The rain was pounding so hard against the windshield that Eleanor Whitmore could barely hear her husband telling her to get out of the car.
At first, she thought his fever had distorted his words.
She was leaning against the passenger door, with one arm around her stomach, wearing Garrett’s oversized gray sweatshirt over a damp nightgown that rubbed against her legs.
The clock on the dashboard read 1:17 in the morning.
Outside, the Tennessee highway had transformed into a long strip of black glass, interrupted only by the shadows of the pine trees, the silver rain, and the lightning that gave the impression, for a cruel instant, that the whole world seemed to be as it was.
“Garrett,” she whispered. “Please. The hospital is on the other side.”
He didn’t turn his head.
He gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles looked pale in the dashboard light.
With each flash of lightning, her wedding ring reflected the light.
It was impeccable.
“I can’t stand it anymore,” she said.
Eleanor blinked, trying to understand despite the pain.
“To do?”
“You.”
The word had a greater impact than the rain.
Her voice trembled, but it wasn’t from a broken heart.
It was resentment.
“The doctor’s appointments,” she said. “The bills. The medications. The tears. The panic. Her illness consumed everything.”
For three years, Eleanor defended Garrett from all those who noticed that his voice became monotonous when he spoke to her in public.
“He’s tired,” she told herself.
He’s scared.
Read more on the next page. He loves me, but he doesn’t know how to deal with it.
She had repeated those words so many times that they had become a little prayer, which she repeated every time he got angry with her after a doctor’s appointment or sighed when he saw another pharmacy receipt.
Read more on the next page.
