Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
She’s sick. I can see it in the way she moves, sluggish and weak, but knowing her, she’ll ignore and carry on as if nothing is wrong with her. This mule-headed stubbornness is usually a mixture of infuriation and endearment, but right now, it’s terrifying. She won’t let herself rest, not while her father is like this. She’ll push herself until she breaks.
I pull my phone out and type another message, my fingers hesitating over the screen. The words feel inadequate, but it’s all I can do right now.
Please take care of yourself.
Check on that cold before it gets worse.
I’ll be back later for you.
I send it before I can overthink, the soft buzz in my hand signaling its delivery. I glance again through the narrow glass and see her phone vibrating on the table beside her. She stirs slightly, her eyes fluttering open for a brief moment. She looks at the screen, her expression unreadable, before letting her eyes drift closed again. She’s too exhausted to even pick up the phone.
I know she knows it’s a message from me, and yet she can’t be bothered to even look at it. The rejection stings, but how can I blame her? I’ve been such a beast. Why should she trust me? Why should she let me in? I turn and walk away, my footsteps echoing softly in the empty corridor. Each step feels heavier than the last, the dark cloud of my remorse and regret pressing down on me.
I step outside, the icy unforgiving wind cuts through my jacket, but I inhale the cold air deeply. It helps to clear my head. I glance back at the hospital, the warm glow of the lights spilling onto the pavement. She’s in there, fighting her own battle, and all I can do is pray I haven’t pushed her past the brink.
The town is quiet, blanketed by the stillness and by the time I get home, it’s late. I head straight to Raven’s room, unable to shake the image of her slumped in that chair, barely holding herself together.
I push the door open, and the state of the room stops me in my tracks. Her dress from earlier is crumpled on the floor, damp and wrinkled. The bed is unmade, the blanket half-hanging off the side. A cup of tea sits abandoned on the bedside table, its contents untouched and cold. The air feels stale as if it’s holding onto the exhaustion she left behind. It’s a mess, a stark contrast to how she usually keeps things, and it feels like a snapshot of her state of mind—disordered, neglected, overwhelmed.
I take a deep breath and pull out my phone and call Nora. She answers after a few rings, her voice groggy but attentive. I’m already pacing as I speak, the words tumbling out too fast.
“Can you get a couple of maids to come up to my wife’s room?” I ask. “I need her room cleaned. A dress needs to be sent to the dry cleaners, and the bed made properly. Bring a heavier blanket and make sure the heating is turned up. It’s freezing in here.”
“Of course,” she replies without hesitation, her professionalism cutting through the tension in my voice.
She arrives alone carrying a thick, folded blanket, sheets, and a basket of cleaning materials.
“I didn’t bother the maids. This is easy work. I’ll get on it,” she says.
She moves with practiced efficiency, her presence grounding me in a way I didn’t expect. She starts by tidying the bedside table, discarding the cold tea and wiping down the surface. Then she starts stripping the bed. The air in the room seems to shift, becoming lighter and more bearable.
I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her work. The sight of the room being put back in order brings a strange sense of relief, and then I decide to join in, helping her tuck in the fresh sheets. It feels like such a small thing in the grand scheme of everything, but it’s something tangible, something I can do for her.
Nora smiles at me. “Thank you, Mr. Jackson.”
“Thank you, Nora. I’ll have to see about giving you a raise next month.”
She beams at me, then moves towards the bathroom. A few minutes later, she comes back out. “All done. Is there anything else, Mr. Jackson?” Nora asks. Her voice is warm and kind and it pulls me out of my thoughts.
I shake my head and smile at her. “No. That’s all. Thank you.”
She hesitates, her gaze lingering on me. “She’ll be alright, you know,” she says gently as if she can see the worry etched into my face. “She’s young and strong.”
I don’t respond. The words stick in my throat, too heavy to form. I simply nod, and she leaves, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing in the quiet.