Chapter 41

THEN:

The soft glowof the table lamp threw shadows across Sarah's face as she perched on the edge of her sofa, a glass of red wine cradled in her hand. Her thumb brushed against the stem, tracing circles that mirrored the turmoil swirling within her. Victoria"s laughter, once the soundtrack of this room, now felt like a haunting melody from a distant past. The silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the faint ticking of the wall clock—each second a stark reminder of her daughter"s fragility.

Victoria was back in the hospital, and Steven was with her, spending the night, never leaving her side. Every time she went in, Sarah worried she would never return home.

"Come on, Sarah," she murmured to herself, a half-hearted attempt to break the spell of anxiety that had woven itself around her heart. Her voice sounded alien in the quiet.

She pushed herself up with reluctant resolve, the cushion springing back into place. With its dimmed lights and the lingering scent of vanilla candles, the living room held too many ghosts tonight. She needed something else, something tangible to tether her to a time less complicated and less heavy with dread.

The office seemed like a refuge in comparison, the moonlight spilling through the open blinds casting a checkerboard pattern across the floor. Sarah moved toward the antique desk nestled in the corner.

"Old memories," she whispered, almost a prayer, as she slid open the stubborn drawer that always stuck a little on the left side.

Inside were the remnants of a life before illness, hospitals, and hushed conversations behind closed doors. A life where the biggest worries were scraped knees and monsters under the bed, not test results and treatment plans.

"Let"s see what you"ve got for me," she said, the words meant to inject some semblance of lightness into the task at hand. Her fingers danced over envelopes and faded concert tickets, each touch a balm for her aching soul.

Underneath a pile of discarded papers, Sarah"s hand brushed against the cool surface of glossed photographs. She drew them out slowly, spreading them across the mahogany desk like a mosaic of memories frozen in time. Each image was a captured echo of Victoria"s life—her first steps, toothless grin, and the way her laughter seemed to fill the room even in stillness.

"Look at you," Sarah murmured, tracing the outline of her daughter"s face in a photo where Victoria wore a bright yellow sundress, the garden behind her blooming with promise. The next few pictures showed the same vibrant scenes, but with each passing year, the girl in the images remained unchanged, as if time itself had become an unreliable narrator.

Her fingers lingered on a particular photograph taken on Victoria"s twelfth birthday. Balloons framed the tiny figure seated at the head of the table, her smile hesitant between the candles" glow. Yet the child in the picture bore the delicate features of someone much younger, her illness casting a shadow that no amount of light could dispel. She couldn't even walk anymore and was confined to that darn wheelchair all day long. At twelve years of age, she looked like she was eight.

"God, why?" The words escaped Sarah"s lips, a whispered accusation against the cruelty of fate. Her vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling over and dotting the picture with translucent spots. The paper curled slightly at the corners, absorbing her sorrow in silence.

"Twelve years old," she choked out, her voice cracking with the weight of realization. "You should be outgrowing clothes faster than I can buy them, not… not this." The edges of the photo became jagged through the watery veil of her eyes, and Sarah felt a pang deep within her chest—a mother"s grief, raw and untamed.

"Little bird, it"s not fair," she sobbed, clutching the photos to her heart as if by holding them close, she could somehow shield Victoria from the harsh truth of her stunted youth. "You"ve flown so high on such fragile wings."

The silence of the room wrapped around her like a cold embrace, heavy with the unspoken fears that flickered in her mind like shadows. In the quiet, the only sound was the soft patter of her tears marking the passage of time on glossy paper—moments captured, growth denied, a childhood overshadowed by the specter of illness.

Gently putting the photos back, Sarah"s hand paused midway to the drawer. A sliver of brown peeked from the shadowed recesses, a silent siren amidst the sea of forgotten trinkets and papers. It was a folder, worn at the edges, the material creased by the pressure of many hands, or perhaps merely the weight of time itself.

With the tips of her fingers, she coaxed the folder forward. The pull of curiosity drew her gaze to the faded label, its once-bold letters now soft and yielding to the touch. "Victoria—Medical," it read—a simple title that carried the gravity of their shared past.

Sarah"s breath hitched, her heart momentarily caught in the trap of nostalgia. Opening the cover released a faint scent of antiseptic, a ghost of hospital corridors and sterile rooms. The first page crackled under her trembling fingers, yellowed with age but still holding the meticulous notes of doctors who had once been stewards of hope.

Her eyes flitted across the lines—dates, measurements, medical terms that had become an unwanted part of her vocabulary. Each entry was a stepping stone in Victoria"s daunting journey, reminders of battles fought and small victories celebrated in hushed tones so as not to tempt fate.

"Little bird," Sarah whispered again, the endearment mingling with the mustiness of the paper. How many times had she prayed for a miracle? And still, the answers seemed as elusive as the cure that danced just beyond their reach.

Absorbed in the journal"s contents, Sarah found herself traveling back to those early days of uncertainty when every cough or fever sent them hurtling toward the emergency room, hearts thrumming with fear. The past clung to her, a tapestry of memories woven through with threads of sorrow and resilience.

In the dim light of the office, with shadows encroaching upon her solitude, Sarah continued to leaf through her daughter"s medical history—a chronicle of struggle and strength that was both intimately familiar and unfathomably distant.

Sarah"s fingertips traced the date, her pulse quickening. The entry was dated just after Victoria"s third birthday, a time stamped in her memory by relentless hospital visits and the sterile scent of antiseptic that seemed to cling to their clothes long after they returned home.

"Patient in remission," the words leaped from the page, stark against the backdrop of clinical jargon. Her breath hitched, eyes darting over the subsequent lines, seeking an anchor in the sea of medical terminology. That term had never been uttered by any of the doctors or Steven.

"Remission…" she muttered, the syllables tasting foreign on her tongue.

