Chapter 40
CHAPTER 40
EARL
T he hospital corridor is eerily quiet at this hour, the fluorescent lights casting a cold, sterile glow that only amplifies the feeling of guilt inside me. I stand just outside her father’s room, peering through the narrow glass window in the door.
Raven didn’t come out. She simply put the phone down and slumped deeper into the chair and almost immediately fell back to sleep. Under the blanket tight her body is curled into itself as if she’s trying to shield herself from the world. Her exhaustion is palpable as her chest rises and falls slowly as she drifts in and out of a restless sleep. The dim light accentuates the shadows under her eyes.
I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always been a force of nature, strong-willed and defiant, even in the face of chaos. But now? Now, she looks so fragile it makes my heart ache. She’s still so beautiful, even in sickness, but that only makes the guilt twist harder in my stomach.
I’ve done this to her.
I’ve been so wrapped up in my anger, my need to punish her for the past, that I’ve ignored what she’s been carrying.
My phone vibrates softly in my pocket, but I don’t look at it. My focus stays on her, on the faint furrow of her brow as she shifts slightly in her seat. My gaze shifts to her father. He’s lying pale and still, the machines around him humming softly as they monitor his condition.
I’ve avoided her parents for so long, not out of malice but because I couldn’t face them. They’ve always been kind to me, treating me like family. And now, seeing him like this, I’m ashamed about how I’ve acted. I should have been here for him, for her. I should have done more.
I step away from the door and lean against the cool wall.
She’s sick. I can see it in the way she moves, sluggish and weak, but knowing her, she’ll ignore and carry on as if nothing is wrong with her. This mule-headed stubbornness is usually a mixture of infuriation and endearment, but right now, it’s terrifying. She won’t let herself rest, not while her father is like this. She’ll push herself until she breaks.
I pull my phone out and type another message, my fingers hesitating over the screen. The words feel inadequate, but it’s all I can do right now.
Please take care of yourself.
Check on that cold before it gets worse.
I’ll be back later for you.
I send it before I can overthink, the soft buzz in my hand signaling its delivery. I glance again through the narrow glass and see her phone vibrating on the table beside her. She stirs slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. She looks at the screen, her expression unreadable, before letting her eyes drift closed again. She’s too exhausted to even pick up the phone.
I know she knows it’s a message from me, and yet she can’t be bothered to even look at it. The rejection stings, but how can I blame her? I’ve been such a beast. Why should she trust me? Why should she let me in? I turn and walk away, my footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. Each step feels heavier than the last, the dark cloud of my remorse and regret pressing down on me.
I step outside, the icy unforgiving wind cuts through my jacket, but I inhale the cold air deeply. It helps to clear my head. I glance back at the hospital, the warm glow of the lights spilling onto the pavement. She’s in there, fighting her own battle, and all I can do is pray I haven’t pushed her past the brink.
The town is quiet, blanketed by the stillness and by the time I get home, it’s late. I head straight to Raven’s room, unable to shake the image of her slumped in that chair, barely holding herself together.
I push the door open, and the state of the room stops me in my tracks. Her dress from earlier is crumpled on the floor, damp and wrinkled. The bed is unmade, the blanket half-hanging off the side. A cup of tea sits abandoned on the bedside table, its contents untouched and cold. The air feels stale as if it’s holding onto the exhaustion she left behind. It’s a mess, a stark contrast to how she usually keeps things, and it feels like a snapshot of her state of mind—disordered, neglected, overwhelmed.
I take a deep breath and pull out my phone and call Nora. She answers after a few rings, her voice groggy but attentive. I’m already pacing as I speak, the words tumbling out too fast.
“Can you get a couple of maids to come up to my wife’s room?” I ask. “I need her room cleaned. A dress needs to be sent to the dry cleaners, and the bed made properly. Bring a heavier blanket and make sure the heating is turned up. It’s freezing in here.”
“Of course,” she replies without hesitation, her professionalism cutting through the tension in my voice.
She arrives alone carrying a thick, folded blanket, sheets, and a basket of cleaning materials.
“I didn’t bother the maids. This is easy work. I’ll get on it,” she says.
She moves with practiced efficiency, her presence grounding me in a way I didn’t expect. She starts by tidying the bedside table, discarding the cold tea and wiping down the surface. Then she starts stripping the bed. The air in the room seems to shift, becoming lighter and more bearable.
I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her work. The sight of the room being put back in order brings a strange sense of relief, and then I decide to join in, helping her tuck in the fresh sheets. It feels like such a small thing in the grand scheme of everything, but it’s something tangible, something I can do for her.
Nora smiles at me. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
“Thank you, Nora. I’ll have to see about giving you a raise next month.”
She beams at me, then moves towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, she comes back out. “All done. Is there anything else, Mr. Jackson?” Nora asks. Her voice is warm and kind and it pulls me out of my thoughts.
I shake my head and smile at her. “No. That’s all. Thank you.”
She hesitates, her gaze lingering on me. “She’ll be alright, you know,” she says gently as if she can see the worry etched into my face. “She’s young and strong.”
I don’t respond. The words stick in my throat, too heavy to form. I simply nod, and she leaves, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing in the quiet.
The room feels too empty, too quiet. I’m used to Raven’s inimitable presence filling the space, her positive energy, her stubborn determination. Without her, it’s like the house has lost its heartbeat.
I settle onto the sofa in the corner of the room, unable to leave. My eyes scan the now-tidy space, landing on the freshly made bed, the folded blanket at the foot. It’s all ready for her, but there’s no guarantee she’ll come back. I lean back against the sofa, my hands gripping the edges. What if I’ve lost her forever? The minutes stretch into hours, each one more unbearable than the last.
Eventually, exhaustion takes over and I drag myself to my own room, collapsing on the bed without bothering to change. Sleep doesn’t come easily, though. The image of her, so small and tired in that hospital chair, stays with me, haunting me as the night stretches on. And in the background the pitiful sound of her father’s labored breathing—it all replays in my mind, over and over.
I glance at my phone on the nightstand, tempted to text her again. To check on her, to make sure she’s okay. But I know she won’t respond. Even if she was awake, she’s too stubborn, too angry, and I’ve done too much damage for her to let me in again so easily. I just hope she is sleeping.
The hours tick by until I give up on sleep entirely. I return to her room, sitting on the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. The weight of my mistakes, my regrets and my fear of losing her for good presses down on me. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t even know if I can.
But I know one thing: I’ll do whatever it takes to try.