All he could do, was offer himself. Never leaving his wife’s side, Tony repeatedly wiped her tear coated cheeks with a soft handkerchief, and each time she’d mutter, in his calmest tone, he’d reassure, “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. No one is gone...” He didn’t know if she could hear his words; nevertheless, saying them brought a sense of comfort to their suite.
By the time the sun rose behind the still billowing clouds, Tony’s head rested quietly on the side of the chair. There hadn’t been a change in hours. He didn’t intend to fall asleep, but the rumbling of thunder, rhythm of rain, and constant in Claire’s condition allowed him to slip into a false sense of security.
Claire couldn’t remember where she was. Her last memory was of the suite in Iowa. The copper colored walls she remembered were gone; instead, the white woodwork and golden drapes of 2010 were back. The fear that infiltrated her thoughts and drained her world of color was the overwhelming sensation of isolation. Claire was, once again, alone. No longer did she wake to the sounds of her paradise. Birds no longer sang and the surf no longer roared. The only reoccurring noise was that of the beep. She didn’t need to look, to know why it occurred. Claire knew too well—the beep happened whenever the door to the rest of the world opened.
Alone forever, the beep was a continual reminder of her fate. Claire didn’t want to hear the sound or see the person who’d enter. There was a time, somewhere long ago, when Claire yearned to see Catherine, she prayed for that. Now, each time the door opened, she prayed for someone—anyone else, yet each tray of food—each outfit set out—everything necessary for life—came at the hands of the woman who was no longer her comforter—but her tormentor. If Claire turned, she knew she’d see Catherine’s sadistic gray eyes.
Though her life was hell—it no longer mattered. Claire’s will to continue vanished with her husband and child. She saw the food which arrived three times a day. Never once did she desire to eat. She saw the French doors which opened only upon request. There was nothing beyond the panes she craved. Colors were gone. Showering, dressing, sleeping, and waking were inconsequential. Claire’s thoughts and actions were consumed with one desire: to be with her family. If her goal could only be obtained through death, she willed it to occur.
This sense of doom overwhelmed her as she woke. She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see the golden drapes. Tentatively, more from reflex than want, Claire pried her eyes open. As she tried to focus, the world she feared was gone; instead of white woodwork, a thatched ceiling filled her view. A slow, methodical fan twirled above her bed and cooler than normal air moved through their suite.
Though the angle didn’t seem right, she knew she was in paradise. When she attempted to move, stiffness affected each joint. Claire felt as though her body were bruised. With pressure on her stomach, she suddenly remembered their baby. Tears of loss filled her eyes as she reached for her midsection. Before her hand moved that far, her fingers brushed a full head of hair. Raising her face, Claire’s lips morphed into a grin as she saw the familiar head of dark hair highlighted with renegade white. It was the most perfect head of hair she’d ever seen.
Reaching below the perfect head of hair, Claire felt her enlarged midsection. The slight pressure she’d felt was Tony’s large hand splayed across their unborn child. For a moment, she lay perfectly still relishing her reality. The night of terror was only a dream—a nightmare. As if for confirmation, their child moved. The small, strong life pushed against her skin from within. Every muscle in Claire’s body relaxed. Their child was still inside of her, Tony was beside her, and no matter what the future held, she was exactly where she wanted to be.
Weaving her fingers through his hair, Claire whispered his name, “Tony?”
Though his head didn’t move, the hand over her midsection shielded protectively, as he murmured, “I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. No one is gone...”
Again, she whispered, “Tony, what happened? Why are you on the floor?”
His tired eyes found hers. Though he looked exhausted, the sparkle behind the soft brown filled Claire with love and hope. He reached up and touched her cheek. “Oh, thank God, you’re not hot.”
Her lips twitched upward. “Thanks a lot. You don’t look all that hot yourself.”
His lips gently found hers. When he pulled away, Claire watched as his grin emerged, coming from some dark place, and a tear slid down his cheek. Had she ever seen him cry? Claire couldn’t remember. It was the relief in his voice that overwhelmed her and brought tears to her cheeks. “Mrs. Rawlings, have I ever mentioned how much I love that smart mouth?”
Claire nodded. “A time or two.”
He smoothed the hair from her face. “You’ve had us all very scared.”