And I am not alone.
* * *
Dorian
By the morning of the tenth day, I am done. I am finished with the white walls, the smell of antiseptic, and the constant interruptions.
“If I have to stare at these four white walls for one more day, or take one more slow lap, relying on this flimsy walker, I am going to buy this hospital just to walk out the front door right now.” I grumble, sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed in fresh clothes David brought.
Dr. Bakkal walks in, looking like she has aged five years in the last week dealing with me. She probably has.
"Alright, Mr. Marshall," she sighs, checking my chart one last time. "Your incision is healing beautifully. Your blood counts are near normal. You are fever-free."
"So, I'm leaving," I state.
"You are being discharged," she corrects firmly. "But with strict protocols. No lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk for six weeks. No driving for two weeks. You need to keep the wound dry and clean. And if you feel any fever, you call us immediately."
"Understood," I say, standing up too quickly.
"I'm fine," I murmur to her, covering her hand with mine. "I'm ready."
I sway slightly, gritting my teeth against the wave of dizziness and Della is at my side, instantly.
She hasn't left my side these days. She has slept in that uncomfortable cot, and held my hand through the fever dreams. She looks pale, with dark circles under her eyes that kill me.
I can tell she wants to talk—really talk—but she can’t do it here.
I need to get her out. I’m doing this for both of us.
“We have a wheelchair,” Dr. Bakkal says. “Hospital policy.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Della looks at me.
“Dorian,” she says softly, squeezing my hand. “Please. For me. Just to the door.”
My resistance crumbles. For her, I would crawl. I look at her, nod once and sit in the chair.
“Let’s go.” I can’t wait to show her the house. Our house.
David sent a driver, as I required, and now he is waiting at the curb with the black SUV. The Chicago air is crisp, and after ten days of recycled air, it smells like freedom.
The driver helps me into the backseat. I settle in beside Della and let out a long breath, leaning my head back against the headrest. My hand immediately seeks hers, lacing our fingers together.
“Home?” she asks gently, looking at me with concern. “To the Penthouse?”
I look at her, watching the way the sunlight catches the worry in her eyes. I’m about to erase that look.
“No,” I whisper, a smile finally breaking through my exhaustion. My thumb traces the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse. “I have a surprise for you.”
* * *
Della
The SUV turns off the busy city streets, winding deeper into a tree-lined avenues and the stately, quiet elegance of old Lincoln Park neighborhood.
The driver slows the car, pulling up to the curb on a quiet street.
“We're here, Mr. Marshall” the driver says, parking the car.
