Chapter Twenty-Three Nate
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nate
I wake at dawn, before the kids stir, and stand with a cup of hot coffee at the window in my den.
Snow has fallen. The pinkish glow of sunrise casts an ethereal light on the street.
Ice crystals sparkle like gemstones, and I wish Sienna were here to see it.
She’s always appreciated the color variations and patterns of the natural world.
From it, she drew inspiration for her decor.
I, in turn, drew inspiration from her. Without knowing Sienna, I never would have made it as a chef. I owe her everything, which is why I’m steeped in regret over the choices I’ve made. Whenever I think of her last words to me, I feel myself eroding into a pit of disgrace.
Turning from the snowy view outside the window, I scold myself for thinking that I can’t come back from this.
Sienna’s not gone. She’s still in the hospital, fighting to live.
Amanda seems to think she can hear us when we talk to her.
I’m not sure if that’s true. Maybe it’s just something we humans like to believe because it brings us comfort or a sense of purpose, as if we’re doing something to bring loved ones back from the brink, whatever that means.
Either way, I’m feeling desperate. I want to return to the hospital and turn things around. I can’t wait for the children to rise. I’m too restless.
Twenty minutes later, I pass through sliding glass doors and head for the elevators. I’m still cold from the morning chill, so I keep my jacket zipped until I step off the elevator and reach the doors to the ICU, where I stop and pause.
I picture Sienna in her hospital bed with tubes coming out of her and the ventilator breathing for her. I see the cuts and bruises on her face, the bandage around her fractured skull.
I swallow heavily and prepare myself to walk in and see her that way again. It’s not an easy sight to behold, especially when I’m the one responsible.
Amanda was right. Life isn’t fair. Sienna is a good person, a loving wife, but all I ever thought about was my own success and getting my hands on her money. I’m a horrible person, and I hate myself.
It should have been me. I’m the one who should have drowned.
After a brief conversation with the nurse who is just coming off the night shift, I enter Sienna’s room.
I stop at the foot of her bed and take in the disturbing picture before me: my beautiful wife, bruised, cut, and battered.
Her eyes are closed, her lids heavy. The room is quiet, the air tense with the uncertainty of her condition.
Where is her soul right now? Aside from the ventilator machine, it’s deathly quiet. Until another monitor beeps noisily.
I jump because I’m skittish. I feel like God is standing over my shoulder, judging me and finding me selfish and prideful because of how I took my wife for granted.
I thought only about what she could do for me, how she could lift me up.
That’s not love. It’s greed. My stomach squeezes like a fist. I don’t deserve her.
If she survives this horror, I swear on my life that I will turn over a new leaf. I’ll stop thinking about myself, and I’ll spend the rest of my days giving her everything she wants and needs.
Then I realize that the time to start giving is now because I’m in no position to bargain or negotiate. The doctor said we should talk to her, so I move to the chair, sit down, and take hold of her hand.
I sit in silence at first and stare at her face. I study every bruise and laceration, and I torture myself by imagining her in the water, panicked and terrified when she was dragged by a fast and powerful current toward the hard rocks, then catapulted into the air on a breaking wave.
My heart is on its knees. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.”
My soul begs for her forgiveness.
Does she feel my presence? My remorse?
“I wish I had a time machine,” I say shakily. “Do you remember how happy we used to be? Do you remember walking the dogs every night after supper? Scooter and Dolly. What a pair they were.”
I close my eyes and think of it. The crickets in the grass. Chatting with neighbors who were also out walking their dogs. Riding the elevator back up to our apartment and smiling at each other.
I sit back in the stiff chair in the ICU and watch Sienna’s eyelids. I search for a flutter, but there’s no sign of life. Her hands are limp as I clasp and kiss them.
“Where are you right now?” I ask, feeling desperate, as if time is running out and this is my last chance. “Can you hear me? If you can, please know that I’d be nothing and nowhere without you. Please come back. I need you, and the children need you.”
I become aware of another presence in the room. It feels dark, not what I want. I turn in the chair and look toward the door.
The morning nurse, the same woman from yesterday, speaks in a disturbingly loud voice. “Mr. Palmer. You have to talk to the police again.”
My insides coil with panic. “They’re back?”
“Yes, outside the unit.” Her eyes are dark with judgment, and I feel her disdain, as if she’s shooting it straight at my head. I wonder what the Facebook trolls have been posting overnight.
After rising from my chair, I bend over Sienna and kiss her forehead. “I’ll be back, I promise.”
The next moments are a blur, as if I’m shrouded in a fog. The nurse leads me to the main ICU doors and pushes the button. The doors open, and I walk out.
LaPierre and Lawson approach.
“Mr. Palmer,” Lawson says. “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of your wife, Sienna Palmer.”
Oh, God. What did they find?
LaPierre takes hold of my arms and cuffs my wrists behind my back.
I know better than to argue or resist, so I cooperate and walk willingly. “Call my brother, Arthur,” I say to LaPierre.
“We’ll do that from the station,” he replies. “And just so you know, the press is out front.”
“Great.” My perp walk will be on the midday news, and my family will see my shame.