Chapter 2 - The Truth Beside the Bed
Room 314 smelled of iodine, antiseptic, and stale rainwater.
Daniel stood frozen in the doorway. Rachel lay propped up on the narrow hospital bed, looking impossibly small beneath the stiff white sheets. An IV line ran into the crook of her left arm, delivering a deep crimson bag of packed red blood cells. Another monitor beeped at a steady, fragile rhythm.
Her skin, usually warm and glowing, was translucent, shaded with pale lavender circles beneath her closed eyelids. Her cheekbones protruded sharply. Daniel remembered thinking she had gone on an unnecessary diet. He had thought it was vanity. He had thought it was to look good for someone else.
Tears scalded his eyes before he could stop them.
Beside the bed on a metal side table lay her open leather handbag. Next to it was a small, spiral-bound blue notebook with a dog-eared cover. Written on the front in Rachel’s neat, flowing cursive were the words: Dan’s Life Without Me.
Daniel felt his knees buckle. He reached out to brace himself against the bedrail, the metal cold and unyielding against his palm. He picked up the notebook with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
He flipped to the first page, dated three months ago.
August 14: White blood cell count down to 1.8. Dr. Vance says we need to accelerate the immunosuppressive therapy. Dan looked at me strange tonight when I went to bed early. I wanted to tell him so badly. I wanted to bury my head in his chest and cry until my throat hurt. But his firm is auditing his division. He’s already having panic attacks about money. If he knows I’m sick, he’ll drop everything. He’ll bankrupt himself trying to save me. I won’t let my disease ruin his dream.
Daniel turned the page, a sob catching violently in his throat.
September 3: Making a list of Dan’s routines so he doesn’t get lost if things go bad. The plumber’s number is under the sink. The furnace filter needs changing every ninety days—he always forgets. Dan likes the Colombian roast, medium grind. Remind him to take his blood pressure pills with breakfast, not coffee, or his stomach burns.
October 2: The treatments make me so nauseous I can barely look at dinner. Dan thinks I’m rejecting his cooking. He looked so hurt tonight when I couldn't eat the lasagna. God, forgive me for lying. I told him my stomach was just upset from lunch. It breaks my heart to see him pull away, but if I don't survive this trial, it will hurt him less if he already thinks we’re drifting apart. Maybe anger is kinder than grief.
“Daniel?”
A voice, faint as dry leaves, broke the silence.
Daniel dropped the notebook back onto the table and looked up. Rachel’s dark eyes were open, glassy and bewildered. She stared at him as if he were a ghost that had wandered into her dream.
“Rachel,” he choked out, collapsing onto the vinyl chair beside her bed. He reached out, his hand hovering hesitantly, terrified that touching her might break her fragile frame, before he carefully enveloped her cold, needle-bruised fingers in both of his. “Rachel, oh God, Rachel...”
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“Why are you here?” she whispered, her brow furrowing weakly. “You had... you had the big client lunch today. You’re not supposed to be here.”
“To hell with the lunch,” he wept openly, pressing her hand against his cheek, letting his tears wet her pale skin. “Rachel, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you scream at me? Why did you carry this alone?”
