We wait like that, minutes stretching into what feels like hours, the clock on the wall ticking too loudly, the occasional nurse passing by with quiet footsteps, until a doctor finally comes back. He is tall, with wire-rimmed glasses and a white coat that's a little rumpled. I stop breathing when he starts tospeak, and only after he tells us that she is going to be fine, do I resume, my hand going to my chest.
He tells us that they've got her stabilized in a room on the second floor. Relief floods Blake's face. Immediately, we hurry to her. That furrow between his brows remains as we head up in the elevator, and I want more than anything to smoothen it out, to assure him, but I don't dare. I have completely lost my confidence, especially now that I know it is only a matter of time before he finds out the truth and looks at me with disgust.
It is quiet in Frances's room. There is an adjustable bed with crisp white sheets, an IV stand dripping clear fluid, and monitors glowing with green lines tracking her heart, the faint beep-beep filling the air like a lifeline. She looks pale and waxy against the pillows, silver hair tucked back, but her chest rises and falls steadily now. Thank God, the oxygen mask is gone, just a nasal cannula whispering air into her nostrils.
Blake hurries to her and pulls up a chair right next to the bed, his hand covering hers gently, fingers tracing the veins on her knuckles like he's afraid she'll slip away if he looks elsewhere.
"Come on, Mom," he murmurs, voice low and rough, leaning forward, and I see the emotion cracking through him. The strong guy I know, but vulnerable now because of love. His eyes glisten as he watches her.
I hover by the door for a moment, hesitation gripping me because what if she wakes and sees me and thinks it was me who injected her, but then I decide to be brave and accept whatever consequences my actions have brought. I move closer and place my hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly, feeling the muscle tense then relax under my touch.
"She's a Bessant. And Bessants are fighters. She’ll make it," I say quietly, bending to kiss his temple, my lips lingering, the salt of his skin on them.
He nods, covering my hand with his free one, holding on like I'm his anchor too.
Time drags. The window shows the dark Hamptons night outside. Eventually, though, Frances stirs. Her eyelids flutter, and a soft groan escapes her pale lips as she comes to. Blake's up in an instant, relief washing over him like a wave, his face lighting up, and his eyes wide.
"Mom? Hey, it's me," he says, voice breaking a little, leaning in closer.
She blinks at him, confusion in her eyes. "Blake... what... what happened? I—" she starts, her voice raspy.
He shushes her gently. "It’s okay, Mom. Don’t talk. You're okay now. You're in the hospital now, and everything is fine. Just rest. I'll go get the doctor."
He presses a kiss to her forehead, his love for her so real and genuine it tugs at my heart. He glances at me, a small smile of happiness breaking through. He's relieved, I can see it in the way his shoulders have relaxed. He goes out to fetch the doctor, and the door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone with her. My pulse spikes, and nervousness coils tight in my belly because now what? Does she know? My hands fidget with the edge of my gown, and my palms feel sweaty.
“I’m so glad you’re okay, Frances,” I say softly.
Frances turns her head slowly in my direction,; those sharp eyes are still a bit hazy, but they lock on mine. She studies me for a long moment, the beeps filling the pause, tension building like a storm cloud. And I feel my heart beating so loud she must be able to hear it. I’m certain now that she thinks I tried to murder her.
"You’re not Carolyn. You didn’t do this to me, did you?" she asks finally.
I freeze, and shame floods hot through me. I feel my cheeks burning as I shake my head. I am unable to meet her gazefully, so I stare at the floor instead, the linoleum scuffed from countless footsteps.
"No... God, no, Frances, I would never..." I whisper, the words tumbling out, hesitant, my voice cracking because how does she know? Has she always suspected?
She nods faintly, a small sigh escaping, and reaches out towards me. I rush to take it, her fingers are frail but gripping with surprising strength.
"Is she coming back?" she asks, her tone pitiful, almost pleading.
I nod slowly, the motion heavy, tears pricking my eyes because yeah, the real Carolyn is already circling like a shark, ready to reclaim it all.
"She is. My name is Juliet, and I’m just a barista, just someone she hired to impersonate her for three months," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper, the weight of what I have done pressing down, making my chest tight. “How did you know it wasn’t me?”
Frances squeezes my hand then. “Because she hates me with a passion, and you don’t. I saw it in her eyes.” Her face softens, and a pitiful note creeps into her voice, breaking my heart. Strong, stern Frances looks vulnerable and broken. "We don’t want her back. We want you,” she whispers hoarsely.
I stare at her, shock rippling through me, warmth blooming despite the fear, because God, I want that too, this family, this life, but it's not mine, is it?
"Frances..." I start hesitantly, emotion choking me, but before I can say more, my phone buzzes, sharp and insistent.
I pull it out, the screen lighting up with an unknown number, but I know, gut-deep, it's her—the real Carolyn.
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
I glance at Frances, her eyes are urging me on, and I answer, stepping toward the window, the cool glass fogging slightly from my breath.
"Hello?" I say, my voice low and tense.
"It's me," Carolyn hisses, her tone sharp and urgent. The background noise is faint—like she's in a car, with the windows open and wind is rushing by.
