Two.
My jaw locks.
Finally: ‘All right, I have him here. The doctor checked his vitals ten minutes ago. Luke is stable this morning.’
My lungs loosen a fraction.
‘Stable.’ I repeat. I hate how raw my voice sounds.
‘Yesterday was a productive day for him,’ she continues, slipping into her clinical script. ‘He completed his cognitive therapy session with Dr Kellerman—the full hour, no resistance. He also attended group therapy and actually engaged.’ There’s a hint of surprise in her tone. This is his fourth stint at the “wellness centre”, and he was notoriously difficult on his last stay.
I rub the centre of my chest—because that tight pull is back again.
‘Any issues with withdrawal?’ I ask.
‘The usual, but nothing acute.’ Papers shuffle. ‘He’s eating. Hydrating. As you know, at Cherrydale, we encourage meditation and journaling. He asked for a journal last night.’
That stops me.
‘He asked?’ I repeat.
‘Yes, sir.’ Her voice is bright, like she’s beaming. ‘Luke had a good day yesterday.’
For the first time in a long fucking time, something close to gratitude hits me. Maybe my shitshow of a family are finally pulling themselves together.
‘Right,’ I say quietly. ‘Good.’
‘Would you like me to tell him you called?’ she offers. ‘I see it’s his birthday today.’
‘Please pass on my best to him. Wish him a happy birthday from me. Buy him a cake or something. Charge it to my account. Tell him if he stays clean until his next birthday, he’ll have a position in the family company.’ He’s taken the first step. But he has a long way to go to build a bridge with me. I’m just hoping he finds the blocks to construct it.
‘I will pass on your messages, Mr Hartmann. Is there anything else I can do for you?’ she asks gently, like she can hear something frayed in my breath.
Yeah, Amanda.
You could tell me why my chest feels like it’s been cracked open with a fucking crowbar.
You could tell me why the universe woke me up at five a.m. like someone pulled a trigger.
But I clear my throat instead.
‘No,’ I say. ‘That’s all.’
‘Have a good morning, sir.’
I hang up and let the phone fall onto the mattress beside me.
Luke is okay.
Mom is okay.
Everyone is okay.
So why the hell do I feel like my entire life just changed?
The panic has faded, but the sensation remains. Likesome unseen wire connecting me to something—or someone—just tightened.
Something changed.
