Chapter 5 - The Glass RoomThe oncology ward at St. Anne’s was quiet when I returned at 2:00 PM. The afternoon light filtered through the gray clouds, casting a soft, pale silver glow across the white corridors.
Ben was sitting on the bench outside Clara’s room, his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed. He looked ten years older than he had twenty-four hours ago. When he heard my footsteps, he opened his eyes, but the anger was gone, replaced by a deep, crushing numbness.
“She’s awake, Ethan,” Ben said softly, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep. “The doctors adjusted her medication. She... she asked for you.”
I stopped by the bench, looking down at my best friend. The man I had accused of betrayal. The man who had carried the weight of my wife’s mortality while I was chasing stock options.
“Ben,” I whispered, my throat tightening. “I’m sorry. I didn't know about Marcus. I didn't know about anything.”
Ben let out a long, slow sigh, standing up and placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Don't apologize to me, Ethan. Go inside. We don't have a lot of time left, and she’s been waiting three months to see your face without a lawyer standing between you.”
I nodded, my breath catching as I pushed open the heavy glass door of the isolation room.
The sound of the machines met me first—the rhythmic, mechanical click of the ventilator, the steady beep of the heart monitor. Clara was propped up against the pillows, her small face pale and thin, but her hazel eyes were open, bright with a lucid, beautiful intelligence that the tumor hadn't been able to touch.
When she saw me, a tiny, fragile smile touched her blue-tinged lips.
“You look terrible, Ethan,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry autumn leaves. “You’re still wearing the same suit from yesterday.”
I dropped to my knees beside her bed, my hands reaching out instinctively to wrap around hers. Her skin was cool, her fingers so light and fragile they felt like the wings of a sparrow.
“Clara,” I sobbed, burying my face in the edge of her mattress, the tears finally breaking through my defenses, hot and unyielding. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I was such a fool. I let them make me cold. I let them turn me into a monster.”
She moved her fingers weakly, her hand resting against my hair, stroking it with the same gentle, familiar rhythm she had used when we were twenty-five and broke, living in a basement apartment with nothing but a dream.
“You aren't a monster, Ethan,” she said softly, her hazel eyes looking down at me with a deep, maternal forgiveness that cut through my guilt like a clean blade. “You were just running so fast you forgot how to breathe. I didn't ask for the divorce because I stopped loving you. I asked because I wanted you to keep running... before you had to watch me stop.”
“I’m not running anymore, Clare,” I choked out, lifting my head to look at her, my hands tightening around hers. “I broke Marcus’s board today. The orchard is safe. The family name is clean. I don't care about Whitaker Logistics. I don't care about Tokyo or the acquisitions. I just want to stay here. Let me stay here with you.”
May you like
Clara looked toward the window, where the first green shoots of the spring tulips were visible in the hospital’s rooftop garden.
“Then stay, Ethan,” she whispered, her eyes closing as the medication began to drag her back into sleep. “Just for a little while. Help me watch the rain.”
