Surface by Stacy Robinson Page A

fingers into his chest as she spoke in a muted shout, tears beginning to roll down her face. “It must have fallen out of your pocket, and he found it in the bedroom after you left, when I was taking a shower.”
    “Holy shit.” Panic froze his features.
    “And he snorted it and ended up with a brain hemorrhage. They had to do surgery, and he still hasn’t woken up.” Her body was shaking.
    Andrew fumbled in a stunned silence and reached out for her shoulders. “I’m so deeply sorry. I never thought—”
    She felt the warmth of his hands through her shirt and backed away. “Yeah. Neither did I.” As she raised her hand to shove him away, she looked into his face and saw shock and fear and remorse. She dropped her arm and leaned against the wall next to him.
    “What are the doctors saying? Is he going to be okay?”
    “They don’t know when he’s going to wake up. They don’t know if there’s been any permanent damage.” She turned to him. “And I don’t know when Michael’s going to be back here, so you need to leave. Now.”
    “He knows about us?” His voice quavered.
    “He pieced it together. So I’d go back to New York without any more phone calls. We’re trying to keep things private for everyone’s sake. And I’m trying to save my marriage.”
    “What’s going to happen?”
    Her stomach felt explosive and empty at the same time. What’s going to happen? “We’re going to get Nicholas through this and then, I don’t know. Hopefully Michael will be able to forgive me some day.”
    “If there’s anything I can do, Claire. Anything.”
    “You can pray for my son. I don’t know if you pray, Andrew. I never really did, but I do now.”
    He nodded.
    “And I’m going to have to live the rest of my life with this, so it would be much easier if you would just disappear. That’s what you can do.” She wiped her eyes. “Cut off your deals in Denver, and disappear. I think that would be in everyone’s best interest.” She stared into his eyes as she emphasized the everyone, making sure he understood exactly what he risked with his presence, before she turned to walk back to the ICU. “Good-bye,” she said firmly, still holding onto the image of Andrew’s mouth, his lips trembling under the scar. Please, just be smart, and be gone.
    As Claire rounded the corner toward the ICU, she bumped into—and was practically smothered by—an enormous bouquet of orange-pink roses. She let out a yelp as both she and the person behind the flowers simultaneously jumped backward.
    “Oh, Claire, here you are! I was just coming to see you,” a woman said, lowering the flowers to reveal her face. It was Jeannie Chase, an old Junior League friend and member of the museum gala committee.
    Claire swallowed her surprise and did her best to appear unruffled and gracious, checking behind her to be sure Andrew was, indeed, gone, while making small talk and cutting short this latest unexpected visit. “These are beautiful, and you are so kind to come,” she managed, accepting the bouquet and Jeannie’s sympathy over Nicholas’s condition. “I was just on my way to a meeting with one of the doctors, so I’m afraid I can’t sit down with you and—”
    “Oh, please. No apologies,” Jeannie said, nodding solemnly. “I completely understand. You go do what you need to do.” She gave Claire a hasty embrace and retreated toward the elevator, waving and wishing her and Nicholas her best.
    Dazed, Claire made her way back to Nicholas’s room, where she crumpled into her chair and read and reread a flyer on rehabilitation facilities. A new shift nurse appeared, whom she didn’t recognize. Her nameplate read Anne Corbett. She stared at Anne Corbett across the web of wires and tubes above Nicholas, trying to quiet her brain. If Nicholas had been a girl, they would have named her Anne, and called her Annie. But Claire knew that this woman with her severe black bun and dry, down-turned lips had never been called