“Mommy, the sauce!” My daughter’s voice pulled me from my stupor.
I hadn’t moved. I had remained rooted to the spot, motionless, spoon still in hand. The pasta was overflowing and Liam asked, “Mom, what is six times three? This is the last one, I promise,” just as my phone vibrated against the granite counter.
Number unknown.
For a moment, I almost let it ring, everything was happening at once. Then I noticed the area code and I recognized it.
It was the hospital.
My stomach knotted before my thumb even reached the screen.
” Hello ? ”
“Is this Mrs. Bennett?” The woman spoke cautiously. That caution alone made me realize that something was very wrong.
“Yes. It’s Claire.”
“Madam, this is Nurse Patel from Sainte-Marguerite Hospital. Your husband has been admitted to the emergency room. You must come immediately.”
The kitchen seemed to tip over. For a moment, the world around me faded away. I barely noticed Emma look up from the cutlery drawer, worry etched on her face.
“Mrs. Bennett?” The voice on the phone remained calm, with that professional calm that only caregivers know how to adopt.
“Yes, I’m here,” I said, still in shock. “What happened?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t tell you any more over the phone. Please come in,” said the nurse.
“I’m coming. Thank you,” I replied.
Then the connection was cut off.
I clung to the edge of the counter.
Behind me, the pasta continued to sizzle on the stove. Liam looked up from his worksheet. “Mom? Is there a problem?”
With a trembling hand, I extinguished the fire and forced a smile.
“Everything’s fine. I just need to step out for a moment. I’ll call Rachel.”
Rachel, my neighbor, answered the second ring.
Without wasting any time, she simply said, “I’ll be right there.”
I grabbed my keys, kissed Emma on the forehead, and told her to do what Rachel had said. My daughter scrutinized my face, as she always did when she knew I was hiding something.
“Mom, come back soon.”
“I promise, my darling.”
I quickly kissed Liam and rushed outside just as my neighbor reached the door.
The headlights of the highway flashed across my windshield. My hands trembled on the steering wheel. I repeated the same plea in a low voice.
“Please let him live. Please let him be well.”
But the more I drove, the more unanswered questions piled up.
What had happened? An accident? A sudden illness? And why this hospital?
Daniel’s parents lived on the other side of town. The exit I needed to take was almost forty minutes away in the wrong direction. Completely the opposite way from my in-laws’ house.
I remembered the calls. The ones he took on the veranda, with the door closed. The ones where his voice dropped until it was almost a whisper.
I remembered the small brass pendant on his keychain and the sleepless nights of the previous month.
My stomach clenched.
I couldn’t identify him. Fear and suspicion were intertwined, to the point that I no longer knew where one ended and the other began.
“Don’t do that,” I told myself. “He’s probably injured, or worse.”
Yet, my thoughts kept going in circles. And the more I thought about it, the less sense it made.
When I arrived at the hospital, I was completely knotted up.
I parked in the parking lot, left the car at an angle, and ran through the sliding doors.
Nurse Patel was waiting for me at reception. Her gaze was gentle and her voice calm and composed.
“He collapsed earlier this evening, but he’s awake now. This way, Mrs. Bennett.”
An immense sense of relief washed over me, and I silently thanked the higher power that had kept my husband alive.
I followed her down a corridor that smelled of antiseptic and bleach. She stopped in front of a room and gave me a small nod.
I pushed open the door.
