Chapter 5
David closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose as a throbbing headache began to build behind his temples. The conversation was circling back to a place he could not navigate. Every time he tried to apply logic, Clara met him with an emotional truth he was entirely unequipped to handle. He zipped the overnight bag shut with a decisive jerk, lifting it off the chair and setting it on the floor near the foot of the bed.
"The car is parked in the lower garage," David said, his voice clipped and neutral once more, retreating behind the armor of routine. "I'll go down, bring it around to the main entrance, and meet you at the double doors. Nurse Martha said she’d wheel you down in the chair."
Clara watched him with a cold, analytical detachment. She recognized the retreat. It was the exact same look he gave whenever a client backed out of a business deal or when their apartment lease was up for renewal—a clinical detachment designed to distance himself from any emotional liability. "You're running away again," she observed quietly.
"I am getting the car," David snapped back, his patience finally snapping under the weight of her scrutiny. "There is a distinct difference between running away and being functional." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, slipping his arms into the sleeves with sharp, aggressive movements. He didn't wait for her response. He turned, pulled the heavy door open, and stepped out into the bright, antiseptic hallway.
The corridor was quiet, save for the distant squeak of a cart wheels and the low murmur of nurses at the central station. David exhaled a shaky breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch now that he was out of the direct line of fire. He walked briskly toward the elevators, pressing the down button with more force than necessary. As he waited for the chime, he replayed Clara’s words in his head: You forgot their names.
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The truth of it burned him like acid. In the frantic blur of the diagnosis, the emergency C-section, the sterile operating room lights, and the devastating news that followed, he had focused entirely on medical terminology, survival rates, and administrative logistics. When the doctors had gently referred to the infants, he had nodded numbly, absorbing the data without anchoring the human reality to their identities. Clara, however, had held them. She had named them in the quiet sanctuary of her mind during those long months of anticipation. To her, they were Leo and Maya. To him, they had simply been a medical crisis that had unfortunately gone wrong.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ping, snapping him out of his guilty reverie. He stepped inside, pressing the button for the basement garage, feeling entirely alone even as the car filled with other silent, grieving visitors.
