“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“And didn’t tell me.”
“No.”
For the first time since that morning, anger cut cleanly through grief.
Good.
I needed something sharp enough to stand on.
I put the folder in my bag.
“Apparently my husband was very organized about dying.”
Dr. Vale looked exhausted.
“He was organized about protecting you.”
I met his eyes.
“That doesn’t automatically make it a good idea.”
“No,” he said.
“It doesn’t.”
That answer made me trust him more.
Then I walked out into a cold afternoon in Bellmere, Westland, carrying evidence that Nolan had expected trouble after his death.
I just didn’t know yet how right he had been.
Two months earlier, Nolan and I had been arguing about baby names.
Not funeral arrangements.
Not advance directives.
Names.
We sat on the back steps of our little house while evening light disappeared over Bellmere.
Nolan rested one hand against my six-month belly.
“June.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Too short.”
“Rude to people named June.”
“I’m sure they’ll survive.”
“Maeve.”
“No.”
“Juliet.”
“Too dramatic.”
“You married me.”
“Exactly. One dramatic person per household.”
He laughed.
That laugh had already changed.
Softer.
Interrupted occasionally by a cough.
We knew he was sick by then.
We did not yet understand how little time we had.
He looked at my stomach.
“What about Avery?”
I paused.
“Avery Mercer.”
The baby kicked.
Nolan’s eyebrows lifted.
“She likes it.”
“She kicked you.”
“Approval.”
“She may be protesting.”
“Then she inherited your personality.”
I put my hand over his.
“Avery.”
He smiled.
That was the name.
Three days later, we sat inside Bellmere Regional Medical Center and learned that Nolan’s disease had progressed much faster than his doctors expected.
Treatment might slow it.
Not stop it.
Dr. Adrian Vale was careful with language.
He never gave false certainty.
But he also never hid the truth.
“We may be looking at weeks to a few months,” he said.
Nolan squeezed my hand.
I remember looking at the framed landscape behind Dr. Vale’s desk.
Some generic mountain scene.
I remember wondering who chose hospital art.
I remember the absurd thought that somebody should dust the frame.
That is how shock works.
It gives your mind useless jobs because the real one is impossible.
Weeks.
Maybe months.
Our daughter was still three months from being born.
Nolan asked only one question.
“What are the chances I meet her?”
Dr. Vale was quiet too long.
That was the answer.
