Chapter 2
Claire stayed until my sister arrived.
My older sister, Mara, came through the hospital doors wearing mismatched shoes. That was the first thing I noticed. One black sneaker. One navy sneaker. She had apparently left her office, driven to my apartment to collect the emergency bag I had hidden behind boxes in the storage closet, and then driven directly to the hospital without noticing what she had put on her feet.
When she entered my room, she stopped. For a moment neither of us spoke.
Our relationship had become complicated during the previous year. Not because we stopped loving each other. Because love, when someone is afraid, can become difficult to receive.
Mara had asked too many accurate questions. Why did I cancel Sunday lunches whenever my husband was home? Why did I no longer have access to the joint savings account? Why did I start asking her to text before calling? Why had I stopped visiting our mother?
I answered every question with explanations. Work. Pregnancy exhaustion. Misunderstandings. Stress.
Mara had listened until one afternoon, three months earlier, when she said, “I don't need you to convince me that everything is perfect. I just need you to know that if you ever need somewhere to go, my door is open.”
I had become furious. At least, I acted furious. I told her she was trying to interfere with my marriage. We didn't speak for seventeen days afterward.
Now she stood beside my hospital bed with two different shoes on.
“Hi,” she said.
My throat tightened. “Hi.”
She placed my bag on the chair. “I brought everything on your list.”
“You still had the list?”
“You told me to delete it.”
“I know.”
“I didn't.”
A weak laugh escaped me. “That sounds like you.”
“Yes.”
She came closer. Then she stopped again, as if waiting for permission. That almost broke me.
“Mara.”
May you like
She leaned down. I held her. Neither of us said anything for a long time.
The police spoke with me the following morning. I gave them the recording. I answered questions slowly. Claire gave her statement separately. There were practical decisions to make about where I would stay and what would happen next, but the hospital's social worker helped separate those questions into manageable pieces.
