunch.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you had three premature babies while your husband was elsewhere.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“My standards for offering sandwiches are low.”
I took it.
“Thank you.”
She watched me unwrap it.
“Adrian’s sister had a baby once.”
I stopped.
“The sister who died?”
“No.”
I had assumed there was only one.
Evelyn looked toward the window.
“I have two daughters.”
“Had?”
“One died.”
“And the other?”
“Doesn’t speak to us.”
The directness left no easy response.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
She smoothed a wrinkle in her sweater.
“People think money prevents families from breaking.”
I took a bite because she seemed to prefer that to sympathy.
“It mostly gives them bigger rooms to avoid each other in.”
I looked at her.
“That sounded practiced.”
“It is.”
She smiled faintly.
“Adrian hates when I say it.”
“Why doesn’t your daughter speak to you?”
Evelyn looked at me for a long moment.
“Because sometimes a family can be right about facts and still wrong about what matters.”
That answer stayed between us.
She did not elaborate.
I respected her for it.
My phone rang.
Hospital security.
I answered.
“Mrs. Mercer, there is a Mr. Ethan Mercer downstairs asking to come to your room.”
My appetite vanished.
Evelyn watched my face.
“No,” I said.
“Would you like us to tell him you’re unavailable?”
“Yes.”
“Should he be restricted from the unit?”
“Yes.”
The word came out before fear could edit it.
“Understood.”
I ended the call.
My hand shook.
Evelyn said nothing.
Three minutes later, Ethan called.
I let it ring.
Then came a text.
Claire, stop this.
Another.
I flew across the country for my children.
Then another.
You cannot keep me from them.
I forwarded the messages to Dana.
Her response arrived almost immediately.
Do not engage.
Hospital will handle your room access.
NICU parental access is separate.
I put the phone down.
Evelyn picked up the second half of the sandwich and held it toward me.
“Eat.”
“I can’t.”
“You can be furious and chew.”
I laughed despite myself.
The phone rang again.
This time the caller ID showed the NICU.
My heart stopped.
I answered on the first vibration.
“Hello?”
Monica’s voice came through.
“Claire, don’t panic.”
Naturally, I panicked.
“What happened?”
“Lily’s stable.”
I closed my eyes.
“Never start a sentence like that.”
“I know.”
“What is it?”
“Your husband is here.”
I opened my eyes.
“He got into the NICU?”
“He’s at reception.”
“How?”
“He’s listed as the father.”
Of course he was.
“What does he want?”
“To see the babies.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
Could I deny him that?
Did I want to?
Part of me did.
A petty, wounded, furious part of me wanted him to stand outside the locked doors and feel one fraction of what he had made me feel on Park Avenue.
Then I pictured Noah under CPAP.
Sam kicking at sensors.
Lily beneath the ventilator.
They were not weapons.
I could not make them one.
“Let him see them.”
Monica paused.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t want him near me.”
“We can manage that.”
“Thank you.”
I ended the call.
Evelyn was watching.
“That was difficult.”
“I wanted to say no.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Doesn’t make me generous.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“It makes you their mother.”
I hated how much that mattered.
Twenty minutes later, I went to the NICU anyway.
I told myself I needed to see Lily.
That was true.
It was not the whole truth.
Ethan stood beside Noah’s incubator with his back to me.
He had changed into jeans and a navy sweater.
For once, he looked like an ordinary man.
Then he turned.
His face changed when he saw me.
“Claire.”
I stopped several feet away.
Monica remained near Lily, close enough to intervene if needed.
Ethan took one step toward me.
I raised my hand.
“No.”
May you like
He stopped.
His eyes moved over my hospital gown, the IV pole, the way I was standing slightly bent around the incision.
