Chapter 4 - The Story He Was Building
Scott did not invent my cancer.
He did something more believable.
He used the truth around it.
I was nauseated.
I was exhausted.
I had cried in the shower.
I had forgotten one parent-teacher conference because surgery was forty-eight hours away.
I had once called the pharmacy twice because I forgot I had already called.
Every ordinary weakness became evidence once somebody arranged it in the right order.
Monica helped me change my patient-portal password from the hospital bed.
I removed Scott as the primary contact for non-emergency communication.
Molly became backup.
Small administrative clicks.
My hands shook through all of them.
Not because I doubted the choices.
Because I knew Scott would experience every recovered inch of control as an attack.
The next morning my oncologist, Dr. Samuel Kent, came in.
"I need you to know something," he said.
"Scott asked me last week whether your medication could make you irrational."
I stared.
"What did you say?"
"That treatment can affect sleep, attention, mood, and energy, but that you had shown no sign in my care of lacking decision-making capacity."
"Did he accept that?"
Dr. Kent looked tired.
"He asked again in different words."
Of course.
The hospital documented the wound injury.
Police took a report.
I was not asked to decide the entire future that morning.
Only immediate things.
Did I want Scott at the hospital?
No.
Did I want to return home that day?
No.
Did I want Grace with me?
Yes, if she wanted.
She did.
Molly's house had three bedrooms and too many throw pillows.
I moved into the downstairs guest room.
The first night I woke at 2:10 a.m. because someone opened the door.
My whole body locked.
Grace stood there holding a glass of water.
"Sorry."
I forced myself to breathe.
"No, sweetheart. Come in."
She sat at the foot of the bed.
"Dad keeps calling."
My stomach tightened.
"You don't have to answer."
"He says you're making him look dangerous."
I looked at the ceiling.
"How does that make you feel?"
Grace shrugged.
"Like I'm supposed to fix it."
There.
The family rule I had not seen.
Scott felt something.
Then somebody else had to make the room comfortable.
I said, "You are not responsible for making either of us feel better."
Grace's eyes filled.
"Can I still love him?"
That question hurt worse than the incision.
"Yes."
"Even if he hurt you?"
"Yes."
Her shoulders dropped.
I continued.
"Loving him doesn't mean you have to lie for him."
She nodded.
Then my phone buzzed.
New email.
From the attorney whose address had been sitting in my drafts before surgery.
I had forgotten the draft contained enough identifying information for the office to respond when Scott apparently forwarded part of it weeks later.
The attorney, Rachel Kim, wrote:
Mrs. Rowan, I received a voicemail tonight from your husband asking whether you had ever contacted our office and whether treatment had affected your judgment. I did not provide information. Please call when safe.
I read it twice.
Scott was not only building his own record.
He was checking whether I had already started building mine.
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