Chương 5
I stared at the message until Lily’s fingers loosened around mine.
Monica noticed my face.
“You okay?”
“No.”
She waited.
I read the message again.
You need to call me before Ethan does something worse.
The number was unfamiliar, but the area code was Los Angeles.
I slipped the phone back into my bag.
“I need five minutes before the next disaster.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Is it?”
“No, but I’m trying to be supportive.”
I looked at Lily.
Her chest rose in tiny mechanical rhythms.
Every instinct in me wanted to stay beside her until she came home, even though I had no idea where home was anymore.
“Can I see the boys?”
“Of course.”
Noah’s incubator was two spaces away.
He was on CPAP rather than a ventilator, and Monica explained that as good news with enough caution to keep me from turning it into a promise.
His legs were stretched beneath a blanket no larger than a dinner napkin.
Sam had already managed to dislodge one sensor.
“That one has opinions,” Monica said.
“He got that from me.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because he’s going to need them.”
I sat between the three incubators until the medication made my eyelids heavy.
The phone vibrated again.
This time it was Ethan.
I let it stop.
Then it rang again.
Monica glanced toward me.
“You can take it outside if you need privacy.”
“I don’t think he deserves privacy.”
Still, I wheeled myself into the small family room across the hall because I did not want Ethan’s voice near my children.
I answered on the seventh call.
“What?”
“Claire, why have you been ignoring me?”
The absurdity of the question left me silent.
“Are the babies okay?”
“They’re in intensive care.”
“Which means what?”
“It means they’re twenty-eight weeks old and machines are helping them breathe.”
“I know what intensive care means.”
“Then why did you ask?”
He exhaled.
I heard a door close on his end.
“I’ve been trying to get information from the hospital.”
“They won’t give it to you?”
“You removed me as your emergency contact.”
“Yes.”
“That was unnecessary.”
“You’re in Los Angeles with your girlfriend.”
“You don’t need to keep saying that.”
“I think I do, because you keep behaving as if the problem is administrative.”
His voice dropped.
“I’m booking a flight.”
I looked through the family-room window toward the NICU.
A nurse adjusted something beside Noah’s incubator.
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“You didn’t come when I called.”
“I was trying to work out logistics.”
“You were already on the ground.”
Another silence.
I could almost hear him deciding which lie might survive.
“Who told you that?”
“You did.”
“No, I said—”
“You said you couldn’t turn the plane around.”
“Claire.”
“You were in a hotel room.”
“I had just landed.”
“With Sabrina answering your phone.”
“This isn’t helping the babies.”
The sentence hit exactly where he meant it to.
For one ugly second I doubted myself.
Maybe fighting with him was selfish.
Maybe every ounce of energy should be going elsewhere.
Then I remembered the signed agreement, the frozen cards, the inactive insurance.
“What did you do to my medical coverage?”
“I told you, it was part of restructuring the household accounts.”
“You canceled insurance for a woman carrying triplets.”
“I didn’t personally cancel anything.”
“Your finance office did it the day before you handed me divorce papers.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It feels impressively similar from this side.”
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
His tone sharpened.
“I’m trying to fix this.”
“Then fix it without talking to me.”
“I need authorization from you.”
“For what?”
He hesitated.
That was the first useful thing he had done during the entire call.
“For the insurance appeal.”
“What else?”
“Nothing.”
“What else, Ethan?”
His breathing changed.
“Claire, there are some documents the hospital may ask you to sign.”
“What documents?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You called me twelve times without knowing exactly?”
“It’s complicated.”
I looked at the unknown number on my screen while he was talking.
Before Ethan does something worse.
“What have you done?”
“Nothing.”
“You always say that right before I find out about something.”
“Can we not do this?”
“No, we can absolutely do this.”
A nurse opened the family-room door.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
I raised one finger.
She nodded and waited outside.
Ethan lowered his voice further.
“There’s a financial matter connected to the separation.”
“What kind of financial matter?”
“It’s being handled.”
My stomach tightened, though the pregnancy was over and there were no contractions left to blame.
“Did you empty my accounts?”
“They were joint marital funds.”
“My personal account.”
“Most of that money came from Mercer Holdings distributions.”
“My salary went into that account.”
“You haven’t had a salary in two years.”
Because Ethan had asked me to leave my job.
Because fertility treatments, appointments, and then the pregnancy had made my consulting schedule inconvenient.
Because he had said there was no reason for his wife to exhaust herself proving she could afford things he could buy without looking at the price.
I gripped the phone.
“Did you take it?”
“It’s temporarily restricted.”
“By whom?”
“Our attorneys.”
“My attorney hasn’t restricted anything.”
“Then you should speak to one.”
That answer was too smooth.
“What are you afraid I’ll find?”
He laughed once.
It sounded wrong.
“Jesus, Claire, not everything is a conspiracy.”
“Then tell me.”
“I have to go.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’ll be in New York this afternoon.”
“I don’t want you here.”
“They’re my children.”
The words stopped me.
He heard it.
His voice softened.
“I’m coming.”
I ended the call.
The nurse outside entered immediately.
“Everything all right?”
“No.”
She had probably heard enough through the door to know that.
She chose not to embarrass me.
“Dr. Patel wants to update you about Lily.”
My hand went cold.
“Why?”
“She had another oxygen desaturation.”
I forgot Ethan.
May you like
I forgot the message.
I forgot the bank accounts and the apartment and the fact that I had not slept.
