“Nobody knew.”
“I was good at hiding it.”
“That night, the pager went off four times.”
“I didn’t hear it.”
“I didn’t hear a thing until eight in the morning.”
“That’s when Nate pounded on that door.”
He pointed at the side door.
“He’d come straight from surgery.”
“He hadn’t slept in a day and a half.”
“He looked at me.”
“He looked at the bottles.”
“And he said, ‘I’ll handle it.'”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I’ll handle it.”
“What did he handle?”
Owen finally looked at me.
“At the review, they asked him why he operated on no sleep.”
“He could have said the on-call never answered.”
“He could have said my name.”
“He didn’t.”
“He said, ‘It was my judgment. My call. My mistake.'”
“That’s all he said.”
“Over and over.”
“And they let him take it.”
“They let him take every bit of it.”
“And you let him,” I said.
“And I let him.”
“I kept my job.”
“I kept my license.”
“I got sober in March.”
“The same week they suspended him.”
“He drove me to my first meeting.”
“Can you believe that?”
“The week they took his career, he drove me to a church basement.”
I couldn’t speak.
Behind me, I heard a small, sharp breath.
I turned.
Jess stood in the kitchen doorway.
Wyatt was asleep on her shoulder.
She’d heard.
I don’t know how much.
Enough.
“You were drinking?” she said.
“The night I was in the ER?”
Owen stood up.
The bucket tipped over.
“Jess—”
“The night I thought I was losing him?”
She put her hand on the baby’s back.
“You were out here?”
“With a bottle?”
Owen’s face crumpled.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Jess looked at me.
“Did you know?”
“I found out five minutes ago.”
She nodded slowly.
Then she looked at the bottle on the workbench.
Then at her husband.
“Is that why you’ve been out here since yesterday?”
He didn’t answer.
She walked over.
She picked up the bottle.
She carried it to the recycling bin.
She dropped it in.
It clanked against the cans.
