Chapter 76 The Call
The scans finished by morning.
By afternoon, they sat in limbo.
Waiting had turned into a full-time job.
Peter reclined in the hospital bed, his IV anchored firmly to his arm, gaze locked on the ceiling tiles as if they might shuffle into some kind of revelation.
Clara perched next to him, thumbing aimlessly through her phone.
Her oxygen unit purred gently between them.
"You're staring," he said.
"I know."
"At what?"
"You," she answered.
He let out a weak snort. "That's not helping."
She clicked her phone off and placed it aside. "Neither is acting like I'm not terrified."
He couldn't argue.
He lacked the energy to fake it.
His body felt off-kilter. Weighted in odd spots. Empty in others. The therapy had robbed him of hunger, wit, tolerance. Even quietude felt altered—denser.
His phone vibrated.
They both jerked.
Isaac's name glowed on the display.
Peter furrowed his brow. "He never rings during shifts."
"Pick up," Clara urged softly.
He did.
"Hey," Peter started.
No hello came back.
Just ragged breaths.
"Isaac?"
A beat.
Then, toneless and far-off: "She's gone."
Peter's mind lagged. "What?"
"Car wreck. This morning." His tone came through muffled, like underwater. "They claimed it happened in a flash."
Clara went rigid in her seat.
Peter eased upright. "No."
A brief puff escaped Isaac—not a chuckle, not a gasp.
"I was mid-conference," Isaac went on. "Nearly ignored it. Hospital line. Figured it was collections."
Peter gulped. "Isaac..."
"They told me there wasn't anything left to bid farewell to."
The line lingered in the air.
Nothing left to bid farewell to.
Peter sensed the space spin a touch.
Clara grasped his wrist without glancing over.
"I'm heading there," Peter blurted.
"No." Isaac's reply edged sharper. "Don't."
"I can..."
"You can barely rise without aid," Isaac interrupted. Not harsh. Just plain truth.
Quiet descended.
Then Isaac uttered it.
"At least you've got some hours left."
The statement lacked resentment.
It carried fracture.
Peter shut his eyes.
"Isaac..."
The connection severed.
Clara sprang up.
"What happened?"
Peter fixated on the blank screen. "She's gone."
Clara's palm clapped over her lips.
"No..."
"Car wreck."
Her eyes brimmed right away. "Oh God."
Peter's ribcage constricted—not from the regimen, not from queasiness.
From a deeper ache.
Isaac had handled affection with caution.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
He'd delayed a full year before sharing a home with her.
Always insisting, "No hurry. We've got plenty of days."
Peter's stomach churned.
Not from drugs.
From the cruelty of it all.
He glanced at Clara.
She wept soundlessly now.
"For him," she breathed.
He dipped his head.
Then, out of nowhere, fury ignited.
"He said I've still got hours."
Clara's eyes rose.
Peter's words quivered. "As if that fixes anything."
She inched nearer. "He doesn't intend it that way."
"I know."
But awareness didn't lighten the load.
Peter dialed back.
No pickup.
Again.
Voicemail.
He tapped out a note.
I'm here.
Erased it.
I'm coming regardless.
Scratched that too.
What do you dispatch to a man who'd forfeited his world in one phrase?
Clara settled on the bed's rim.
"You ought to go to him," she suggested.
"I can't."
"You could attempt it."
He eyed her breathing tube. The deliberate rise of her torso with each inhale.
"And abandon you here, hanging on scan outcomes?"
She wavered.
That waver spoke louder than any comfort.
"I don't want to be why you skip something vital," she murmured.
He clasped her fingers.
"You're not."
The reality ran deeper.
He couldn't fathom supporting Isaac without buckling under the burden of contrast.
At least you've got some hours left.
The words resounded.
The guilt of enduring twisted oddly.
He wasn't healed yet.
Still afflicted.
Still at risk.
But breathing.
And Isaac's partner wasn't.
Later that dusk, Isaac messaged at last.
Stay away.
Just that.
Peter rang again.
No response.
One more try.
Zip.
Clara observed from the room's far side.
"He craves distance," she offered gently.
Peter's teeth clenched. "He craves company."
"So do you."
The chamber hushed.
Peter sank against the cushions.
"I don't know how to reach him," he confessed.
"Then skip words. Just be present."
"I can't perch with him in a corridor this round."
Clara's gaze warmed.
"You're not the sole one permitted to feel powerless."
He despised her accuracy.
Sleep evaded him that night.
He replayed Isaac's timbre endlessly.
Drained.
Incredulous.
The lack of weeping stung worse than sobs.
Clara eased gingerly into the bed next to him once more.
Her motions dragged lately. Weariness embedding in her frame.
She nestled her crown against his sternum.
"Thinking of her?" she inquired.
"Yes."
"Or us?"
He paused before replying.
"Both."
She bobbed against him.
"I once figured abrupt was kind," she confided low. "No drawn-out farewell. No witnessing a dimming."
Peter drew her closer with care.
"Not now?"
She shook her head.
"No. I'd battle for every tick. Even the raw ones."
He sealed his lids.
At least you've got some hours left.
The line felt less soothing now.
More like duty.
Hours weren't security.
They were strain.
Near midnight, his phone trilled anew.
Isaac.
Peter snatched it.
No opener.
Just breaths once more.
"I cleared her wardrobe," Isaac stated.
Peter creased his forehead. "So soon?"
"Couldn't bear eyeing it."
His pitch fractured on the final syllable.
"Kept imagining she'd stroll in and scold my folding."
Peter's gullet scorched.
"I don't know what to do with the toothbrush," Isaac pressed on. "It's dumb. Merely a toothbrush."
"It's not dumb," Peter replied tenderly.
Another lull.
Then Isaac hissed, "At least you've got some hours left."
This instance, it rang like an entreaty.
As if imploring Peter to cherish it.
"I know," Peter affirmed.
And this time, he implied it afresh.
"I won't squander them."
The line held for a few beats longer.
Then clicked off.
Peter attempted redial.
No luck.
He fired a text.
I'm here. Even if you ignore.
No reply.
He glared at the display till it faded.
Clara stirred beside him.
"Did he connect?"
"He cut off."
She propped up a bit, scanning his features.
"He's sinking," she observed.
Peter assented.
"And we're still drawing air."
That heft bore down fiercely.
Beyond the door, another patient's alarm chimed.
Existence persisting.
Ceasing.
Sparking elsewhere.
Peter egarded Clara.
Truly regarded her.
The way she lingered.
Still electing.
Still contending.
He brushed a kiss on her brow.
She fluttered her eyes shut.
"Don't squander hours," she breathed.
His phone stayed mute in his grasp.
Isaac skipped the following ring.
And the subsequent.
By dawn, it routed direct to messages.
And Peter started to grasp...
Hours aren't the same as vow.