“You haven't canceled?”
“Venue is handling suspension.”
“I told families there will be no ceremony.”
“Vanessa thinks she can change my mind.”
“Can she?”
“No.”
His answer was immediate.
I believed him.
The door curtain moved.
My mother returned.
Her face was strained.
“Vanessa is downstairs.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
Daniel stood.
“I'll go.”
Mom shook her head.
“She wants Emily.”
“No.”
I said.
Mom looked at me.
“No?”
“No.”
The word felt strange.
Clean.
“She cannot come in.”
Mom nodded.
“I’ll tell her.”
Daniel said:
“I'll go with you.”
They left.
I lay alone.
A nurse adjusted my IV.
Fifteen minutes later, shouting echoed faintly from hallway.
Vanessa.
Even through walls I knew her voice.
“You don't get to keep me away from my own sister!”
Then Daniel.
Too low to understand.
Then Vanessa again:
“She wants me here.”
I pressed call button.
The nurse came.
“Can security keep her out?”
“Yes.”
“Please.”
The nurse nodded.
No judgment.
No family negotiation.
Just yes.
Five minutes later the hallway became quiet.
That might have been the first boundary with Vanessa that nobody asked me to soften.
Sunday morning—the morning I was supposed to watch my sister get married—I woke in hospital.
My shoulder hurt.
My chest hurt from coughing up pool water.
My phone contained eighty-three messages.
I turned it off.
At ten, surgeon arrived.
After examination, he said:
“I don't think you destroyed the repair.”
I cried with relief.
“But.”
I groaned.
“There is a lot of inflammation.”
“Possible partial tearing.”
“We’ll repeat imaging after swelling drops.”
“Physical therapy pauses for now.”
“How long?”
“At least two weeks.”