Part 2
“My name is Gerald Maize,” he said. His voice was a low rumble, the kind of sound that makes you feel safe even when the world is falling apart.
I clutched the hospital blanket to my chest, my voice a whisper. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
Gerald looked down at his hands.
They were worker’s hands. Broad. Scarred. Thick-knuckled. The kind of hands that had built things, fixed things, held things together when they wanted to break.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he reached slowly into the inside pocket of his worn gray jacket and pulled out a folded envelope, softened at the edges from years of being opened and closed. He held it like it was something sacred.
“I suppose,” he said quietly, “I’m the man who should have been here a long time ago.”
My heart monitor gave a small, uneven beep.
“What does that mean?”
His eyes lifted to mine. There was pain in them. Not the sharp, performative pain I was used to seeing from my mother when she wanted sympathy. This was older. Quieter. The kind of pain that had lived in the body so long it had become part of the bones.
“It means your mother lied to both of us.”
A chill passed through me, though the hospital room was warm.
I tried to sit up straighter, but a hot wire of pain pulled across my abdomen, and I gasped. Gerald moved instantly, half rising from his chair.
“Don’t,” he said gently. “You’ve got stitches from here to Sunday. Easy.”
I sank back against the pillow, breathing through my teeth.
“What lie?” I whispered.
