When Pain Runs Bone-Deep

This was actually my second pregnancy.

The first time, I had gotten pregnant right after Yves and I graduated. We were both still looking for jobs.

At the time, Yves was overjoyed. He immediately proposed to me, saying that he would take care of me, but I felt that I was too young for marriage, wanting instead to focus on my career. Against his pleas, I chose abortion.

Because of this, our marriage plans were put on hold indefinitely.

I knew that this had been a sore spot for him, but I did not regret it. If he couldn't understand where I was coming from, then that was his problem.

As for the second pregnancy, I never even realized the child's presence.

Maybe losing it was the best outcome.

After all, given how strained things had been between Yves and me lately, things might not have ended well even if I had survived the accident.

Yves called me again. Of course, I didn't answer, so he sent me a long voice message on WhatsApp.

"Summer, no matter what you're upset about, you shouldn't have aborted our child without telling me. Come home by eight tonight. I'll give you a last chance to explain yourself."

This man was truly baffling sometimes.

This was my last chance to explain myself?

Julia had already given him a story, even if it were fabricated. Would he have believed me if I had tried to explain myself?

Either way, I couldn't.

I felt a little sad.

After getting off work, Yves went to a bakery and bought a strawberry cake.

It was my favorite bakery, but unfortunately for him, I preferred the mango cake that was only sold in limited amounts.

He never managed to get one and always made me settle for something else.

He brought the cake back home and cooked a nutritious dinner.

He sat at the dining table for the entire afternoon.

I knew that he was waiting for me.

In the three years since Julia had appeared in our lives, I had wished countless times that we could sit down and talk calmly like this.

Ironically, it happened only when there was an unbridgeable gap between us.

No matter what, I had genuinely loved him before, so I couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow.

I sat down across from him. "Don't bother, Yves. I'm not coming home."

Yves couldn't hear me, of course. He picked up his phone again, turning the screen on and off repeatedly, seemingly on edge.

At 7.30 pm, his phone rang. Yves brightened but sagged in disappointment when he saw that it was a call from the hospital. Still, he answered the call.

"Dr. Steward, the patient in Bed 27 is experiencing a high fever and convulsions. Could you come in?"

The patient in Bed 27 was Julia.

Of course he would go to her.

As ever, without hesitation, Yves pulled on his jacket and rushed to the hospital.

Julia did look pitiful. Her face was flushed red from the fever.

Pursing his lips, Yves checked her medications and adjusted her treatment plan. He did everything himself, from fetching water to monitoring the IV drip.

This reminded me of when I had to get an appendectomy last year. I wanted him to stay with me and take care of me, but he told me that the hospital had designated caregivers and that I shouldn't act so spoiled.

So, was Julia allowed to be spoiled because she was his little darling?

When Julia woke up, she began crying again. "I'm sorry, Yves. I know you meant to have a talk with Summer. I'm too weak."

Yves twitched. He seemed to have just remembered the time. Grabbing his phone hastily, he saw that the agreed time had long passed.

He opened up our chat hesitantly and frowned when he saw no messages from me. "I left you some food in the kitchen. There's soup in the pot as well, and cake in the fridge. Don't eat too much and rest well. I'll be back tomorrow morning," he texted.

After a while, he added another text, "I can't leave Julia alone. Please, Summer, don't act out anymore, I'm begging you."

I rolled my eyes.

I had never acted out before. If he wanted to know who was better at acting out, all he needed to do was ask the nurses.

In fact, the nurses outside were gossiping at that very moment. "Finally, peace from bed 27. She was hysterical before Dr. Steward arrived, but now she's all quiet. Such a good actress, isn't she?"

See, even the outsiders could tell, yet Yves remained oblivious.

…

Three days passed.

Even the director of the hospital was making arrangements for flowers to be sent to my funeral.

When was Yves going to realize that I was dead?

I watched him as he took a nap in the on-call room after a shift and sighed.

It seemed like we had drifted apart ever since starting work.

I was in neurosurgery, and he was in orthopedics; we worked in the same building but on different floors, separated by a vast distance.

Even though we worked in the same hospital, we rarely saw each other.

With alternating day and night shifts, we didn't even see each other much during our off days; at most, we saw each other two to three times a week.

Maybe that was why we grew further apart.

Julia might be the catalyst, but the cracks in our relationship had appeared long before her.

That day, the hospital director told Yves to stop by his office to discuss my body donation.

We had made this decision back when we first graduated and got our medical licenses.

To celebrate, Yves and I had donated blood and bone marrow and also consented to donate our bodies to science after death.

If either of us died, we agreed to donate our bodies to the other's department; his brain would come to me in neurosurgery, and my skeleton would go to him in the orthopedic department.

To our freshly graduated selves, this had been the height of romance, a declaration of love and loyalty to each other.

I strolled around Yves' office and found the perfect spot to display my skeleton—right behind his desk.

There, I would be facing away from direct sunlight and would be able to see everything that went on in the hospital. It was a great spot.

Yves woke up and checked his phone again. He was finally starting to realize that something was wrong after three days without contact from me.

He called Elliot to him again. Hesitating, he finally asked the question that he should've asked three days ago, "How was Summer that day? Was she in a lot of pain?"

Elliot looked pained. After all, I had died under his care; even if it wasn't his fault, it was only natural that he felt bad. "I don't think so. It happened quickly; there wasn't much we could do."

I was exasperated. Yves should know whether I was in pain or not; he had seen the wounds on my head, yet he never bothered to ask me then.

Yves wasn't satisfied. "What kind of absorbable suture did you use? Do you have photos of the stitched skin?"

Elliot was confused. "I didn't use absorbable sutures. As for photos… didn't you see her in person?"

Yves' expression turned stiff.

Then, finally sensing something was wrong, he stood up abruptly. "How could you use normal sutures on the wounds on her face? What if she was disfigured? Go, get me a kit right now!"

Hastily, he took out his phone and pulled up my contact again. Before he could call me, Elliot said in consternation, "But it's not like there's any need to use cosmetic sutures on a dead body."

The air seemed to freeze for a moment.

Yves looked up. "What did you say? Dead body?"

Pursing his dry lips, he tried to make sense of those words. "You must be mistaken. I'm talking about Summer Simpson, my girlfriend. You know her. She came in at the same time as the patient in Bed 27 and was discharged the same night."

Elliot was perplexed, but he knew instinctively that something wasn't right. Swallowing, he said cautiously, "We were talking about Summer Simpson, Dr. Steward. Your girlfriend, one of the women who came in three days ago. She passed away while you were operating on the patient in Bed 27."