Page 55 of Rest In Peace

Sarah's focus drifted to the side, where a half-empty wine bottle lay on its side, a silent testament to the night before. A pang of shame knotted in her gut as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing away the trace of drool that had escaped the corner of her mouth. Her thoughts scrambled for coherence, clinging to the remnants of dreams quickly dissolving in the harsh light of reality.

"Victoria's home," Steven said, his voice breaking through her haze.

She blinked, trying to process the words. "Home?" Her voice was raspy, barely above a whisper, as she tried to sit up straighter on the couch, her limbs protesting with stiffness.

"From the hospital," he clarified, his eyes softening for a moment with a mixture of relief and something else—weariness, perhaps. "I put her to bed."

"Already?" The question came out muddled, her brain lagging behind the conversation. The room swayed slightly as she attempted to ground herself in the present, in the gravity of Steven's news.

"Yes, Sarah. They allowed her to come home. She's resting now."

He watched her closely, his gaze searching for signs of the woman he knew beneath the veneer of confusion and alcohol.

Sarah nodded slowly, absorbing this new piece of reality. Victoria was here, not in a sterile hospital room with machines beeping and nurses bustling. She was here, where she belonged—with them.

"Okay," she murmured, a resolve beginning to form amidst the chaos of her thoughts. "Okay. That’s good."

Sarah sat for a few seconds until she suddenly remembered. “The medical journal,” she said.

“What medical journal?” Steven asked.

She reached out and grabbed it from the coffee table.

"Steven, what is this?" Sarah's fingers trembled as she held up the medical journal, its pages dog-eared. "Have you been lying to me about Victoria?"

"Sarah, now is not the time," Steven's words were sharp, a stark contrast to the softness from moments before. “I’m tired.”

"Tell me!" Her demand cut through the air, a jagged edge to her voice that even the wine couldn't dull. “It says here she was in remission? Years ago?”

"Dammit, Sarah!" His outburst was sudden, like a thunderclap in the room's silence. "You think I wanted any of this? You think I enjoy watching our daughter suffer while you?—"

"While I, what?" she challenged, pushing off the couch, her body still swaying slightly from the alcohol.

"Focus on your career! Drown yourself in bottles every night!" He was pacing back and forth, a caged animal with frayed nerves. "Who do you think has been here, huh? Who takes her to all her appointments?"

"Stop it, Steven." She put a hand to her temple, willing the room to stop spinning.

"No, I'm tired, Sarah. Tired of making excuses for you and trying to protect you from this!" His finger jabbed toward the journal in her hand, his eyes blazing with resentment.

"Protect me?" Her voice broke, a small crack in her resolve. "Is that what you call lying?"

"Taking care of our daughter; that's what I call it." The fury in Steven's voice subsided into weary resignation. "Someone had to, Sarah. Someone had to."

"Remission," Sarah's voice was a husky whisper, "what does that even mean in Victoria's case? Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

Steven's face contorted with frustration as he let out a heavy sigh. "It was a mistake, okay?" His hands gestured wildly, words tumbling out. "The previous doctor got it wrong. This was years ago."

"Wrong?" she echoed, her mind grappling with fragments of reality.

"Yes, wrong!" Steven's annoyance was palpable as he paced the room, his footsteps a dull thud against the carpet. "That's why we changed doctors; don't you remember? We had to be sure."

"Sure of what?" The question hung between them, dense and unyielding.

"Sure that…" he hesitated, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "Victoria was still sick. She wasn't getting better, Sarah." His eyes found hers, pleading for understanding. "Don't you remember any of this?"

"Remember…" Her voice trailed off, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. She sifted through hazy memories, trying to latch onto something solid.

Steven collapsed into the armchair opposite Sarah, the weight of his body sending a soft puff of air from the cushion. He leaned forward, reaching for her hands, and she felt his grip firm and warm against her cold fingers. His eyes fixed on hers, the intensity of his gaze unwavering.

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