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EIGHTY-FOUR

IT’S TIME. CHECK IN with David and the doctors, then dance for the FBI.

We drive two cars to the hospital, Camille following the kids and me. In what’s become our routine, I first visit David’s room alone, while Camille takes the children to the kids’ room, a few floors away from the ICU. If there is difficult news, I want to hear it first.

David. My thoughts scattering in every direction. The things I know about him — how he dotes on the kids and me, his work ethic, his decency, his selfless, life-risking rescue of a man he’d never met. But now the things Blair said, too. They don’t just paint my husband in a new light — they rip the canvas in half and toss it in the dumpster. A modern-day Jekyll and Hyde, responsible for a mass murder. A con man who buried his lies, who used his wife and children for redemption, a reboot on life.

I don’t believe it. I can’t. My mind can’t go there, can’t find any footing, simply cannot accept that the man I love, the father of my children, is a monster.

So. Deep breath. One step at a time, right? I’ll do my job for the FBI today. Then we’ll figure the rest of this out. There has to be a different truth from the one staring me in the face.

I won’t give up on you, David.

I get off the elevator and walk past the nurses’ station, ready for my perfunctory greeting from the police officers stationed outside the room.

But the guards aren’t there. Where … where are the officers —

I break into a sprint toward the room, my chest filling with dread. I burst through the door and find David in the bed, looking exactly the same, almost like a mannequin in his immobile state, with the machines whooshing and whirring and burping, the tubes entering him from all directions. I let out a sigh of relief.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bowers.”

I jump as I see the doctor seated in the corner, a medical chart in his hand. Dr. Thaddeus Grant, with the wild, unkempt eyebrows and long face.

“Where’s the guard for the room?” I ask. “And why are you … sitting in here?”

“We need to talk,” he says in that annoyingly calm manner.

“First, I want to know why the police are no longer guarding this room, why David’s life is suddenly not worth protecting.” I pull out my phone and start dialing numbers. “What the hell suddenly happ —”

And then it hits me, like a slap across the face.

I look into the doctor’s eyes. The phone drops from my hand.

“Mrs. Bowers, your husband isn’t registering any cortical or brain-stem activity. I’m afraid there’s … I’m afraid he’s gone.”

I turn to David, lying just as before, his chest expanding and contracting, kept alive only by artificial means.

“He’s … he’s …”

“He’s suffered brain death. I’m so very sorry.”

I move to him, feeling like I’m floating. I put my trembling hand on his face, cool to the touch.

“Can he … can he hear me?” I manage, my throat choking on the words, knowing the answer already. “Can I talk to him?”

“It sure can’t hurt, Mrs. Bowers.”

I pull down the bed rail and lean over my husband, my face nestled into his, my hand caressing his face.

“Oh, my sweet David,” I whisper. “I will always, always love you. The kids will always love you. You’re not gone. You’ll never be gone. You’ll always be in my heart. You’ll always be their father. Always, David.”

You never got the chance to see the kids graduate from college, to walk Grace down the aisle, to watch them become parents themselves, to hold and love their children, our grandchildren.

You never got the chance to clear your name.

“I know … you wanted to tell me everything. But you didn’t have to. I know you. I know you. Your name doesn’t matter. What happened a long time ago doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change who you are to me. To us. To our family. Nothing will ever change that, David. Nothing.”

Time passes as I cry, as I hold David tight and whisper to him, all the memories, all the moments so precious beyond words. The first time we met, on the running path. Our first kiss, under the red maple tree in Potter’s Park. The birth of Grace, all twenty-one hours of it. The vows we wrote for our wedding. And of course when David proposed, dropping to a knee under a bright sunny sky in Loon Gardens. I have one question for you, he said, his voice shaky, emotion clouding his eyes, as he opened the box with the engagement ring in it — only to have a bird drop a load on his shoulder at that very moment, kersplatting right onto his polo shirt. Marcie Dietrich, he went on, not to be outdone, you got a towel I could borrow?

But then it’s time. Time for me to leave. I can’t bear the thought of releasing him, of not touching him, but I have no choice. The rest of our family is depending on me.

“I don’t want you to worry about us,” I whisper in his ear. “We’re going to be fine. I can handle this. I promise. I promise I’ll make it through this for the kids.”

I pull back from him, wipe my face, and look down at the love of my life, expressionless and emotionless. At peace, I hope.

I lean down one last time and gently press my lips against his. “I’d do it all over again,” I whisper. Then I pick up my phone and leave the room.