Chapter 3
Jennifer's POV
December brought the worst blizzard New York had seen in decades.
The temperature dropped to four below. Wind whipped ice and snow through the streets, burying the city in white.
Three a.m., I was at my worktable in the basement when fever slammed into me. The thermometer read 104. My throat felt like I'd swallowed glass, every breath tearing through my lungs. I knew what this was—the pneumonia from years of overwork, flaring up again.
If I didn't get to a hospital, I might actually die.
I dragged myself up, one hand on the wall, and made it to the master bedroom door.
"Christopher..." I knocked weakly. "I'm burning up. The pneumonia's back. Can you please take me to the hospital?"
Silence.
I knocked harder. "Christopher, please. I can't breathe..."
Finally, the door jerked open. Christopher stood there in his pajamas, fury all over his face. "Jesus Christ, Jennifer, what NOW? It's three in the goddamn morning!"
"I'm sick." I leaned against the doorframe, cold sweat soaking through my clothes. "I need to go to the hospital."
He frowned. "Just take some Tylenol, okay? There's a blizzard outside—roads are completely closed. How the hell am I supposed to get anywhere in THIS?" He shook his head. "You're being so damn dramatic right now."
"I really can't breathe..." I grabbed his sleeve.
Then Ryan came running down the hallway, practically dragging Amanda.
"Dad!" Ryan's voice shook. "Aunt Amanda's sick—you need to come NOW!"
Amanda looked deathly pale, clutching her chest, swaying.
Christopher's face changed instantly. He shook me off and strode to Amanda, catching her by both arms. "Amanda? What's wrong? Talk to me—where does it hurt?"
"Christopher..." Tears rolled down her face. "I'm so scared. The wind outside—it's too loud, I can't sleep. My Zoloft ran out, and now my heart won't stop racing. I feel like... God, I feel like I'm dying."
"Shh, shh, you're okay. I've got you." Christopher pulled her close. "You're out of meds? Okay, okay. I'll take you to get more right now."
I stared. "Wait—Christopher, you just said the roads were closed and you couldn't take me to the hospital. Now you're driving her out for pills?"
"She has SEVERE depression!" He whipped around, yelling. "She'll have a complete breakdown without those meds! You just have a FEVER—how is that even comparable? Jesus, Jennifer, can you stop being so damn toxic for one second? You're seriously jealous right now? Go find some medicine yourself and leave us the hell alone!"
He turned and helped Amanda down the stairs.
Never looked back.
Minutes later, the garage door opened. Engine started.
He actually left. Once again, he abandoned me—even though I could die from this.
I slid down onto the cold floor, gasping for air. The tears finally came.
"Mom, oh my God, can you PLEASE stop crying?" Ryan stood at the top of the stairs, looking annoyed. "You're SO loud."
I looked up at him through blurred vision.
"Ryan... Mommy's really sick..."
"So what? It's just a fever. Big deal." He yawned. "I had one last time and you didn't take me to the hospital either. You just made me take medicine. God, stop being so dramatic. I'm going back to bed."
He started walking away, then turned. "Oh yeah, don't forget—French toast tomorrow. I want that kind. And Aunt Amanda wants organic oatmeal with blueberries and honey. She said what you made last time was gross, so don't screw it up again."
He paused. "Oh, and next week? Parent-teacher thing? Just don't come. Aunt Amanda's going instead. If you show up with all those nasty scars on your hands, you'll totally freak out my friends."
Then he went upstairs.
Left me there on the floor.
The fever made my thoughts swim. I stared at the thick scar on my left arm and suddenly remembered how I got it.
Ryan was three. I was juggling work and family, barely keeping it together. Christopher's startup had him living at the office. That day I was cooking dinner when a client called about design changes. The second I picked up, Ryan climbed onto the counter.
Reaching for the cookie jar on the high shelf.
His hand knocked the pasta pot.
Boiling water everywhere.
I dropped the phone, lunged, blocked him with my entire left arm. The water hit my skin—instant blisters, pain so sharp I nearly passed out. But I grabbed Ryan anyway, ran him to the bathroom, held him under cold water.
He only got splashed a little on his shin. Healed fast.
My left arm, wrist to elbow, scarred forever.
I never brought it up. Didn't want him to feel guilty.
But now I got it. What I thought was love, he saw as duty. What I thought was keeping this family together was just me lying to myself.
I don't know how long I sat there.
But eventually my head cleared enough.
I couldn't die here.
I bit down hard, gripped the bannister, hauled myself up. Put on my thickest down coat, grabbed my keys and wallet, and stumbled out into the storm.
The snow was too deep. My old car died two blocks out.
The nearest hospital was still two miles away.
I shoved the door open. Wind cut through my coat, stung my face raw. I took a breath and walked into the blizzard.
Snow up to my knees. Every step took everything I had. My vision kept blurring. Lungs on fire. I fell multiple times, almost gave up.
But then I saw it—Christopher's back as he walked away with Amanda.
Ryan pointing at me, calling me "the help."
I couldn't die.
I had to live. I had to make it through this.
When I finally pushed through the ER doors, I was covered head to toe in snow. Nurses rushed over, caught me.
Everything went black.
Three days in that hospital bed.
My phone never made a sound. Not one call. Not one text.
Christopher didn't look for me. Ryan didn't either.
They hadn't even noticed I was gone.
The morning of the fourth day, my fever broke. I stared out at the melting snow, eyes flat and empty.
I wondered—if I'd actually died that night in the blizzard, when would they have figured it out? A week? A month? Or never—just assumed I'd finally left?
When the nurse came in to change my IV, she paused. "Mrs. Brooks, no family's come by yet. Should we call someone for you?"
I shook my head. "No. No family to call."
I pulled out the IV, checked myself out, took a cab back to what used to be home.
Now? I felt nothing.
I just wanted my model. Then I was gone for good.
