58. Resilient Design
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
RESILIENT DESIGN
Ethan
My eyes fly open, and I grit my teeth forcing myself to stay still while the room comes into focus. Sunlight filters through partially opened blinds. A monitor blinks steadily in the corner. A vase of almost aggressively cheerful flowers sits on the windowsill.
Claire is asleep in the chair beside me, her head resting awkwardly against the hard plastic. Her hair, usually so carefully contained, has slipped loose. Last time I opened my eyes Reid was sitting beside me.
How long has she been here?
The thought aches with a tenderness that surprises me. I watch her before clearing my throat. The sound is weak and rough, but it’s enough. Her eyes open, snapping awake. Disoriented at first, her gaze sweeping the room, she then sees me watching her. Relief floods her face.
“Ethan,” she whispers, her voice cracking around my name.
I manage a small, lopsided smile, but the effort sends a dull throb through my shoulder. “You look terrible,” I say.
A ragged sound halfway to a sob slips out of her. “I know and I’m not the one who got stabbed.”
“Yeah.”
“You idiot.”
Before I can say anything else, she threads her fingers through mine. “You scared me.” Her voice is stripped bare.
My fingertips trace slow circles against the back of her hand, a silent apology. “I’m sorry.”
The door to the hospital room bangs open, and Ellie barrels in. Her coat is half-off and her bag is swinging. She’s already talking before she’s through the door. The nurse tries to stop her, then merely shakes her head with a sigh.
“Dad!”
I brace myself before she launches toward the bed. “Ow.”
She freezes in horror. “Oh…”
I start laughing, a wheezing, painful sound, which turns out to be another mistake. The movement sends another wave of pain through my shoulder.
“Okay,” I say, through clenched teeth. “Laughing is apparently also painful.”
Claire rolls her eyes, while Ellie begins apologizing.
I look up as someone clears their throat and see a man in a suit followed by two uniformed police officers.
“Excuse us, Mr. Bennett? I’m Detective Hale with the Juniper Ridge Police Department. I brought two officers with me to finish taking your statement. Is this a good time?” he asks, stepping farther into the room.
“Hello, Mrs. Bennett. Good to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances,” he says when he spots Claire.
“Detective. I think Ethan’s had enough for one day. Could you come back at a different time?”
“Of course.” He dibs his chin once. “I did want to let you know that Jake Peters has been arrested. He’s been charged with assault and battery with a deadly weapon.
” He glances between us before continuing.
“We also executed a search warrant at his parents’ home.
We found a notebook containing impressions that match the threatening letter left on your windshield, as well as the one mailed to Juniper House.
The knife he used in the attack is the same one he used to slash your tires.
We also believe he may be responsible for the graffiti, but at this point we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. ”
Claire lets out a slow breath. “Thank you, Detective. That’s such a relief.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am. We’ll keep you updated as the investigation moves forward.” With a final nod, he and the two officers leave the room.
Recovery is frustrating. Doctors come and go without pattern, their faces already half-forgotten before they’ve cleared the doorway. Nurses wake me at unreasonable hours. Physical therapists seem determined to prove that smiling people can still be cruel.
Yet, through it all, Claire remains.
Sometimes she sits beside the bed working on crossword puzzles. Sometimes she answers emails on her laptop. Sometimes she flips through magazines. Every time I wake up, she’s there.
By the third day, I’m finally cleared to go home.
The word “home,” usually a comfort, creates an unexpected feeling of anxiety. I honestly don’t know what that means anymore. The answer arrives while Claire helps gather discharge paperwork. “I’m coming home with you.”
“What?”
She doesn’t look up from the stack of papers in her hands. “Ellie and I are moving back home for a while.”
Surely, I heard that wrong.
“You can’t drive or lift anything. You can’t even put on a shirt without assistance. Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
I look back and forth between her and a nodding Ellie, who is perched on the edge of a plastic chair.
“You don’t have to do that. But if you do,” I say, the words tasting unfamiliar, “I want us to set rules. I don’t want you moving back because I got hurt and every boundary disappears.”
“What kind of rules?”
“You stay in the master bedroom,” I say, my voice firm. “That will be your private space. If I need help, I ask instead of assuming. If you say no, I don’t punish you with guilt or wounded looks.” I manage a weak smile. “Or at least, I become less obvious about the wounded looks.”
“And counseling continues,” she says.
“Counseling continues,” I agree. “Even if things feel better. Especially if things feel better.”
“Okay.”
An hour later, we pull into the driveway together.
Ellie begins carrying bags upstairs, while Claire heads for the kitchen as though she never left.
Within an hour, there is food in the refrigerator, a medication schedule sitting neatly on the counter, discharge instructions taped to the refrigerator, and enough supplies to survive a minor natural disaster.
I’m beginning to suspect the stabbing activated some sort of military commander hidden deep inside my wife.
When I wake from a nap, I hear Claire before I see her. I start to lift my shirt, but my hands freeze. “Do you mind help me?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
“I do.”
The bandage change hurts, but I remain still. “Thank you.”
One evening, I go downstairs for water and find Claire asleep on the couch, a book resting on her chest. I watch her before quietly retreating. But I must make a sound because she stirs.
When her eyes open and find me, a faint frown creases her brow. “You should be in bed.” Her voice is thick with sleep.
We find a new rhythm. Claire makes breakfast most mornings.
Ellie makes a daily habit of listing all the things I’m no longer allowed to do, a task she enjoys immensely.
We eat dinner together, and though the silences are sometimes heavy, the quiet clink of forks against plates begins to feel normal.
“I can tell you’re really trying,” she says one evening.
My chest aches in a place the knife never touched. “Yes.”
“And I’m trying not to punish you. I’m really scared though.”