Chapter 2 - The Hall of Whispers
The words hung in the sterile air like poisoned daggers. Neuroblastoma. Cervical spine. Tremors.
""That's impossible,"" I said flatly, pulling my lips into a defense mechanism of a smile. ""Brian is thirty-nine years old. He runs four miles every morning. He just ran the half-marathon last spring.""
""He ran that half-marathon while undergoing localized radiation in the city,"" Paul countered gently, his hands resting limp at his sides. ""He used an assumed alias at Saint Jude’s Research Hospital two hours north so his name wouldn't show up in local insurance databases. He paid out of pocket from a secondary account he opened during his fellowship.""
My mind spun backward through two years of domestic life. Two years of small, overlooked anomalies. The lock on his bathroom cabinet that he claimed was to keep our daughter Emma away from prescription-strength painkillers. The sudden switch from coffee to herbal tea because he claimed coffee gave him acid reflux. The mornings he would shower before I woke up, the bathroom filled with steam, the laundry hamper already emptied and running in the wash.
He hadn't been washing gym clothes. He had been concealing the aftermath of chemotherapy sickness.
""Why would he do that?"" My voice broke, splintering into a raw sob that scraped against my ribs. ""I'm his wife! We took vows! For better or for worse, in sickness and in health! How could he look me in the eye every morning and lie about where he was going?""
""He didn't want you to watch him die while Emma was still young,"" Paul said, his own voice breaking. ""He convinced himself that if he worked until he physically couldn't stand, he could establish a trust fund large enough to pay off your mortgage, secure Emma’s college education, and leave you both financially untouchable. He knew that if he told you, you would demand he stop working immediately, that you would sell the house, drain your retirement, and spend every last dime on experimental trials that have a five percent survival rate.""
""He had no right to make that decision for us!"" I screamed, the sound tearing out of my throat. I didn't care who heard me through the drywall. ""He made me think he was neglecting our family! He let me sit alone in our bed feeling bitter, feeling unloved, feeling like his career mattered more than his daughter blowing out her eighth birthday candles!""
""I told him that every single day,"" Paul confessed, scrubbing a hand over his face. ""I begged him to sit you down. Last month, when his hands began shaking during a routine consult, I threatened to come to your house myself. That’s when he stopped coming to the main surgical wing altogether.""
""Where is he, Paul?"" I demanded, crossing the room and grabbing the lapels of his white coat. The fabric bunched in my fists. ""Where is my husband?""
Paul looked toward the ceiling, blinking back fresh tears before meeting my frantic gaze. ""He isn't in surgery, Clara. He’s checked into Room 412 in the West Wing. The inpatient palliative hospice unit. He collapsed in the parking garage three nights ago. We admitted him anonymously under a private staff designation.""
My knees buckled completely. Paul caught me under the arms, guiding me toward the beige armchair, but I refused to sit. I couldn't sit. Sitting meant accepting the reality of the room we were in.
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""Three nights ago?"" I gasped, the room tilting violently. ""Three nights ago he called me from his cell phone. He told me the freeway was backed up due to a multi-car collision and that he was going to take an overnight shift to cover for an injured resident. He told me he loved me. He asked if Emma finished her fourth-grade science project.""
""He was on two liters of oxygen and three different anti-nausea drips when he made that call,"" Paul whispered. ""He made the attending physician dial your number for him because his fingers couldn't grip the screen.""
