Chapter 15
Zoe
I wake to knocking. It is a sharp, insistent sound. It is nothing like the polite, two-knuckle rap of the hotel staff. Chris stirs beside me, his eyelids groggy. He is already reaching for a robe as the noise continues, getting faster and frantic against the wood.
"Chris. Chris, I know you're in there."
Sarai's voice is thin. It cracks straight through the bedroom door.
Chris looks at me, a tight line forming along his jaw. He crosses the carpet to open it before she can wake up the entire floor. The second the lock clicks, she pushes her shoulder past him into the suite. Her eyes look wild. Her hair is unbrushed.
"You didn't pick up," she says, rounding on him immediately. "I called you six times."
"Sarai, this isn't the time—"
Her gaze drifts across the room and lands on me. I am sitting up against the headboard, the linen sheet pulled up to my chest. Something in her face collapses and hardens all at once.
"Of course," she says, her voice climbing higher. "Of course she is here."
"Sarai." Chris steps between us, blocking her view of the bed. His voice is low and controlled. It is the type of tone that tells me he has had this exact discussion with her before, just never with an audience. "You need to leave."
"He's mine." She says it directly to me, ignoring him. Her hands shake at her sides. "Do you understand that? Eight years, Zoe. For eight years I have been the one he comes to. The one he takes care of. You left. You left him, and I was the one who stayed. Now you just walk back in and—"
"Sarai, stop." Chris's voice cracks through the room, sharp. "I have never once been yours. Not for one single day of those eight years."
"You don't mean that." Her voice drops, pleading now instead of accusing. "You can't mean that. We share something no one else understands. We share him." Her hand flies to her chest. "We were supposed to build something out of what was left. That was always the plan, wasn't it? That was always—"
"There was never a plan, Sarai." He says it gently, which makes it land harder than a shout. "There was grief and guilt. I let you turn both of those things into something they were never supposed to be. That is on me. But there was never a version of this where I was yours to have."
Her face falls apart. For a moment, I see something under her anger. It is something younger, more frightened and lost than I have ever let myself notice before.
"I don't know who I am without this," she whispers mostly to herself, her eyes staring at the carpet. "Without you being around me."
Chris does not answer her. He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. Without looking away from her, he dials a number.
"Mother," he says when the line connects. "I need you to come. Now. I think we need to get Sarai someone to actually talk to. A real doctor. Not just us, not anymore."
Sarai flinches like he struck her, but she does not argue.
She sinks down onto the edge of the armchair by the window.
Her whole body folds inward. She starts to cry.
These are not the theatrical tears I have watched her produce a hundred times over the years.
This is quieter and more exhausted, like a woman finally putting down a weight she has carried since the day her husband died.
After a while, the door opens again. Greta walks into the room, her silver-handled walking stick clicking against the floor. She is accompanied by some staff members from the hospital. Greta looks at the both of them, then steps closer to us.
"Don't worry, I will handle it," she says, watching the medical staff help Sarai up from the chair. She turns back to her son, giving him a meaningful look. "I want you both to bring this to an end now. Your kids want you to end this too."
I smile shyly at her, my cheeks growing warm, and I nod at her words.
I look over at Chris. He seems lost as he stares at the empty space ahead of him, his posture stiff. I reach out and rub his arm, letting my touch pull him back to the room.
"What about Julius?" he asks quietly, his eyes searching mine.
I smile at him, my voice soft. "He has a mother, a grandmother, and an uncle." I lift my finger, pointing directly at my own chest. "And an auntie, and a grandaunt who is willing to take care of him too."
I pull the sheets aside and step out of the bed. "Come," I say.
I take his hand, leading him away from the door. I shut the bedroom door tightly, locking the noise of the world outside, and the click of the latch signals that we are completely alone. I guide him back to the mattress. We sit down together.
"I forgive you, Chris," I say.
"Oh, Z—"
"No, let me finish," I say, placing a hand over his mouth. "I have to confess that I had already listened in on your conversation when you spoke with her. You are not the cause of the death of your brother. And even if you were..."
I lift my chin. He is already looking up at me, his eyes locked onto mine.
"I think we have been through too much for you to think that I wouldn't first ask you the whys and the how’s, and then think about how to become an accomplice. You know this somewhere deep down, if you are able to think past your fears. You know that I would never leave you. You know this."
He nods his head repeatedly, his breathing slowing down. I can see that he wants something from me right now, so I ask him, "What is it, Chris?"
"Can I kiss you now?" he asks, his voice low.
I laugh softly, my hands finding his neck. "Yes, you can."
His hands immediately pull me closer. He lifts my frame up, shifting his weight until he places me securely on top of his lap. Before his lips touch mine, he stops, looking into my eyes.
"Will we be okay?" he asks, wanting to be sure about us after everything that just went down.
I nod my head against his forehead. "Yes, yes, we will be fine."
He captures my lips with his. His mouth works actively to undo all the guards I built up over the months. I slide my fingers into his hair and simply let him undo me.
***
By evening, we make our way down to the hotel restaurant to meet the kids for dinner. Elizabeth and Nate are already seated at a large round table near the center of the room. The bright lights of the dining hall reflect off the silverware, and the chatter of other guests filters through the space.
The moment we walk up to the table together, Elizabeth looks up from her menu. Her eyes dart from my face to Chris's, taking in our posture. A small, knowing smile breaks across her lips. Nate bounces slightly in his chair, waving his fork to get our attention.
"Finally," Nate says as we pull out our chairs. "I thought you guys were going to sleep through dinner."
"We had some things to sort out, pumpkin," I say, smoothing the napkin over my lap.
A collective ease settles over the table as the waiter brings out our meals.
For the first time in nearly a year, the heavy silence that usually hangs over family gatherings is gone.
I look across the table at Elizabeth, who is actively talking with her brother about her graduation gifts, her hands gesturing in the air.
Happiness warms my skin, thick and real.
I find myself laughing out loud at a joke Nate makes, the sound free of the old strain.
Underneath the white linen table cloth, a warm palm slides over my knee.
Chris reaches out, his fingers sliding between mine until our hands are firmly locked together out of sight. I do not pull away. Instead, I squeeze back, anchoring my weight against his grip.
I turn my head slightly to look at my husband. Chris is already staring at me. We share a lingering smile underneath the chatter of our children. He doesn't say a word, but the steady pressure of his fingers against mine promises everything I need to know.