CHAPTER THIRTY
ALEXANDER
Isabella comes home shortly after nine and closes the door with excessive care, as though even the sound of the latch might hurt her. She remains in the hall for several seconds with her eyes closed and two fingers pressed against her temple, breathing slowly.
I know immediately that something is wrong.
Lily is sitting on the sitting-room rug surrounded by pencils, sheets of paper, and a considerable amount of debris that should be inside the pencil sharpener.
The moment she sees her mother, she gets up to show her the drawing she has finished, but Isabella flinches subtly when the child’s voice carries across the room.
“Mum, look! I made a sea monster, but he isn’t bad because he only eats fish that don’t brush their teeth.”
Isabella opens her eyes and attempts a smile, although the effort makes her look even paler.
“That sounds like a very responsible dietary policy.”
Lily runs toward her, waving the paper. Before Isabella needs to bend down, I approach and take her bag.
“Are you in pain?”
She gives me an irritated look, perhaps because I noticed or because the pain has made concealing it impossible.
“It’s only a migraine. I need to take something and lie down for a few minutes.”
Lily stops explaining the dental habits of fish and studies her mother with the same concern we showed during her fever a few weeks ago.
“Are you sick?”
“No, sweetheart. My head just hurts.”
The answer does not entirely reassure her. Our daughter looks at the drawing, then at Isabella, and lowers her voice to an almost inaudible whisper.
“Can I show you quietly?”
This time, Isabella’s smile looks more genuine.
“Of course you can.”
Lily approaches on tiptoe as though participating in a secret operation and presents a blue creature surrounded by disproportionately large fish. Isabella praises the colors, asks why the monster has fifteen teeth, and promises to inspect the details in the morning when her head feels better.
“He has sixteen,” Lily corrects, offended. “This one is behind his tongue.”
“Then I’ll need proper lighting to conduct a thorough assessment.”
Satisfied with the arrangement, Lily agrees to go upstairs and brush her own teeth.
I accompany her before Isabella has to ask, carrying with me instructions not to turn on the corridor lights and not to allow our daughter to come back downstairs three more times in search of water, another kiss, or urgent information about sea monsters.
It takes just over half an hour to negotiate a bath, pajamas, a story, and three separate disputes concerning bedtime. Lily wants to know whether her mother’s pain can pass to her, whether sea monsters can have migraines, and whether she should take a glass of water to Isabella’s room.
“Your mum needs to rest,” I explain as I adjust the blanket around her shoulders. “We can help by being quiet.”
“You too?”
“Especially me.”
“Because you talk about work a lot.”
“That accusation has merit.”
She does not entirely understand but seems satisfied. After making me promise that I will wake Isabella if the house catches fire, she closes her eyes with the sea monster drawing propped against the bedside lamp.
When I return to the sitting room, I find Isabella on the sofa, still dressed for work, with her laptop open across her legs. The screen looks painfully bright even from the other side of the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Finishing a presentation.”
“Your eyes are almost closed.”
“It’s a new concentration technique.”
I approach but do not touch the computer. A few months ago, I would have shut it without asking, called Helena, and reorganized the following morning in the name of an efficiency no one had requested.
“Does it have to be finished tonight?”
“The meeting is at nine tomorrow. I still need to check the figures, reply to Helena, and review the client’s final changes.”
Her voice is lower than usual. Isabella tries to read another line, then presses a hand to her forehead again and turns away from the light.
My first instinct is to take over. I recognize the impulse before it becomes action and ask the only question that should matter.
“What do you need from me?”
Isabella looks up suspiciously, as though expecting the question to conceal an order.
“A painkiller, water, and silence.”
“Anything else?”
“Alexander.”
“I’m asking, not negotiating.”
Some of the tension leaves her face.
“Maybe something to eat. I didn’t manage much lunch.”
I do not comment on the missed meal or begin a lecture about basic self-care.
I go into the kitchen, find the medication she usually takes, and warm up the soup made the previous day.
I could call someone and turn a simple task into a domestic operation, but I am beginning to understand that caring for someone does not always mean offering the most sophisticated solution available.
When I return, Isabella has closed the laptop herself.
