Page 158 of Faultlines
A warm, callused hand settles over mine, and I look up to see my dad lowering himself into the creaking plastic chair beside me. He offers no platitudes, no empty reassurances. His silent presence offers more comfort than any words can.
Eventually, his gaze drifts to my hands. I scrubbed them in the hospital bathroom until the water ran pink, but the stain lingers—dried blood trapped beneath my fingernails, dark and flaking against my pale skin. I keep scraping at it, though.
“He’ll be okay,” Dad says quietly.
I shake my head. “You don’t know that.”
“He’s stubborn.” His voice remains calm, steady.
“I thought he was dead.”
He grips my hand tighter, a gesture that makes me feel twelve years old, safe from monsters under the bed. “I know.”
Unwelcome tears spill down my cheeks. “I thought he died because of me.”
His grip tightens. “Claire.”
“If I had pushed the police harder. If I hadn’t just stood there, paralyzed, watching. If I had handled things differently—” The words tumble out in a torrent of self-recrimination.
“Stop.” The single word silences me.
“He got hurt protecting me.”
“That’s the Ethan I know,” he says, his voice resolute. “Always has been.”
“What?”
His eyes meet mine. “That man can be a fool about a great many things, Claire. But he’s never been a fool about you. Never.”
Lucy enters with Ellie, and she sprints across the linoleum throwing herself into my arms. She clings to me and I hold her just as tightly. When she pulls back, I see the raw fear in her tear-filled eyes.
“Is Dad okay?”
I brush her hair back. “They’re taking good care of him,” I manage.
Her eyes fill with fresh tears, despite her brave attempt to pretend that answer is enough.
The hours that follow blur. We speak with the police. Marisol giving another statement. Sloane loudly declares a vending machine is conspiring against her after it steals her money twice. Under normal circumstances, the comment would make me laugh.
The woman beside me folds and refolds a tissue until it frays at the edges. I press my palms flat against the plastic chair, sticky from a thousand previous palms, and try not to look at the double doors that haven’t opened in forty-seven minutes.
Then the double doors swing open, and a doctor in blue scrubs steps into the waiting room. Everyone rises simultaneously.
“Bennett Family?”
“Yes,” I croak.
“The knife missed any major arteries,” he confirms.
Beside me, Ellie sobs openly, Dad closes his eyes in a silent prayer of gratitude. Lucy puts an arm around me. He continues detailing Ethan’s recovery and physical therapy needs.
He’s alive and that’s all I hear.
Since last summer, I imagined a life without him—a new routine. But I never imagined a world where he wasn’t in it.
Hours later, after everyone has finally been convinced to go home and rest, a nurse leads me into Ethan’s room. Bandages are wrapped around his shoulder. A faint sheen of sweat covers his forehead. The room smells of antiseptic.
I stand there just looking at him. This man has driven me crazy for most of my adult life. He’s made me laugh, cry, grow furious, and broken my heart. He gave me Ellie. He built a home with me. He betrayed me. He shattered my trust. And somehow, none of those things matter as I watch the slow rise and fall of his chest.
