"The doctor says I'll be here for another day or two, then several weeks of recovery at home." Several weeks of recovery. That was optimistic. From what Dr. Martinez had told me privately, her recovery was going to involve a lot more than just taking it easy for a few weeks.
We were talking about permanent changes to her anatomy, ongoing medical appointments, and the kind of complications that would serve as a daily reminder of her choices. "About that," I said, pulling the manila folder from my briefcase. "We need to talk." Something in my tone must have triggered her survival instincts because her expression shifted from drug-addled confusion to sharp alertness.
In about two seconds, she was suddenly very awake, very focused, and very aware that this conversation wasn't going to be about get-well-soon flowers and chicken soup. "What's that?" she asked, eyeing the folder like it might contain a bomb. "Divorce papers," I said, placing them on the rolling table beside her bed with the casual air of someone delivering a pizza. "I need you to sign them."
The silence that followed was so complete, I could hear the IV drip counting down the seconds. One drop, two drops, three drops, each one marking another moment in which Marissa's brain tried to process what I'd just said. "What?" she finally whispered. And I have to say, her timing was perfect.
The word came out just as a particularly strong dose of whatever painkiller they had her on hit her system, giving her voice this ethereal, disbelieving quality. "Divorce papers," I repeated, opening the folder and spreading the documents across the table like I was dealing cards. "Pretty straightforward stuff. You keep nothing."
"I get the house, the cars, the savings, the investments. Our son stays with me full-time." She stared at the papers like they were written in ancient Sanskrit. "I don't understand. Why?"
"Why now? I'm in the hospital. I just had surgery." "Well, that's kind of the point, isn't it?" I settled back in the chair, crossing my legs like we were discussing weekend plans instead of the complete destruction of her life.
"See, I know about Leo. I know about the affair. I know about the hotel rooms, the messages, the silver tube of Japanese lubricant that you've been using to enhance your extracurricular activities." The color drained from her face so quickly I thought she might pass out.
Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no sound came out. She looked like a fish gasping for air, if fish could experience existential terror. "I know you've been drugging me so you could sneak out for your little rendezvous. I know about the encrypted messaging app hidden in your Groceries folder."
"I know about Leo living right upstairs in 4C. And I know that last night's medical emergency wasn't exactly the work-related accident you claimed it was." Each revelation hit her like a physical blow. I could actually see her deflating like someone was slowly letting the air out of her entire existence.