I give her the tablet and water, then place the tray on the table. She studies the soup, bread, and dimmed lights before looking at me.
“You didn’t call my assistant.”
“No.”
“Or cancel tomorrow’s meeting.”
“No.”
“Are you ill?”
I sit in the armchair, leaving enough distance that my presence does not feel like surveillance.
“You asked for food and silence. The instruction seemed clear.”
Isabella takes the medication and tastes the soup.
“It’s good.”
“It was made yesterday. I only heated it.”
“Thank you for the honesty. For a moment, I was afraid you had discovered a culinary vocation and were planning to buy a restaurant.”
“I wouldn’t rule out an investment if the market analysis were favorable.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.”
For several minutes, we remain silent. I do not ask every thirty seconds whether the pain has improved or monitor how many spoonfuls she eats. I answer a few messages with the brightness on my phone reduced and allow Isabella to decide whether she wants company.
When she finishes, she rests her head against the back of the sofa and closes her eyes.
“Can you set an alarm for twenty minutes? If I sleep longer, I won’t finish the presentation.”
“I can.”
I place my phone on the table and cover her with the throw folded over a chair. My hand nearly reaches her hair, but I stop before touching her, uncertain whether the contact would ease the pain or make her uncomfortable.
Isabella opens one eye.
“You can touch me.”
I move my fingers slowly over her head, brushing the hair away from her face.
“Like this?”
“A little farther to the left.”
I adjust the pressure and massage the place she indicated, watching the tension gradually leave her forehead. Isabella falls asleep before I finish setting the alarm, one hand resting on top of the blanket.
When the twenty minutes are over, I silence the phone before it makes a sound.
She sleeps for almost two hours.
I do not finish her presentation, call Helena, or inspect the files open on the laptop.
I remain in the armchair, working quietly and making certain no bright light or sound from the corridor wakes her.
It is a strangely difficult form of care for someone accustomed to measuring his usefulness by the number of decisions he makes.
Shortly before eleven, Isabella opens her eyes and looks around, disoriented.
“You didn’t wake me.”
“No.”
“I needed to work.”
“You needed to sleep.”
She sits up slowly and pushes away the blanket.
“I asked you to set an alarm.”
“You did. You never said I had to obey it if you were sleeping deeply and clearly needed more time.”
Isabella gives me a tired look.
“That was a very elaborate way of admitting you ignored my instruction.”
“Probably.”
She stays still for several seconds, assessing her body.
“The pain is much better.”
“Good.”
“I still have to finish the presentation.”
“Would you prefer me to stay while you work, or do you want to be alone?”
The question seems to surprise her more than it should.
“You can stay, but do not give me an opinion unless I ask for one.”
“A difficult condition, but acceptable.”
We work in the same room for a little over an hour.
She reviews her slides while I read documents from the investigative team, neither interfering in her presentation nor offering suggestions she has not requested.
At one point, Isabella finds a discrepancy in a figure and uses a word that would require a contribution to Lily’s imaginary swear jar.
I resist the impulse to approach and discover that she is perfectly capable of resolving the problem without my involvement.
When she finally closes the laptop, she rubs a hand over her face and looks at me.
“Thank you.”
“For the soup?”
“For not trying to manage my pain as though it were a company in crisis.”
The words reach a sensitive place inside me.
“I’m learning that helping does not mean taking control.”
“You are,” she acknowledges after a brief hesitation. “You still haven’t learned to respect alarms, but I suppose we cannot demand everything at once.”
“I intend to appeal that accusation.”
Isabella goes upstairs soon afterward. Before disappearing, she looks back as though she wants to add something, but only wishes me good night.
I remain in the sitting room for several minutes, aware that the quiet trust of the evening is worth more than any closeness I could have tried to force.
The following morning, Isabella looks better.
She attends the meeting, secures the contract, and returns in time for dinner with Lily, who demands a detailed assessment of all sixteen teeth belonging to the sea monster.
We do not discuss the hours she spent asleep on the sofa, although a new awareness appears whenever our eyes meet.
Once the house is quiet, I retreat to the office to examine the latest documents concerning Merrick Consulting. The investigators have uncovered a second bank account, along with transfers that may connect a private investigation firm to Richard.
At ten fifteen, the door opens.