Chapter 5: What He Was Typing
I excused myself quietly and stepped into the corridor.
Martin was leaning against the wall about fifteen feet from Clara's door, phone in both hands.
He didn't look up when I came out.
I didn't know this man.
I had heard his name, heard what he had done, and now I had watched his daughter tell him the truth in a hospital room with a shaved head and steady eyes.
I had no particular reason to speak to him.
But something about the way he was typing made me stop.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
He looked up.
He seemed surprised that I'd spoken to him.
"Fine," he said.
Then, after a pause: "You're her friend.
Diane's friend."
"Yes."
He nodded slowly.
His eyes went back to his phone, then he seemed to think better of it and put it in his pocket.
"She's stronger than I expected."
"She's always been strong," I said.
"You missed it."
He didn't argue with that.
"What were you typing?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"A message to my wife.
Telling her how it went."
"And how did it go?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"About how I deserved."
I studied him.
He didn't look like a villain standing there — he looked like a man who had made a decision eight years ago that he had never fully reckoned with, and was only now beginning to understand the full cost of it.
That didn't make it better.
But it was something.
"She said she'd think about it," I told him.
"That's more than you had when you walked in."
"I know." He rubbed the back of his neck.
"That boy in there."
"Julian."
"He's seventeen?"
"Yes."
Martin was quiet again.
"I was thirty-four when I left.
I keep thinking about that." He looked down the corridor.
"A seventeen-year-old figured out what I couldn't at thirty-four."
I didn't fill the silence.
He straightened up.
"I'm going to get a hotel.
Give her space." He paused.
"Will you tell Diane I'll call tomorrow?
She doesn't have to answer.
I just — I'd like to try to do this right.
Whatever right looks like now."
"I'll tell her."
He walked away down the corridor.
I watched him until he turned the corner, and then I stood there for a moment by myself.
When I went back inside, Diane was in the recliner, and Clara was asleep.
Julian was still in the chair beside the bed.
He had found a paperback somewhere — one of Clara's, by the look of it — and he was reading quietly, one hand resting near hers on the blanket.
Not holding it.
Just near it.
Available.
I sat down next to Diane.
"He's getting a hotel," I said softly.
"He said he'll call tomorrow."
She nodded without looking surprised.
"He always comes back eventually.
That's the thing about Martin.
He never completely disappears.
He just — orbits.
Close enough to feel like he might land.
Far enough to never have to."
"Clara handled it well."
"She did." Diane looked at her daughter.
"Better than I would have at her age." She paused.
"Better than I did at forty-two, if I'm honest."
We sat quietly for a while.
The machines beeped their slow rhythm.
Clara's breathing was even and deep.
Then Diane said, very softly: "The scan results come back Thursday."
I looked at her.
"The mid-treatment scan.
It tells us whether the c@nc3r is responding." She kept her eyes on Clara.
"If the numbers aren't moving in the right direction, they'll talk about changing the protocol.
More aggressive treatment.
Longer timeline."
"When did you find out about the scan?"
"This morning.
Before Martin texted.
Before any of it." She finally looked at me.
"I've been holding that all day."
I reached over and put my hand on her arm.
She didn't say anything else.
May you like
But her hand came up and covered mine, and she held on, and I let her.
Thursday felt very far away and very close at the same time.
