Chapter 45
THEN:
Sarah"s sensesclawed their way back through the fog of sleep, tugging her into a reluctant wakefulness. The living room swirled into view, a hazy blend of shadows and muffled sounds. Her head felt heavy, an anchor trying to pull her back down into the depths of unconsciousness.
"Sarah?" The voice cut through the silence, more piercing than the slivers of morning light that snuck past the half-drawn curtains.
Her eyelids, stubborn and weighted, lifted at last. Steven stood there, his presence grounding yet charged with an unspoken urgency. His silhouette was sharp against the soft glow that filtered into the room.
"Sarah, can you hear me?" he persisted, his tone threading the space between concern and impatience.
She tried to reply, to acknowledge him, but her throat was a desert, words lost in the barren expanse. She nodded instead, a slight dip of her chin that took monumental effort. Her gaze found his, locking onto her husband"s familiar yet distant eyes.
Sarah"s focus drifted to the side, where a half-empty wine bottle lay on its side, a silent testament to the night before. A pang of shame knotted in her gut as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing away the trace of drool that had escaped the corner of her mouth. Her thoughts scrambled for coherence, clinging to the remnants of dreams quickly dissolving in the harsh light of reality.
"Victoria"s home," Steven said, his voice breaking through her haze.
She blinked, trying to process the words. "Home?" Her voice was raspy, barely above a whisper, as she tried to sit up straighter on the couch, her limbs protesting with stiffness.
"From the hospital," he clarified, his eyes softening for a moment with a mixture of relief and something else—weariness, perhaps. "I put her to bed."
"Already?" The question came out muddled, her brain lagging behind the conversation. The room swayed slightly as she attempted to ground herself in the present, in the gravity of Steven"s news.
"Yes, Sarah. They allowed her to come home. She"s resting now."
He watched her closely, his gaze searching for signs of the woman he knew beneath the veneer of confusion and alcohol.
Sarah nodded slowly, absorbing this new piece of reality. Victoria was here, not in a sterile hospital room with machines beeping and nurses bustling. She was here, where she belonged—with them.
"Okay," she murmured, a resolve beginning to form amidst the chaos of her thoughts. "Okay. That's good."
Sarah sat for a few seconds until she suddenly remembered. "The medical journal," she said.
"What medical journal?" Steven asked.
She reached out and grabbed it from the coffee table.
"Steven, what is this?" Sarah"s fingers trembled as she held up the medical journal, its pages dog-eared. "Have you been lying to me about Victoria?"
"Sarah, now is not the time," Steven"s words were sharp, a stark contrast to the softness from moments before. "I'm tired."
"Tell me!" Her demand cut through the air, a jagged edge to her voice that even the wine couldn"t dull. "It says here she was in remission? Years ago?"
"Dammit, Sarah!" His outburst was sudden, like a thunderclap in the room"s silence. "You think I wanted any of this? You think I enjoy watching our daughter suffer while you?—"
"While I, what?" she challenged, pushing off the couch, her body still swaying slightly from the alcohol.
"Focus on your career! Drown yourself in bottles every night!" He was pacing back and forth, a caged animal with frayed nerves. "Who do you think has been here, huh? Who takes her to all her appointments?"
"Stop it, Steven." She put a hand to her temple, willing the room to stop spinning.
"No, I"m tired, Sarah. Tired of making excuses for you and trying to protect you from this!" His finger jabbed toward the journal in her hand, his eyes blazing with resentment.
"Protect me?" Her voice broke, a small crack in her resolve. "Is that what you call lying?"
"Taking care of our daughter; that"s what I call it." The fury in Steven"s voice subsided into weary resignation. "Someone had to, Sarah. Someone had to."
"Remission," Sarah"s voice was a husky whisper, "what does that even mean in Victoria"s case? Why didn"t you tell me the truth?"
Steven"s face contorted with frustration as he let out a heavy sigh. "It was a mistake, okay?" His hands gestured wildly, words tumbling out. "The previous doctor got it wrong. This was years ago."
"Wrong?" she echoed, her mind grappling with fragments of reality.
"Yes, wrong!" Steven"s annoyance was palpable as he paced the room, his footsteps a dull thud against the carpet. "That"s why we changed doctors; don"t you remember? We had to be sure."
"Sure of what?" The question hung between them, dense and unyielding.
"Sure that…" he hesitated, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "Victoria was still sick. She wasn"t getting better, Sarah." His eyes found hers, pleading for understanding. "Don"t you remember any of this?"
