Clara is propped up on a stack of pillows. She’s pale but not like the washed-out gray from before. The oxygen cannula is gone and there are less wires around her. The heart monitor draws its green line like a steady signature.
She turns her head and gives me a little smile. “Merry almost Christmas.”
My gut unclenches in one quick, ridiculous drop. I didn’t realize how hard I’d been holding myself together until my body let go.
I sanitize my hands, tug the mask down, and go to her. Her fingers are warm when I take them. She squeezes—firmly this time.
“You scared me,” I say.
“I’m hard to get rid of,” she shoots back. It’s our language: fear disguised in jokes.
A sliver of her incision shows at the edge of the gown. My eyes catch it, and I quickly look away, kissing her temple instead. She smells like soap and rubbing alcohol.
“What has the doctor told you?” she asks.
“Doctor said the surgery went well,” I reply, keeping it simple. “After they closed, your rhythm dipped. They brought you back fast. You’ve been lightly sedated and closely monitored. You’re vitals are stable, and they moved you out of ICU. Today’s a good day.”
Her eyes shine. She nods once and swallows hard. Brave is one of many words I would use to describe her. I feel it flex its strength beneath my hand.
She glances toward the door. “They mentioned the balance has been taken care of. Cassandra, how did you do it so fast?”
I pull the lie and lay it out like a neat napkin. “The bank expedited the request. A temporary line. Paperwork’s a mess, but it’s moving.”
I keep my voice even, practiced. I let it rush a touch, like I’m tired of explaining it.
She gives me a look that is all big sister, all knowing. “Banks don’t sprint at Christmas.”
“I found the right person,” I say with a shrug. “I also made an absolute pest of myself.” I sit a little straighter, as if good posture can hold the story up. I squeeze her hand. Privacy. Precision. Truth. I cling to the two I can keep, patching up the third with “necessary.”
She exhales, her shoulders dropping a fraction. “I still don’t like you owing anyone on account of me.”
“You’re alive, that’s all that matters,” I say.
A tiny smile lifts one corner of her mouth.
“I brought you something,” I tell her, digging into my tote. The little photo album is frayed at the edges from being handled so much. I climb into the visitor chair and prop it on the bed between us. “Look.”
A photo of the two of us in cheap Santa hats, age twelve and twenty, grinning like idiots in the kitchen of the apartment withthe broken radiator. Her eighteenth birthday pizza with the too-sweet sauce and the candles stuck into the pepperoni. My college graduation with my cap sliding off because I forgot the bobby pins. We flip slowly. We laugh and then both wince because laughing tugs at stitches and sore places.
A nurse peeks in, sees the album, and gives a thumbs-up. “Good medicine,” she says, and leaves us to it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s a message from Damien.
All good?
Yes. She’s awake. Stable. Will update.
Good. Ninety minutes. Eat.
Clara arches a brow at me. I slide the phone away and keep my face steady. “Dinner with a coworker,” I say, which is not completely untrue.
Her voice lowers. “Cass, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m glad I’m alive, obviously.” She laughs dryly. “But your finances… they’re going to be wrecked. How are you ever going to pay off this loan?”
I tell a partial truth. “I got a job with better pay. Strict schedule. It’s temporary, but it’ll cover us for now.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Is it safe?”
“Couldn’t be safer.” I think of the gunshot wound on my arm, covered by the sleeve of my blouse. I can only imagine what Clara would have to say about that.
