“Come in, come in,” he says, looking distracted. He’s barefoot, in a pair of loose-fitting joggers and a cashmere sweater, as if he’d been interrupted on his way to a very formal session at the gym.
“Where’s Stella?” I ask. There’s no sign of her in the living room.
“The hospital. I didn’t know you were scheduled to come today, or I would have called you to let you know. She’s in hospital.”
“What happened?” I gasp, quickly spiraling and worryingthat whatever happened to her is all my fault. I took her out of the house, gave her more than usual to drink, took a priceless painting out of her secret dressing room.
“She was out of sorts when she woke up this morning. More disoriented than usual. The doctors think it may have been what they refer to as a petite stroke. I didn’t know strokes could come in different sizes.” He turns his palms over in disbelief. “But better than a big one, I suppose. I was just on my way back to the hospital. I came to pick up some things to make her more comfortable. Perhaps you could help. You know where everything is better than I do.”
“What are you looking for?”
“She asked for her favorite throw, a photo of her and my grandfather, and some soft socks. I’ve found everything but the socks.”
I follow him into the bedroom, which is in a state of disarray. Drawers are flung open and a part of me doesn’t entirely believe that a mess like this was made searching for socks. What else could Matthew have been looking for in here?
“I can get the socks,” I tell him. He seems relieved and pads down the hallway. Once he’s gone, I try the knob of Stella’s dressing room, the one where she keeps all her secrets. Relief floods through me when it doesn’t turn. I gather two pairs of soft socks, also underwear, which is always what my mom wanted when she was in the hospital. In the bathroom I select a few of Stella’s favorite lotions and some of her makeup. Once she feels like herself, she’ll want to put on her face. Everything else of hers, the wigs and jewelry, is behind the locked door. I select a buttery yellow Hermès overnight bag and stuff it all inside.
As I leave, I glance back at the unmade bed and notice an empty space on the wall above it. Someone has taken Stella’s precious sword.
Matthew is pacing in front of the windows in the sitting room when I return.
“Here you go. She seemed all right when I left her last night.”
“When did you leave her?”
“Around midnight.” That’s close enough to the truth.
“She’s always been a night owl.”
“I took her out,” I admit. “We went to the Pompidou.”
“That’s wonderful,” he says, instead of chastising me. “I’ve been wanting her to get out more. Did she enjoy it?”
“Very much. But you don’t think that caused…whatever happened to her?”
“Unlikely. I don’t think a visit to a museum is going to be the thing that ends a woman like her.”
“Is she conscious?”
“Yes. But still confused. I’m going there now. Do you want to come?”
I nod and sling her overnight bag onto my shoulder. If Stella is awake, I have to ask her the rest of her plan, what she needs from us, what I should do with the painting if, god forbid, something were to happen to her. I’m invested now. All of us are.
Matthew’s car is waiting outside and we’re at the hospital in less than ten minutes. A private elevator takes us up to the tenth floor, a ward reserved for people who pay a premium to get fast and exceptional care. I can’t help but remember all the times I waited for hours in the emergency room with my mother, watching addicts shake with withdrawal, seeing children groan in pain and men bleeding out from stab wounds, all stuck in a painful limbo because they couldn’t afford to cut the line.
Stella is so tiny in the hospital bed. The doctors have removed her wig, and I fear that’s what will upset her most when she is lucid again.
“She’s asleep,” a nurse says. “And sedated, but that is just so her brain can heal.”
I place Stella’s hand in mine. It’s soft, the skin crinkly andthin like tissue paper, but the fingernails are perfect little bell curves with pearly pink nail polish on them. She twitches at my touch.
Matthew is next to me, staring down at his grandmother. When I look up at him, I see real tears in his eyes. I reach over to grab his hand too. “She’s going to be okay,” I say.
“I hope so. I’m not ready…”
“No one is ever ready.”
The nurse clears her throat. “A doctor will be in shortly if you can wait. She will have an update.”
