The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles. I knew this because I had counted them three times between doses of painkillers, while waiting for the discharge papers that would send me home with a broken leg, two fractured ribs and an order to stay in bed for six weeks.
Two days earlier, a drunk driver had turned my Tuesday commute into a slow-motion, glass-and-metal collision. I was 35, I was alive, and according to the surgeon, I was "very lucky." " Lucky " seemed like a strong word for someone who couldn't even reach his own glass of water.
The hospital ceiling had exactly 47 tiles.
Yet, I told myself I had everything I needed. David. Eight years of marriage, a beautiful four-year-old daughter named Abbie, and a suburban house with a creaky third step. A life as solid as a rock.
Or at least, that's what I was telling myself.
David had perfectly played the role of the devoted husband and caring father.
But apparently, "in sickness as in health" had an expiration date.
I had the essentials.
Lying there, with nothing else to do but think, little memories began to tickle my mind.
David had missed three daycare pickups last month. My mother-in-law, Eleanor's remark at Christmas about how Abbie "luckily" had my husband's eyes. Last spring's bank alert about a transfer I didn't recognize, and David's dismissive shrug.
"I was just helping Mom with something, honey."
I've always let that kind of thing slide. The family peacekeeper, all by myself.
Memories began to stir in my mind.
I called my husband for the fourth time that morning.
"Hi," David replied. It was as if I'd caught him in the middle of something.
"They're letting me out at 10 a.m. Are you coming to pick me up, or should I ask Olivia?"
Olivia was my older sister.
"Um, Mom is here to take care of Abbie. I can come," my husband replied.
I caught him in the middle of something.
In the background, Eleanor's voice was as stiff as a starched collar. "David," I said, "the guest room is a mess. Are you listening to me?"
My husband was 41 years old, but he looked 14. He had clearly panicked and called his mother.
"Okay," I said cautiously. "That's great. Thank her for me."
"Of course. Get some rest."
He hung up before I could tell him I loved him.
"Are you listening to me?"
***
The nurse came in with my discharge papers and a wheelchair.
She was in a good mood that seemed almost prescribed by a doctor.
"Are you nervous about going home?" she asked me while adjusting the footrest.
"My mother-in-law is renovating my house," I told her.
She grimaced compassionately.
She was cheerful.
“Frankly,” I added, “it scares me more than the operation. At least for the operation, I was under anesthesia.”
The nurse laughed so hard she sniffed, then apologized. I decided I liked her.
***
The return journey was a blurry series of potholes that I could feel in my ribs.
David left the radio on low volume and answered my questions in monosyllables.
I thought to myself that I liked him.
"How is Abbie?"
" GOOD. "
"Did you fill my prescription?"
"Mom took care of it."
"Honey, are you okay?" I asked.
My husband glanced at me, then looked back at the road, but he didn't respond.
***
Our driveway hadn't changed. The hydrangeas were still doing their best. Abbie burst out of the front door in her purple leggings, then remembered she was supposed to take it easy and slowed down to advance cautiously, arms wide open.
"Honey, are you okay?"
"Mommy, I'm giving you a soft hug," she said.
"That's the best hug ever, darling."
***
Inside, the house smelled of someone else's laundry.
The cushions on my sofa had been rearranged in a layout I didn't recognize, and my cookbooks had disappeared from the worktop.
Eleanor was standing in the kitchen, wearing a cream cardigan, sorting through what looked like our mail.
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