Chapter 2 — One Answer

I waited until the door closed before I let myself shake.

Then I pulled the chair closer to Adrian’s bed.

“Harlan’s wrong about one thing,” I told him. “Martin Shaw wasn’t my last patient.”

After Martin died, I had worked six more shifts while the hospital investigated. I had cared for a teenage boy after a car crash, an elderly woman recovering from surgery, and a man whose wife sat in exactly the chair I occupied now.

Then security escorted me out.

Harlan had reduced my entire career to the one death he’d pinned on me.

I opened my old notebook.

On the first blank page, I wrote the date, the time, and his exact words.

Beneath them, I wrote what I had actually seen.

No guesses.

No conclusions.

A nurse named Beth returned with a meal tray.

“Mr. Briggs said you hadn’t eaten.”

“Thank you.”

She was younger than me, with tired eyes and a wedding band on a chain.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Six weeks.”

“Did you know him before the accident?”

She shook her head.

“Does Harlan ever bring in another specialist?”

Her attention flicked toward the camera.

“You should ask him.”

I let the question go.

“Could I help wash Adrian’s face later? Just ordinary personal care.”

Beth hesitated.

“I can show you what’s comfortable for him.”

We did it together.

She explained the equipment, although I already understood it. I listened without correcting her. When she stepped away for clean towels, I told Adrian what I was doing.

“I’m going to wipe your cheek. The cloth is warm.”

There was no obvious response.

But his breathing changed briefly when I spoke.

That could mean nothing.

I wrote it down anyway.

At eleven, Beth handed over to the night caregiver. At twelve seventeen, Harlan returned.

I had turned the lamp low and folded myself into the chair with a blanket. Through nearly closed eyes, I watched him examine the monitor.

He opened his bag.

Prepared something.

Administered it through the line.

Then he left.

The caregiver had been in the adjoining room.

When she returned, I sat up.

“Did Dr. Harlan change anything tonight?”

She looked surprised.

“He handles his own orders.”

“Will it go in the chart?”

“He usually updates it in the morning.”

I nodded as though that satisfied me.

At breakfast, the entry still wasn’t there.

I noted that too.

By the second evening, Briggs had begun appearing at the door whenever I asked a question.

“You’re making the staff nervous,” he said.

“I’m asking what’s being done to a man who can’t ask for himself.”

“They’re afraid of being blamed.”

“So am I.”

That stopped him.

He looked older in the lamplight.

“You don’t understand this house.”

“Then explain it.”

He glanced down the corridor before closing the door.

“Mr. Voss used to know about a problem before anyone admitted there was one. Now everyone walks past him and discusses things they would never have said in his presence.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes.”

“Enough to answer a question?”

His jaw worked.

“Which question?”

“Was he always like this after the accident?”

Briggs pulled the other chair away from the wall.

“No.”

I kept my pen still.

“In the hospital, there were days he opened his eyes,” he said. “Once, his sister called his name, and he turned toward her.”

“Where is his sister?”

“Dead. Two years before the accident. I meant a recording. She used to leave him messages.”

He rubbed his hands together.

“I played one. The hospital doctor thought his response mattered.”

“What changed?”

“Julian brought him home. Dr. Harlan took over.”

“Did anyone question why he stopped responding?”

“I did.”

“What were you told?”

“That improvement isn’t always permanent. That I was seeing what I wanted to see.”

I knew how effective that sentence could be.

“Do you still have the hospital doctor’s name?”

“Dr. Isabel Reyes.”

I wrote it down.

Briggs stood abruptly.

“I shouldn’t have said any of this.”

“Walter.”

He stopped.

“I’m not asking you to accuse anyone. I’m asking you to remember what happened.”

He left without answering.

That night, I spoke to Adrian about my mother.

Not because I expected a response. Because it was easier than sitting in silence beside someone everyone else had already abandoned.

“She used to make me call when I got home, even after I moved out. Now she sometimes asks if my mother knows where I am.”

I adjusted the blanket at his shoulder.

“Yesterday she thought I was one of the nurses. She thanked me for visiting.”

My voice caught.

“I said she didn’t have to thank me.”

I looked toward the camera and wiped my face.

“I’m sorry. You probably get enough crying in here.”

Something shifted beneath the blanket.

I stopped.

His right hand rested near his hip.

I waited, staring.

Nothing.

A muscle twitch. A movement of fabric. My own exhaustion.

I reached for the call button, then paused.

If I reported it, Harlan would be the person deciding what it meant.

Instead, I moved the blanket away from Adrian’s hand.

“Adrian?”

The monitor continued its rhythm.

“If you can hear me, I’m going to put my finger against your hand.”

I did.

“You don’t have to lift your arm. Just try to press.”

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the side of his index finger pushed against mine.

Barely.

I withdrew my hand.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear it.

“Let’s try something different. When I say now, try again.”

I waited.

“Now.”

A faint pressure.

I sat back, afraid to trust it.

Then I tried once more, leaving a longer silence before the instruction.

The movement came afterward.

Not before.

I pressed my free hand over my mouth.

For two nights, I had been speaking into a silence.

Someone had been listening.

The door opened.

Briggs entered and saw my face.

“What happened?”

“Come here.”

I repeated the instruction.

This time Adrian didn’t move.

Briggs waited beside me.

I tried again, then stopped.

“We shouldn’t exhaust him,” I said.

The older man looked at the hand lying between us.

“What did you see?”

“I felt a response more than once. After I asked.”

His eyes filled.

“Don’t tell Julian,” I said.

He looked at me sharply.

“We need someone independent to evaluate him first.”

Briggs nodded slowly.

“I’ll find Dr. Reyes’s number.”

Before he left, he leaned toward Adrian.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

The next afternoon, Julian arrived carrying a thin folder.

He set it on the bedside table, directly over my notebook.

“Some routine paperwork.”

I opened it.

The first page described me as Adrian’s devoted wife.

The second asked me to affirm that I supported his existing care plan.

The third said I would not seek an outside assessment without prior coordination through Julian’s office.

I read that sentence twice.

“Why do you need this?”

“Because family disputes can interfere with treatment.”

“I haven’t disputed anything.”

His gaze settled on my notebook.

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He placed a pen on top of the folder.

“Sign it before noon tomorrow, Nora.”

“And if I have questions?”

Julian smiled.

“Your mother’s next payment is due tomorrow too.”