For almost two months.
Then my best friend, Caleb, underwent a minor cardiac procedure at Mercy Lake.
I visited him after work on a Wednesday afternoon.
If his room had been one floor higher, I probably never would have seen Sophie.
If I’d taken the elevator instead of looking for the vending machines, I might have walked out of that hospital still believing the story I’d told myself about our marriage.
Instead, I turned the corner.
And there she was.
I approached her slowly.
“Sophie?”
Her head lifted.
The shock in her face quickly became embarrassment.
She pulled the blanket across her knees as if she could somehow hide the fact that she was a patient.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Visiting Caleb.”
I looked at the IV.
Then at her face.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Sophie.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sitting in a hospital gown with an IV in your arm.”
She turned toward the window.
“They’re running tests.”
I pulled the chair beside her closer.
“When did you get admitted?”
She didn’t answer.
“What happened?”
“Ethan, please.”
Her voice was so weak that I stopped.
Then a nurse walked toward us carrying a clipboard.
“Ms. Bennett?”
Sophie looked up.
“The physician would like to speak with your emergency contact before discharge planning.”
The nurse glanced at me.
“Are you Ethan Walker?”
I stared at her.
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ve been trying to reach you.”
I turned toward Sophie.
“You listed me as your emergency contact?”
Her face reddened.
“I forgot to change it.”
But we both knew that wasn’t the whole truth.
Later that evening, I learned Sophie had collapsed at work.
A coworker found her unconscious beside her desk.
Her blood pressure had dropped dangerously low, and when paramedics arrived, her heartbeat was irregular.
Doctors initially suspected a heart problem.
The truth was more complicated.
A physician named Dr. Ramirez asked me to step outside the room.
“Has Sophie been under significant stress recently?”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of the question.
