“Seriously?” I stammered.
“Okay,” he repeated, a simple, solemn vow.
Cliffhanger: Before I could ask if he was insane, the gurney began to roll. The double doors of the surgical wing swallowed me, and the last thing I saw was Mark Grant nodding to me as if we had just signed a contract in blood.
Chapter 5: The Smell of Chicken Broth
The darkness came like the snow—soft, muffled, and absolute.
I woke to a dull, deep ache in my abdomen, the sensation of my own body being unfamiliar to me. I opened my eyes to see the river-shaped crack in the ceiling. I was alive. The simple immensity of that thought made me want to weep. Inhale. Exhale. It was a good pain. The pain of the living.
Brenda Sanchez appeared, her face a mask of genuine relief. “You’re back, Jessica. Dr. Herrera was flawless. Everything was removed. And,” she paused, her voice dropping to a whisper, “your reproductive organs were preserved. You can still have children, honey.”
I closed my eyes, a warm wave of relief washing from my chest to my toes.
I looked at the next bed. Mark had been brought back earlier. He was staring at the gray November sky, but when my gurney rolled in, he turned his head.
“Alive?” he asked.
“Alive,” I replied.
“Good,” he said. There was no fluff in that “good.” It was a statement of fact.
Over the next three days, Mark became my quiet anchor. He didn’t hover. He didn’t perform the cloying solicitude that makes the caregiver the hero of the story. He was just there. On the third day, a nurse named Nicole—a woman with a flashy manicure and a voice like a hacksaw—walked in.
“Your husband called the desk,” she said, her eyes evaluative rather than kind. “He said he’s picking up the rest of his things from the apartment and you shouldn’t try to reach him.”
I just nodded. “Okay.”
