Chương 6
“What does that mean?”
“She recovered, but he wants to talk with you.”
I followed her as fast as the wheelchair allowed.
Dr. Patel stood beside Lily’s incubator.
He was a short man with silver glasses and a voice so gentle that I immediately distrusted every word before he said it.
“Her lungs are very immature.”
“Is she getting worse?”
“She’s requiring more respiratory support.”
“That means yes.”
“It means we’re adjusting.”
“Is she dying?”
Monica looked down.
Dr. Patel did not.
“She is critically ill.”
The room moved without actually moving.
I put both hands on the wheelchair arms.
“What do you need from me?”
“Nothing right now.”
“There has to be something.”
“Be her mother.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is at four days old.”
“She’s not four days old.”
He blinked.
I had no idea why I had said it.
“She’s four hours old,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
I covered my mouth.
Dr. Patel crouched so we were closer to eye level.
“We deal in hours here.”
That frightened me more than percentages would have.
Hours could disappear.
Hours had already taken my marriage, my home, and the safe ending I had imagined for my pregnancy.
“How bad is it?”
“She responded to the ventilator changes.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He nodded slowly.
“She has a difficult road ahead.”
I looked at Lily.
“Do whatever you need to do.”
“We will.”
“Even if the insurance isn’t active.”
His eyebrows moved.
“That isn’t a medical decision.”
“Someone told admissions—”
“Mrs. Mercer, your daughter’s care is not contingent on whether an insurance portal is displaying correctly at four in the morning.”
Relief hit so hard it embarrassed me.
“Okay.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
He stood.
“Sleep if you can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I have three babies in here.”
“And they have three teams watching them.”
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion was beginning to make the edges of the room shimmer.
Monica helped wheel me back toward postpartum.
Halfway there, I saw Adrian in the hallway.
He was sitting alone outside the cardiac observation unit with two paper cups of coffee and his mother’s purse at his feet.
The purse was beige leather with a silk scarf tied around one handle.
It looked strangely ordinary beside him.
He stood when he saw me.
“How are they?”
The question was quiet.
I stopped the wheelchair with my heels before Monica could.
“Alive.”
He nodded.
“And your mother?”
“Stable.”
“What happened?”
“Atrial fibrillation.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s furious that they’re keeping her overnight.”
“That sounds healthy.”
He almost smiled.
“She tried to negotiate discharge with the cardiologist.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“Then she picked the wrong cardiologist.”
Adrian looked at the wheelchair.
“You should be in bed.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Perhaps there’s a conspiracy.”
The word hit too close to my conversation with Ethan.
My expression must have changed.
Adrian noticed.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
He did not challenge the lie.
That made me more likely to speak.
“I got a message.”
“From your husband?”
“Unknown number.”
I pulled out my phone and showed him.
He read the sentence once.
“Do you know who sent it?”
“No.”
“Did you respond?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You approve?”
“I approve of not calling unknown people while you’re medicated, exhausted, and frightened.”
“That sounded almost reasonable.”
“I have occasional lapses.”
Monica shifted her weight beside us.
“I’m going to get her back to bed before the billionaire starts billing by the hour.”
Adrian looked at her.
“I don’t bill.”
“That explains your business model.”
She pushed me forward.
I laughed, then held my incision.
“Please stop making me laugh.”
“Tell him that.”
Adrian picked up one of the coffees and walked beside us.
At the elevator, I looked at him.
“Why are you still here?”
“My mother.”
“No, I mean near me.”
He glanced toward the closed elevator doors.
“You stopped.”
“So?”
“So I answered your question.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one I have.”
The elevator opened.
Monica rolled me inside.
Adrian stayed in the hall.
Just before the doors closed, he said, “Don’t delete the message.”
Back in my room, Rachel arrived carrying a backpack, wet hair, and the furious expression of someone who had driven through Manhattan traffic before sunrise.
She stopped in the doorway.
For a second neither of us moved.
Then her face collapsed.
“Oh, Claire.”
I started crying before she reached the bed.
She hugged me carefully, one arm around my shoulders and the other hovering uselessly because she did not know where it was safe to touch.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean medically.”
“That’s better.”
She pulled back.
“Where are the babies?”
“NICU.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
She blinked hard and looked away.
“I brought your charger.”
“I bought one.”
“Of course you did.”
“And socks.”
“I have hospital socks.”
“These are better.”
She dumped the backpack onto the chair.
A toothbrush, leggings, underwear, deodorant, granola bars, and a yellow sweatshirt spilled out.
I stared at the sweatshirt.
“That’s yours.”
“You stole it in college.”
“You said I could keep it.”
“I lied.”
I picked it up.
The fabric smelled faintly like her detergent.
Something in me broke again.
Rachel sat on the edge of the bed.
“Tell me everything.”
I told her enough.
Not elegantly.
Not in order.
Ethan.
Sabrina.
The papers.
The frozen account.
The bus.
The surgery.
The triplets.
By the time I finished, Rachel had gone completely still.
“What?”
I asked.
She was looking at the separation agreement on my phone.
“You signed this last night?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have a lawyer there?”
“His lawyer was there.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I know.”
She scrolled.
Her expression changed.
“What is this?”
“What?”
She turned the screen toward me.
A clause near the bottom referred to disclosure schedules I had never seen.
“I don’t know.”
“You signed that you received them.”
“I didn’t.”
Rachel looked up.
“Claire.”
My pulse accelerated.
May you like
“What are disclosure schedules?”
“Financial attachments.”
