The wait was a different kind of penance.
The last time he had waited, it was for Lia. In the NICU. A silence filled with the promise of life.
This time, it was a silence filled with the threat of death.
He was in a small, vinyl-chaired waiting room. The coffee in the machine was a burnt, acidic sludge. The only other occupant was a woman, weeping silently into a crumpled tissue.
He was the analyst, with no data.
He was the CEO, with no control.
He was just... the husband.
He had signed the paper. He had given the order. "Save her life."
What if... what if he couldn't? What if his 'A-type' arrogance, his demand that she live, was just another version of his 'A-type' distraction that had...
No. Don't. Don't go there. One. Battle. At. A. Time.
The tactical move.
"Mr. Dowman?"
He shot up. His heart, a cold, dead stone, leaped.
Dr. Aris was standing there. He had pulled his scrub-mask down. His face was... tired. But it wasn't... grieving.
"She's... she's..."
"She's in recovery," Aris said, and the relief that washed through Karlman was so profound, so absolute, that his knees buckled. He grabbed the back of the vinyl chair.
"The... the surgery?"
"It was a success," Aris said. "It was... a mess in there, son. Worse than we thought. The infection was deep. But we... we got it. We got it all. The 'source,' as we called it. It's... it's gone."
"The poison," Karlman whispered.
"The poison," Aris agreed. "She's... she's going to be weak. She's got a hell of a fight ahead. But... she's stable. She's alive. You... you... got her here just in time. An hour... two... and we'd be having a very different conversation."
Karlman just nodded, his throat too thick to speak. He had... won.
No. They had. They had... survived.
"Can I... can I see her?"
"In a bit," Aris said. "She's in post-op. Let her... let her rest. Let the antibiotics do their work. Go home, Mr. Dowman. Get... get some sleep. You look... well, you look like hell."
"I..." Karlman started. Home? The empty, gray, seaside bungalow? Go... back... there?
"Go," Aris said, his voice kind. "She'll be here when you get back. It's over."
But as Dr. Aris turned to leave, Karlman's 'A-type' brain, the one that had just been given a victory, was already processing the result.
The "source" was gone. The "poison" was gone.
The hope... the 20-year-old, toxic, murderous hope... was gone.
"Doctor," Karlman said.
Aris turned back. "Yes?"
"The... the 'source.' The... it. The... womb."
"What about it?" Aris said, his brow furrowing. "It's... it's going to pathology, like..."
"No," Karlman said.
"No?"
"I... I want it."
Dr. Aris stared at him. "You... what?"
"I want it," Karlman repeated, his voice gaining strength. This was data. This was evidence. "The... the 'poison.' The... thing. I... I want it."
"Son," Aris said, his voice losing its kindness, "that is... that is pathological waste. It's... diseased tissue. It's... it's not..."
"It's... ours," Karlman said, his voice a low growl. "It's hers. It's the... the thing... that... that almost killed her. It's the... the proof. The... the end of the... the war. I... I want it."
Dr. Aris looked at this strange, intense, vibrating man. He looked at the wildness in his eyes. And he saw... a logic. A terrible, grief-stricken, 'A-type' logic.
"It's... highly irregular," Aris said.
"I don't care," Karlman said. "I've signed... I've signed... papers. I will... sign... whatever I have to. We... need... to see it. She... needs... to see it."
She needs to see that all hope is lost.
She needs to see that the war is over.
She needs to see that she is free.
Dr. Aris scrubbed his hand over his face. "This... this is a conversation for the hospital administrator. It's... a biohazard. I... I can't... promise..."
"You... you are the man," Karlman said, "who just saved my wife's life. You... you can... make this... happen. Put it... put it in... in a jar. A... a lab bottle. Seal it. I... I don't care. I... I just... I need... the... the fact."
Dr. Aris looked at Karlman, the CEO, the analyst, the broken husband. And he nodded. "I'll... I'll see what I can do."
Three days later, Eunice was home.
She was weak, pale, and quiet. But it was a different quiet. It wasn't the "gray" quiet of penance. It was the "white" quiet of recovery.
Karlman had set her up in the living room, in a recliner, overlooking the gray, churning, living sea.
He had... he had cared for her. He had helped her. The murderer had become the nurse. The judge had become the patient. The penance... was broken.
They didn't talk about it. They just... were.
On the fourth day, Karlman drove, alone, back to the hospital. He met Dr. Aris. Not in a sterile room, but in a back... loading dock.
"The administrator," Aris said, his face grim, "is... not... happy. I've... I've stretched... my professional credibility... for this."
He was holding a box.
"It's... it's in... in a sealed... specimen jar. Formaldehyde. It's... safe."
"Thank you," Karlman said.
"Don't... don't thank me," Aris said. "Just... heal. Both of you."
Karlman drove home. He carried the box inside.
Eunice was asleep in the chair.
He took the box... not to his office... not to the bedroom.
He walked to the fireplace. A cold, unused, stone fireplace.
He put the jar on the mantelpiece.
It was... a thing. A small, glass jar, filled with a yellowish liquid. And in it... suspended... a thing. A knot. A gray, unrecognizable, horrible... piece of meat.
The "source." The "poison." The curse.
Eunice woke, an hour later. The sun was setting, filling the gray room with a strange, cold, orange light.
"Karlman...?"
"I'm here," he said. He was sitting in his chair. Six feet away.
"I... I had a... a dream..." she said, her voice a rasp. "That... that... the war... was... over..."
"It is," he said.
She turned her head. And she saw it.
On the mantel. Lit by the setting sun.
The jar.
She stared. She knew, with an animal, female, primal certainty... what it was.
It was her "failure." It was her "barrenness." It was the "knot." It was the "poison."
It was... out.
It was a morbid memorial. A trophy. A headstone.
It was the final, undeniable, physical proof.
There would be no more "hope."
There would be no more "trying."
There would be no more "curse."
It was... finished.
She looked at the jar. And then... she looked at Karlman.
And for the first time in two years... she... breathed.
All hope was lost.
And she was, finally, terrifyingly... alive.