"Remember…" Her voice trailed off, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. She sifted through hazy memories, trying to latch onto something solid.
Steven collapsed into the armchair opposite Sarah, the weight of his body sending a soft puff of air from the cushion. He leaned forward, reaching for her hands, and she felt his grip firm and warm against her cold fingers. His eyes fixed on hers, the intensity of his gaze unwavering.
"Sarah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with urgency. "We need to talk about… this." His free hand gestured vaguely at the wine bottle.
Her vision swam as she struggled to focus on his face, to anchor herself to the moment.
"I"m trying, Steven," she murmured, her words slurred around the edges.
"Trying isn"t enough anymore." Concern etched deep lines across his forehead. "You"re slipping away from us, from Victoria."
She winced at the mention of their daughter"s name, a stab of guilt sharper than any hangover.
"I remember… something about a new doctor," she stammered, her mind grappling with the slippery threads of her memory. "You told me not to worry."
"Because worrying is all you do when you"re like this," he retorted, his tone softening as he squeezed her hands. "Drinking yourself into oblivion isn"t going to help her or you."
"Help…." The word echoed in her head, hollow and distant. She knew she should understand and connect the dots, but they skittered away and were just out of reach.
"Sarah, please." Steven"s voice cracked, a hint of desperation bleeding through. You have to stop this—for Victoria, for us."
"Us…." There was a world contained within that tiny word, a world she felt herself drifting away from with every bottle she finished. She wanted to reach out, to pull herself back, but the current of her own habits was too strong.
"Remember, Sarah," Steven coaxed, his thumbs rubbing circles on the back of her hands. "Try to remember for Victoria."
"Yes, of course for Victoria…." Her voice was a breath, a prayer. She would try—she had to try for her daughter.
Steven"s gaze bore into her, searching for a flicker of the woman he once knew. "I"ll show you the journals," he said quietly, yet there was an edge to his voice that demanded sobriety. "But when you"re sober. You need to see things clearly."
"Okay," Sarah whispered, nodding slowly. Her mind clung to the clarity in his eyes, a lifeline amidst the fog. "I"ll be… I"ll be sober."
"Good." He paused, uncertainty flickering across his features. "And you should come with me to Victoria"s next appointment. But Sarah, I mean it?—"
"I know, sober." She cut him off, the word foreign but necessary on her tongue.
"Sarah…." His voice trailed off, waiting for her resolve to solidify.
Her pulse thrummed with a mix of fear and determination. "I want to understand what"s happening to her, Steven. Really understand." Her fingers twitched, aching to grasp at the knowledge she"d avoided.
"Then, it"s settled." He offered a short nod, the unspoken promise hanging between them like a fragile truce.
The silence stretched between them. Sarah"s gaze found their linked hands, Steven"s fingers a vise around hers, grounding her trembling resolve.
"Steven," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "we"ve… we"ve been through so much."
He turned to her, eyes weary yet resolute. "Yes, we have. But we"ll face what"s next together."
She searched his face for the certainty she felt slipping from her grasp. "How did we get here? How did I let…?" Her words trailed off, choked by regrets too numerous to voice.
"Sarah." His firm voice pulled her back from the edge of despair. "We can"t change the past. We focus on Victoria now, on getting better—for her."
"Getting better," she echoed, the phrase laden with ambiguity. Better health for Victoria, sobriety for herself. The path ahead loomed daunting, steeped in accountability.
"Tomorrow," she said, more to herself than to him. "Tomorrow is a new day." A promise, a plea.
"Tomorrow," he agreed, squeezing her hand in affirmation. "We'll start fresh. You"ll see the journals and understand everything. And you"ll be at that appointment sober and clear-headed."
"Clear-headed," she murmured.
The concept seemed alien, yet vital. She needed clarity, not just for Victoria, but to salvage her own fragmented self.
"Sarah." His tone softened, threads of old warmth weaving through his concern. "You"re stronger than you know. We both are. We"ll get through this."
"Thank you," she mused. It felt distant, but his belief in her sparked a fragile hope. Could she find that strength within herself?
Their hands remained clasped, a physical manifestation of their tentative unity. Outside, the sun grew high in the sky, indifferent to the frailty of human plans. Inside, two parents sat in quiet resolve.
"Victoria needs us," Steven whispered into the hush. "And we need each other."
"Yes," Sarah affirmed, the word a vow. "For Victoria. For us."