Chapter 4

For the next two weeks, I worked hard to live the way I used to.

I stopped asking for the wheelchair, and I stopped saying it hurt.

Every morning, breakfast was on the table right on time.

When Lena came by to log my progress, I'd even hand her the recovery chart already filled in.

The way Quinton looked at me slowly relaxed.

He took me to see his friends, and to everyone he said that Lena's recovery philosophy had saved us.

Someone praised her for it.

Quinton nodded, a lightness in his voice I hadn't heard in a long time.

“She pulled me out of the pit too.”

I sat quietly to the side, head down, pinching the dead leaves off a pothos.

I'd bought that plant three years ago, the day I was discharged.

Quinton had held me in his arms back then and taken forever choosing it, saying a home should always have a little life in it.

Now it sat out on the balcony, its leaves gone dry and yellow.

I watered it every day, and still it withered, bit by bit.

Lena followed my gaze and said with a smile, “Plants have to adapt to nature too. You can't keep coddling them in a greenhouse.”

Quinton said, “She's right.”

I nodded too.

“Right.”

That evening, I went into the study to get something.

By accident I knocked the folder off the shelf beside the printer.

Among the scattered papers was a signed confirmation for an overseas posting.

Destination: Switzerland.

Term: three years.

Another sheet was a plane ticket to Switzerland for the same day.

The name on it was Lena's.

The last few pages were a drafted agreement to end our relationship.

One apartment, two million, and after the caregiving arrangement ended, neither party would interfere with the other.

I sat down at the desk and read through those pages one by one.

So it turned out that when he rushed to prove I could stand on my own, he wasn't hoping I'd get back on my feet.

He was only clearing the last obstacle in his way out.

The moment I no longer needed care, he could walk away without a thing weighing on him.

Quinton's voice came from outside the door.

“Carol, I'm working late tonight. I won't be back.”

I put the papers back where they were.

“Okay.”

He seemed pleased by how calm I was.

“Go to bed early. Don't wait up for me.”

“Mm.”

When the lock clicked shut, I walked into the bathroom and looked at the bare walls.

The grab bars that used to protect me, Quinton had taken them down with his own hands two weeks ago.

He'd said I should learn not to lean on those things anymore.

I found the phone Quinton had buried at the bottom of a drawer.

I opened the notes app and typed slowly.

“Your stomach medicine is in the second drawer on the left. Don't take it on an empty stomach.”

“You're allergic to shellfish. Remember to ask when you eat out.”

“Your knees ache on rainy days. Remember to turn on the heat.”

“Don't overwater the pothos on the balcony. It didn't drown. Its roots are already rotted.”

I stopped there for a long while.

“Quinton, this time I won't call for you, and I won't be a burden to you anymore.”

“You're finally free.”

“Just as you wanted, I'm normal now too.”

“Letting go, right now, I've never been clearer.”

At three in the morning, the bathroom was thick with steam.

I set my slippers neatly outside the door.

The phone lay on the sink, the screen still open to that note.

Barefoot, I stepped onto the tiles slick with water.

The phone buzzed suddenly.

A message from Quinton.

Tomorrow afternoon Lena and I are flying to Switzerland.

There's an agreement on the desk in the study. Carol, you can take care of yourself now, so let's end this with a little dignity.

I glanced at it, then pressed the screen dark.

The hand gripping the doorframe slowly opened.

The moment my body lost its balance, I closed my eyes.

……

The airport announcement had already begun hurrying the last passengers to board.

Quinton stood outside the gate, refreshing the message thread again and again.

There was still no reply.

His brow drew together, the unease inside him widening bit by bit.

Lena urged him from beside him, “Quinton, it's time to board.”

Quinton made a sound of agreement, but he was slow to switch on airplane mode.

The next second, an unknown call filled the screen out of nowhere.

He stared at the number for two seconds, then finally answered.

“Is this Quinton Gilbert? This is an officer with the Southgate police precinct. Ms. Carol Henson has been in an accident. Please come here right away.”