“Claire, you’re my best reporter. I can’t keep you on a story that’s not going to pan out.” He set a file on my desk. “We have a lot of stuff to cover this month.”
I looked at the green file folder begrudgingly. “What is this?”
He spoke to the tabletop. “A press kit for Seattle Cultural Days. I want you to write the promo pieces.”
“You have to be kidding me, Frank,” I said. “An advertorial?” Frank knew very well that any self-respecting reporter would rather gouge her eyes out than write ad copy.
“Yes,” he said blankly. “I just got word from advertising. It’s a two-page spread. It needs to run by next week.”
I shook my head. “I can’t believe this.”
He took a step closer. “I’m worried about you, Claire. You haven’t been yourself for a long time.”
I shook my head. “Why would you say that?”
“Well,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “it’s just that you’ve never failed to meet a deadline.”
I ran my fingers through my hair. He was right. I’d feared I’d lost my reporter’s instinct, my edge, and Frank had confirmed it. What’s happening to me?
I picked up the green folder and opened it. “Don’t worry,” I said, turning to face my computer. “I’ll get this done. Just give me the weekend and I promise you’ll have it on Monday.”
“Claire, listen,” Frank began, “I didn’t mean to hurt you; I was just—”
“It’s fine,” I said stiffly, clenching my fists under my desk. “I’m sorry I let you down. I thought I could write it. I thought I could find that little boy.”
Frank nodded and walked out to the hallway.
A few moments later I heard footsteps approaching. “Knock, knock.” I turned to see Abby at the door, with a big box in her hands. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I said, punctuating the word with an exaggerated sigh.
“Oh, no,” she said. “What is it?”
“I think my career may be over, and Ethan didn’t come home last night,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the green folder.
“Your career is not over,” she said. “You’re one of, if not the best reporter on staff. And as far as your husband goes, fill me in.”
I sighed. “Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about it right now. I might lose it. You remember our rule about not crying at work.”
Abby smiled, holding out the box to me. “Here.”
“What is it?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but it has your name on it. Jenna brought it to my office by mistake.”
I set the box on my desk and reached for the scissors in my drawer to release the tape, which is when I noticed the return address. “Abby, this is from Swedish Hospital.” I felt my heartbeat’s pace quicken. “What could they possibly be sending me?”
I hated that something as simple as the hospital’s logo on the mailing label could create such a visceral response in me. I could hear the beeping of the blood pressure monitor on my arm, see the vivid blue of the curtain in the emergency room, taste the salty tears streaming from my eyes. In an instant, I felt the horror of the accident all over again. I closed my eyes, trying to block the memories, to shut them out, sending them back to the hospital, where I had left them. But when I opened my eyes again, they were there before me, waiting to be confronted.
“Claire,” Abby said quietly, “what is it?”
Anger surged through me as I yanked one flap of cardboard open, then another. What are they sending me? They’d called repeatedly for follow-up appointments, but I never returned the messages. Don’t they know that every call, every damn bill in the mail, is a reminder of my loss? And now this? Can’t they just leave me alone? An envelope was taped to the inside flap of the box. I tore it open.
Dear Ms. Aldridge,
We’ve tried to reach you multiple times about picking up personal items left behind during your hospital stay. The only address we had on record was your employer’s. It is our policy to return belongings to our patients.
Best wishes,
Katie Morelandsteed
I cautiously peered inside the box and pulled out a ribbed gray sweatshirt. It was a mangled mess, ripped at the side by the ambulance driver—a vague memory that came full focus again—with a bloodstain along the sleeve. I remembered the moment I’d purchased it. Ethan and I had gone shopping for maternity clothes at the Gap. I’d strapped on one of those prosthetic stuffed