“She saved your life.”
I woke up the second time to a different quality of light. Softer, later in the day.
Susan was in the chair beside my bed.
She wasn’t asleep. She was watching me with the careful attention of someone who had been waiting a long time for something and was not entirely sure what to do now that it’s arrived.
I tried to say her name and managed something close to it. Susan leaned forward. And then she wrapped both arms around me carefully, the way you hold something fragile, and pressed her face against my shoulder.
She was watching me with the careful attention.
The sound she made was the deep, relieved crying of someone who had put down something very heavy.
I couldn’t lift my arms much yet, but I got one hand to her back and held on.
Susan told me she saw people suddenly start shouting and running behind her. When she turned around and saw me on the ground, she said she’d never run so fast in her life.
“I read the letter,” she added after a while, her voice muffled against my shoulder. “I read it three times.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I don’t forgive you yet,” she added. “But I don’t want to lose you either.”
I told her that was enough. That was more than enough.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
