Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO HAD BEEN DISAPPEARING
By noon, I was sitting in a cardiologist's office in Monterey.
Dr. Rachel Chen studied the results of my examination with a seriousness I had not seen on anyone's face in months.
“Emma, how long have you been experiencing these episodes?”
“About seven months.”
She looked up.
“Seven?”
I nodded.
She set down her pen.
“Why didn't you come sooner?”
I almost gave my usual answer.
I was busy.
It wasn't that bad.
Other people needed me.
Instead, I said, “I didn't think it mattered enough.”
Dr. Chen's expression softened.
“It matters.”
Two words.
Nothing remarkable.
But my eyes filled immediately.
She reviewed my symptoms, explained that several conditions could cause chest discomfort and palpitations, and arranged further testing. She told me that some possibilities required prompt attention and that I should seek emergency care if the pain returned with concerning symptoms.
“Until we know what's happening, don't dismiss these episodes,” she said.
“I won't.”
“And is there someone you trust who can help you?”
I opened my mouth.
Damian's name almost came out.
Then I stopped.
“My friend Grace.”
“Good. Call her.”
Grace Whitaker answered on the second ring.
“Emma?”
I hadn't heard her voice in almost a year.
Not because we'd fought.
Because every time she invited me somewhere, Damian's family had needed something.
Eventually, the invitations stopped.
“Grace,” I whispered.
She went silent.
Then said, “Where are you?”
I began crying.
Not delicate tears.
Not the kind I could conceal with a tissue.
The kind that made breathing difficult.
She didn't ask me to explain.
She only said, “Tell me where you are. I'm coming.”
An hour later, Grace found me sitting outside the clinic with my purse in my lap.
She was wearing jeans, a navy sweater, and the expression of a woman ready to argue with the entire world.
She hugged me.
I held on.
When she finally stepped back, she looked at my left hand.
“Emma.”
“I know.”
“Are you leaving him?”
I looked toward the parking lot.
“I think I already have.”
We drove to her apartment above a bookstore.
It smelled of coffee, old paper, and the lavender candles she had always loved.
Nothing matched.
There were books on the floor.
A chipped blue mug beside the sink.
A yellow blanket on the couch.
It was the most peaceful room I'd entered in years.
Grace made tea.
Then sat opposite me.
“Tell me everything.”
I stared into my cup.
“There's too much.”
“Then start anywhere.”
I told her about the party.
About Olivia.
About Damian laughing.
About the diary.
And eventually, about the pain in my chest.
Grace listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said, “You can stay here.”
I shook my head.
“Damian won't like that.”
Grace's expression changed.
“Emma, what Damian likes is no longer the deciding factor.”
I looked at her.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, “I don't know how to live like that.”
Grace reached across the table.
“Then we'll figure it out.”
At four that afternoon, Damian called.
I watched the screen light up.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Finally, I answered.
“Emma. Where are you?”
“With Grace.”
Silence.
“Grace Whitaker?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Staying for a while.”
Another silence.
Then his voice hardened.
“Come home.”
I looked around the little apartment.
“No.”
“Emma, don't turn one stupid joke into a marital crisis.”
I closed my eyes.
“Damian, I went to a cardiologist today.”
He said nothing.
Then, “A what?”
“A heart specialist.”
His voice changed.
“Why?”
“Because I've been having chest pain.”
“How long?”
“Months.”
A chair scraped on his end.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
I stared at the wall.
“Would you have listened?”
“Of course I would.”
I thought of all the times I'd said I was tired.
All the times he'd told me to stop worrying.
All the evenings he'd called my headaches inconvenient.
“I don't know,” I said.
Then I ended the call.
That evening, Damian returned to our bedroom alone.
He opened the nightstand, looking for the spare key to my jewelry box.
Instead, he found a blue leather diary.
It was lying in plain sight.
He recognized my handwriting.
He knew he should close the drawer.
He knew the book was private.
May you like
But when he saw his own name on the first page, he opened it.
And began reading.
