Let her wonder. Let her worry. Let her feel for just a few hours the kind of sick uncertainty I'd been living with since the moment that photo appeared on my screen. The rain fell harder, drumming against the windows like applause. And I sat in my kitchen in my house in my life that was about to become something entirely different.
And I waited for act two to begin. The rain had turned into a proper storm by the time Rachel's car pulled back into the driveway. 3 hours had passed. Three hours during which my phone had collected 17 text messages, nine missed calls, and one voicemail that I'd listened to twice, not for information, but for the tremor in her voice. The way guilt makes people sound smaller, younger, desperately alone.
I was in the living room when she came in, reading a book I wasn't actually reading, turning pages at intervals that suggested casual afternoon leisure rather than calculated psychological warfare. The lamp beside me cast warm light across the room. Made everything look soft and safe and normal. A perfect stage for the performance we were about to give. She stood in the doorway soaked through despite the short walk from car to house.
Her hair hung in wet ropes around her face. Her eyes were red. From crying or rain, I couldn't tell. Maybe both. She looked fragile in a way that would have broken me a week ago.
They ran every test they had. She said her voice hollow. Blood work, cultures, everything. They couldn't find anything wrong with me. I looked up from my book, marked my place with a finger.
That's good news, is it? She took a step into the room. James, what illness? What were you talking about? I set the book aside slowly, deliberately, let the silence stretch between us like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.
I think you should sit down, Rachel. I don't want to sit down. I want you to tell me what the hell is going on. Sit down. Something in my tone made her obey.
She sank onto the couch across from me, pulling her wet cardigan tight around her body like armor. Water dripped from her clothes onto our hardwood floors, making small dark circles that spread and disappeared. There's no illness, I said quietly. The words hit her like a slap. What?
Marcus doesn't have an illness. He's fine. Perfectly healthy as far as I know. Her face went through several expressions in rapid succession. Confusion is relief.
Anger, then back to confusion, cycling through emotions like someone trying to find the right key for a lock. Then why? Because I needed you to run. I interrupted. I needed you to panic.