I'm in my room, attempting to eat a sandwich that tastes like cardboard, when the screen lights up with an unfamiliar number. Pennsylvania area code.
My heart stops.
I answer before the second ring, my hands shaking so badly I almost drop the phone. "Hello?"
"Blood?"
Her voice.
God, her voice.
It's hoarse and weak, nothing like the woman I married, but it's hers.
It's undeniably, unmistakably hers.
"Vanna?" I'm on my feet without realizing it, my sandwich forgotten on the bed. "Baby, is that you?"
"Yeah." I hear her exhale, a shaky sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. "It's me. I'm still here."
I'm still here.
Three words. That's all. But they're enough to bring me to my knees.
"God, Van." My voice breaks, and I don't even care. "I've been going out of my mind. Are you okay? Are they treating you right? Talk to me."
"I'm okay." She sounds exhausted, like even speaking takes more energy than she has. "It's been... hard. Really hard. But I'm getting through it."
"That's my girl." I'm smiling now, tears streaming down my face, and I don't bother wiping them away. "I knew you could do it. I knew you were strong enough."
"I don't feel strong, Blood. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Multiple times."
I laugh—a real laugh, the first one in two weeks—and the sound surprises both of us. "You're doing something most people can't even imagine. That's the definition of strong, Van."
We talk for fifteen minutes.
She tells me about the facility, about the other residents, about the counselors who are helping her through the worst of it.
I tell her about the clubhouse, about the brothers checking on me, about the bike I've been working on to keep myself sane.
I don't tell her about the breakdown.
About the nights I've spent crying on my bedroom floor.
About the fear that's been eating me alive since the moment I drove away from that facility.
Some things she doesn't need to know. Not yet.
"I have to go," she says finally. "They're pretty strict about phone time."
"Okay." I don't want to hang up. I want to stay on the line forever, just listening to her breathe. Just knowing she's alive and fighting and still there. "I love you, Vanna. I'm so damn proud of you."
"I love you too." Her voice catches, and I hear her sniffle on the other end of the line. "Thank you for not giving up on me. I know I haven't made it easy."
"You never have to thank me for that. Loving you isn't something I do—it's something I am. It's the only thing I know how to be."
She's quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is thick with tears. "I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"I'll be here. Waiting. Same as always."
