Chapter 14
Claudette
They discharged me with a list of instructions that basically amounted to: don’t do anything that might remind you you’re alive.
Avoid stress. Rest frequently. No strenuous activity. Monitor for headaches, dizziness, or changes in vision. Return immediately if symptoms worsen.
At least I could go home. I didn’t realize how much I hated the hospital smell until now. The antiseptic smell that had followed me for two days felt familiar in a way that made my stomach twist.
My parents had gone back to California this morning.
Pauline had visited yesterday, but she wasn’t the usual Pauline I knew—too quiet, too careful.
I hated the way they all looked at me with something resembling pity. Like I was totally fragile and the slightest wind would blow me away. Above all, I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael and Jack’s conversation.
Michael signed my name on the document the nurse pointed, and we were free to go.
The ride home was quiet. Too quiet. Unlike the warmth that had grown between us just days before. Michael kept both hands on the wheel, but his eyes kept flicking to me. Quick glances every thirty seconds like he was making sure I was still alive.
“I’m fine,” I said after the fifth or sixth time.
“I know.”
“Then stop checking.”
He didn’t argue. Just kept driving with his eyes flicking between the road and me, and I felt the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing against the windows.
I turned to look out the window instead. Vegas slid past in a blur of neon and glass, all noise and life I suddenly felt separate from. And I felt so far removed from it. Like I was watching everything through thick glass. Like I was in the car but not really in it. Present but separate.
I’d been relieved about getting discharged, to go home.
Only now, home felt impossibly far away.
I didn’t realize how weak I was until I tried to get out of the car.
My legs shook when I stood, like they’d forgotten how to hold me. The walk from the parking garage to the elevator felt like an eternity. Each step took more effort than the last.
By the time we made it inside the penthouse, I was leaning on Michael completely.
“Easy,” he said. His arm was solid around my waist. “I’ve got you.”
I let him guide me toward the bedroom. My body felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with tired. Like gravity had gotten stronger and my muscles had forgotten how to fight it.
“I need to shower,” I said when we reached the bed.
“Maybe you should rest first. You can shower later—”
“No. I need to shower now. I can still smell that place on me.”
Hospital smell. That antiseptic, sterile scent that seemed to cling to everything. My hair, my skin, my clothes. I could feel it even though I’d changed into clean things before leaving.
Michael was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. Let me help you.”
I wanted to say I could do it myself. That I wasn’t so weak I needed help washing my own body. But standing there, feeling my legs tremble with just the effort of staying upright, I knew that wasn’t true.
“Okay,” I said.
He helped me to the bathroom and turned on the water. Tested the temperature with his hand, adjusting until it was right. Steam started to fill the small space.
“I’ll be right outside the door,” he said. “If you need anything—”
“Stay.”
The word surprised both of us—but the thought of being alone made my chest tighten.
He nodded. I caught the relief in his eyes like he’d been hoping I would say that. His hands were gentle as he helped me out of my clothes. His eyes stayed focused on what he was doing, not on my body, and somehow that made me feel less exposed. Less vulnerable.
The hot water felt like relief when I stepped under it. It washed away the hospital smell, the feeling of sterile sheets and cold rooms and beeping machines. I closed my eyes and let it pour over me, soaking my hair, running down my back.
Michael stood just outside the glass door. Close enough that I could see his outline through the steam. Close enough to reach me if I needed him. Far enough to give me the illusion of privacy.
When I was done—when the water had finally started to run cool and I’d scrubbed my skin until it was pink—he was there with a towel. Wrapped it around me. Helped me dry off with the same attention he’d shown before.
He’d laid out clean pajamas on the counter. Soft cotton that smelled like our laundry detergent instead of hospital. Like home, whatever that meant anymore.
“Better?” he asked when I was dressed.
“Yeah,” I said. “Thank you.”
We moved back to the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed while he disappeared into the bathroom again. When he came back, he had my medications. More pills than I remembered there being before. Or maybe I just hadn’t been paying attention.
He handed them to me one at a time with water, watching like each pill was a lifeline.
Then he set the glass on the nightstand and sat down beside me.
The silence felt different now. Less heavy. More like waiting.
“Tell me,” I said, pulling my knees to my chest.
He looked at me. “Tell you what?”
“What happened.” I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them. “The seizure. All of it. You said you’d explain when we got home.”
He took a breath and let it out slowly. His eyes were fixed on me as he spokes.
“The seizure at the mall wasn’t the first one,” he said. “You had one before. Months ago, right after the wedding. That’s what caused the memory loss. Why you can’t remember the past year.”
I watched his face while he talked. The way his hands rested on his knees, fingers loosely linked but not quite relaxed.
“The doctors ran tests back then,” he continued. “They determined it was an isolated incident. Something that happened once and probably wouldn’t happen again. They monitored you for a while, and when nothing else happened, they thought you were okay.”
“But I’m not, so what next?.”
“You have been fine. For these few weeks. No symptoms. Nothing that would suggest—” He stopped. Started again. “And now it has happened again at the mall.”
And now? Am I dying or something?” I asked, dread building up in my chest.
“You are not,” Michael said sharply, too fast, too forceful. “The doctors are just concerned. They’re running more tests to understand why the seizure is recurring.”
“Is that what you and Jack were talking about?” I asked. “In the hospital hallway?”
His eyes came back to mine. “Yes. We were trying to figure out how to tell you. The doctors said stress could trigger another episode, so we were being careful about how to approach it.”
I wanted to believe him. The explanation made sense on the surface. Seizures happened. They could cause memory loss. They could come back.
I studied Michael’s face. The tension in his shoulders that he was trying to hide. The way he sat like he was holding something heavy that he couldn’t put down.
“Okay,” I said quietly, even though nothing about this felt okay.
“Okay?”
“I understand. About the seizure. About the tests.” I pulled back the covers. “I’m tired.”
He came to my bedside and pulled the cover over me, adjusting my pillows.
Then he settled on the space next to me.
Strong arms pulled me close, his warmth wrapping around me.
I let him. Let myself sink into the warmth of him, the familiar weight of his arm across my waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair.
The medications were starting to work, softening the edges of everything until even my fear felt distant.
And that phrase from the hallway kept circling back, cold and sharp: the peace she has left.
What peace? What was left of it?
Michael’s arms tightened around me. I felt his breath warm against the back of my neck, felt his lips press there gently.
“I love you,” he whispered.
I wanted to say it back. The words were right there. But they stuck in my throat.
Was he lying to me? Even through my suspicions, sleep dragged me under, pulling me down into darkness with Michael’s presence surrounding me and doubt settling cold in my chest.
I woke to darkness—and an empty bed.
My hand reached out automatically, searching for him. Found only sheets that had gone cool.
I sat up slow, waiting for my head to clear. The medications left everything foggy. My thoughts felt like they were moving through something thick. Heavy.
The clock on the nightstand glowed: 2:47 AM.
I pushed back the covers and stood, my feet finding the floor. Cold hardwood that made me more awake.
The house was dark except for a thin line of light spilling from under Michael’s study door.
My feet started moving before I’d fully decided to. One step. Then another. I pushed the door opened, only to find it empty.
It felt like an opportunity. And I needed answers.
If no one would give them to me willingly, I’d find them myself. If only I could get a glimpse of what my life had been a year ago.
I stepped inside, the office was neat and organized. Tasteful furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A massive desk with a computer, a few files stacked precisely, pens arranged at right angles.
I closed the door behind me softly.
If everyone I loved was keeping secrets that might kill me, then I had the right to know what they were.