This entry spoke of something spontaneous, a sudden shift in the tide of Victoria"s illness that should have sparked hope and been celebrated with more than just a clinical note buried within a forgotten journal.

Sarah"s gaze flickered to the author of the note, a doctor whose name was unfamiliar, one that Steven had never mentioned. A chill ran down her spine as she realized the gravity of the omission.

"Steven, what didn"t you tell me?" Her voice was a whisper lost in the silence of the room. The shadows seemed to press closer, and Sarah could feel the weight of deception heavy in the air. She closed the journal slowly, the soft thud of the cover marking the end of one chapter and the ominous beginning of another.

"Victoria," she breathed, the name a vow. The revelation was a crack in the foundation of their life, a single strand unraveling with the potential to undo everything they knew.

Sarah"s hand trembled as she held the journal in front of her, eyes darting back and forth across the name, her mind twirling. Her pulse hammered in her ears, a cacophony that drowned out the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. The room seemed to tilt, reality warping around the edges as her mind struggled to align these new pieces with the puzzle of Victoria"s illness.

"Impossible," she murmured, tracing the name on the front with a shaky finger. Then she opened it and read it again. The entry blurred as fear glazed her vision, thick and suffocating.

She reached for the wine glass, its stem cool beneath her fingertips. She took a sip, the rich red swirling down her throat like liquid fire, stinging and acrid. It provided no comfort, only a momentary distraction from the spiral of confusion.

"Steven, what is this?" she said to the empty room, the question hanging heavy in the air. Each syllable was laced with betrayal, the name she had whispered countless times with love now tainted with suspicion.

The wine failed to soothe the raw edges of her thoughts, each one a razor slicing through the fabric of trust she had woven around her husband. Victoria"s face, so often bright with a smile despite the pain, haunted the corners of Sarah"s vision, a silent plea for the truth.

"Answers," she whispered, setting the glass down with care. "I need answers."

The bottle tilted, a steady stream of crimson flowing into the waiting glass. Sarah watched the liquid dance and shimmer under the lamp"s glow, her hand unsteady. The scent of oak and berries mingled with the dust motes that floated lazily in the half-light.

"Enough," she muttered, cutting off the pour. Her voice was a stranger"s—hard and resolute. The wine lapped at the rim, a hair"s breadth from spilling over.

Her gaze fixed on the glass, but she saw Victoria"s face instead, her small frame shadowed by years of illness and unanswered questions. The journal lay open beside her, accusing and mocking. It promised answers that only birthed more secrets.

"Steven," she said, the name now a splinter under her skin. The taste of betrayal soured on her tongue. Why hadn't he spoken of this?

She lifted the bottle again, this time foregoing the glass altogether, her lips meeting the cold glass edge. The wine flowed freely, too freely, a river seeking escape. It was warmth and numbness, a fleeting sanctuary from the storm of emotions that raged within her chest.

"Answers," she repeated, words slurred. "I deserve answers."

The final drops fell, a hollow echo as they hit the bottom of the empty bottle. She placed it on the table with a dull thud, its weight mirroring her own heavy heart.

"I have to confront him," she told herself, her thoughts sharpening to a point. Victoria"s eyes, wide and trusting, seared into her memory. "For her."

Fear and anxiety hit her hard. How deep did the deception go? What would it cost to unravel it?

"Tomorrow," she breathed, the promise a whisper in the silence. "Tomorrow, we face this."

Her hands clenched into fists, a warrior preparing for battle, even as her pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against her temples. The truth waited, sinister and elusive, just beyond the horizon, and Sarah knew she had no choice but to chase it down.

Sarah"s fingers trembled as they relinquished their grip on the empty wine bottle. With a heavy sigh, she pushed it aside, its hollow sound against the wooden table echoing the emptiness she felt inside. The room was still; the only movement was the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself.

Her mind, once foggy with alcohol, was now sharpened to an agonizing clarity. She had to speak with Steven; there was no turning back from what she had uncovered. But the thought of confronting him twisted her stomach into knots. Would he deny everything? Accuse her of overreacting? The possibilities spun around her head like vultures circling their prey.

"Get it together, Sarah," she muttered, her voice barely audible. Her hands clasped together, seeking stability in one another as if holding herself together by sheer force of will.

She rose unsteadily to her feet, each step toward the kitchen heavy with dread. Reaching the countertop, she paused, staring at the array of bottles. Just one more, she convinced herself… to take the edge off.

Pulling the cork from a new bottle with a practiced motion, she didn't bother with a glass this time. The liquid crimson, darker than blood, sloshed into her mouth, coating her tongue with its acrid sweetness. She drank, each gulp a futile attempt to drown the rising tide of questions that threatened to consume her.

The room began to spin, the edges of her vision blurring as the wine took hold. Doubts swirled in her mind, intermingling with images of Victoria's pale face, Steven"s evasive eyes, and the words from the medical journal that had set her world tilting.

"Victoria," she whispered, her voice breaking. "What have we done to you?"

But there was no answer, just the echo of her fears bouncing back at her from the walls of the lonely house. Her hand wavered as she took another drink, the bottle slipping slightly. Sarah caught it, her grip iron-tight, fueled by a mother"s desperation.

Her worried expression, a mask of uncertainty and fear, reflected in the darkened windowpane—a silent witness to her unraveling. She didn"t see it, though; her eyes were lost in the past, fixated on memories that now seemed tainted with lies.

Drink followed drink until the room slipped away entirely and, with it, her consciousness. Sarah collapsed onto the couch, the uncorked bottle slipping from her grasp and rolling onto the floor, forgotten. Her last coherent thought was a prayer for strength; tomorrow, she would have to face the truth, whatever it may be.

Then, darkness took her, granting a temporary reprieve from the nightmare that awaited her in the waking world.