An oxygen tube lay beneath his nose.
The accompanying message read:
I may not have much time left.
Whatever happens, please remember that I loved you.
I sat staring at the picture.
Part of me still wanted to rush to him.
That frightened me more than I expected.
Twenty-nine years of habit do not disappear because the truth becomes obvious.
I knew he had lied.
I knew he’d betrayed me.
But some part of my mind still recognized his face as the person I was supposed to save.
I called Miriam.
“Am I terrible for feeling sorry for him?”
“No.”
“Even now?”
“Feeling compassion doesn’t require surrendering your judgment.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Then I called the hospital’s main line to ask about visiting procedures.
I did not seek private medical information without authorization.
I simply wanted to confirm where Mark was before responding.
He wasn’t listed as an inpatient.
