Chapter 11 - The Hospital Corridor
Vincent had broken two ribs and suffered a concussion. His driver had a fractured wrist. The collision occurred when another vehicle ran a red light near the courthouse, and police had not established any connection to the financial investigation.
Those were the facts Elena gave me. My imagination supplied everything else.
I sat at my kitchen table with a plane ticket open on my laptop. Chicago was less than three hours away by air. I could be there before midnight. I could walk into his hospital room, take his hand, and be the woman I'd spent five years trying to become again.
Instead I called my doctor, checked that travel was reasonable, and then called Rebecca.
“Am I making a mistake?” I asked.
“Visiting someone who's hurt isn't a legal argument,” she said. “But ask yourself what you expect from it.”
“I don't know.”
“Then make no promises while you're frightened.”
My mother came with me. She did not lecture me. She packed crackers, a bottle of water, and a ridiculous neck pillow shaped like a giraffe.
At the hospital Elena met us near the elevators. Her face crumpled when she saw me.
“He keeps asking whether someone has told you he's all right.”
“Has Sophia been here?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“No. And if she arrives, she can wait outside like anyone else.”
I entered the room slowly.
Vincent was sitting upright in bed, one arm resting against his side. There was a bruise along his jaw and a narrow cut above his eyebrow. He looked human in a way expensive suits had always concealed.
When he saw me, he tried to stand.
“Don't,” I said sharply.
He settled back, eyes shining. “Claire.”
“I'm here because I wanted to make sure you were alive. That's all I know right now.”
He nodded. “That's more than I expected.”
We sat in silence. A monitor beeped quietly. Someone laughed in the hallway.
“I was afraid,” I admitted.
“So was I.”
“Did you think about me?”
“Before I knew what happened, I thought about the baby. And then I thought about how much time I wasted making you feel alone.”
He did not reach for my hand. I noticed that more than I wanted to.
“I've been going to therapy,” he said. “Not to get you back. Because I need to understand why I behaved as if keeping everyone dependent on me was the same thing as loving them.”
“Have you learned anything?”
“Enough to know I have more to learn.”
That answer was painfully ordinary. It was also the first one I believed.
The doctor came in to discuss his discharge plans. I stepped into the corridor while Elena took notes. Across from the elevator was a vending machine humming beneath harsh fluorescent lights. I stood beside it with tears running down my face.
My mother found me there.
“You still love him,” she said.
“Yes.”
“That doesn't mean you have to go back.”
“I know.”
“You can love someone and still need proof they know how to love you.”
I pressed my palms to my eyes. “What if he's really changing?”
“Then time won't ruin it.”
I stayed for twenty more minutes. Before leaving, I told Vincent that my next medical appointment was in two weeks and that I was willing to discuss his attendance with my doctor and attorney. His face brightened, but he kept his voice steady.
“Only if you're comfortable.”
On the flight home, my daughter kicked hard enough to make me gasp. I placed my hand over the movement and imagined telling her one day about the complicated, imperfect adults who had loved her before she was born.
The following morning a photograph of me entering the hospital appeared online. Its caption claimed the billionaire divorce was over and a reconciliation was imminent.
I immediately issued a statement through counsel: Our private family matters remain private. Visiting an injured person does not change the pending divorce.
Some people called me cold. Others called me calculating.
I turned off my phone and went to work.
That afternoon, a letter arrived from Vincent. It was written in shaky handwriting.
Thank you for coming. I won't mistake your kindness for consent. I hope you rest, eat, and know that the door to peaceful co-parenting is open.
May you like
I stood in the nursery and read it twice.
Then I put it beside Noah's drawing, a strange little collection of promises that might, at last, be handled with care.
