— Did David tell you?
— No.
— I saw your car at the hospital this morning.
Coincidence.
Margaret had a cardiac check-up appointment in the same complex.
Claire cried.
Told her.
Margaret came over that night.
Cooked.
Stayed.
— We have to tell him, — Claire said.
— Of course.
David called the next day.
Claire was getting a scan.
Margaret answered.
— She's undergoing some tests.
— What tests?
Margaret looked at Claire, who was far away.
— Nothing urgent.
— She's exhausted.
David:
— Tell her I love her.
— Of course.
Margaret didn't tell him.
Later, she justified it:
— I didn't want to tell him without you.
That seemed reasonable.
Two days later, Claire sent an email.
Got no response.
Margaret:
— David is in a complicated phase right now.
— I've explained it to him.
Claire:
— You told him?
— Yes.
— What did he say?
Margaret took a breath.
— That he trusts the doctors.
— That he wants you to focus on your treatment.
Claire cried with relief.
Then came the first fake email.
Not warm.
Not completely cruel.
Distant.
That was what made it believable.
David had been colder in his messages for weeks.
Exhaustion.
Schedules.
Claire read: I don't want this to interfere with what I'm doing here. Focus on recovering.
It hurt.
But she rationalized it.
Soldiers.
Work.
Pressure.
Margaret:
— The Carter men are like that when they're scared.
Claire:
— Not David.
— Everyone has their limits.
Then came the treatment.
Margaret accompanied her.
She didn't fake her care.
The care was real.
Brought a blanket.
Learned the names of the medications.
Bought beanies.
Made soup.
One night Claire threw up, and Margaret held the hair she still had left.
— Thank you.
— You are family.
That was also true.
People can care for you and manipulate you at the same time.
Perhaps that was what confused Claire the most later on.