Space Between Hearts

The beeping never stopped.

It followed me everywhere—into the hallway, into the bathroom, into the fragmented nightmares I couldn't escape. Beep. Beep. Beep. A mechanical heart trying to convince itself it was still beating.

I knelt beside the bed, my knees aching against the cold floor, and pressed my lips to Leo's forehead. His skin felt wrong. Too warm, too thin, like if I pressed any harder I'd feel bone beneath.

Four years old. He was four years old, and his hand in mine weighed nothing.

"Mrs. Vance."

I didn't look up. Couldn't. If I looked up, I'd see the truth in Dr. Aris's eyes. I'd been seeing it for three days now, hiding from it in the cafeteria, in the chapel I didn't believe in, in the bathroom stalls where I pressed paper towels against my mouth to muffle the sounds I couldn't stop.

"We need to talk about Leo's options."

Options. Such a generous word for a hallway with only one door.

I finally turned. Dr. Aris stood in the doorway, clipboard pressed to his chest like a shield. He'd stopped meeting my eyes yesterday. That was when I knew.

"The pressure in his chest is rising," he continued, voice soft, the way people speak at funerals. "The standard medications aren't holding. There's a surgical option—an experimental bypass—but it has to happen within the hour."

"Then do it." My voice came out raw. "Why are you telling me? Do it."

He shifted, and I knew. I knew before he opened his mouth.

"The procedure requires authorization from the primary account holder. Vance Trust policy. Leo is a minor under his father's legal estate, and—"

"I am his mother."

It came out as a whisper. A broken thing.

Dr. Aris finally looked at me, and I wished he hadn't. The pity there was worse than any diagnosis. "I need Silas Vance's signature. Or verbal confirmation. Without it, I can't take him into that theater."

I left him standing there. Didn't remember standing up, didn't remember walking, didn't remember anything except the stairwell door slamming behind me and the hollow echo of my footsteps on concrete.

Twelve flights down. I could feel every one.

My phone felt like a brick in my hand. I dialed, listened to it ring, dialed again. Twelve times. Twelve rejections.

On the thirteenth ring, he picked up.

"What?"

Just that. One word, clipped and cold, like I was a telemarketer interrupting his dinner.

"Silas." I pressed my back against the wall, felt the cold seep through my clothes. "Leo needs surgery. Right now. Dr. Aris needs your authorization or he won't—he won't make it through the night. Please. Just call the hospital. One call. One minute. Please."

Silence. Then background noise flooded the line—clinking glasses, murmured conversation, someone laughing.

"Is this another one of your games?" His voice dropped lower, harder. "Because I'm at a charity gala, Aurora. The chairman is waiting for me to speak. I don't have time for—"

"Silas, please, I'm begging you—"

"Silas?" Clara's voice drifted through the line, honey-sweet. "The photographer is ready for the couple shot. Should I tell them to wait?"

"Tell them I'll be there in two minutes." His voice softened when he spoke to her. It always did. "Aurora, I've had enough of this. From nightmares to fevers to fainting spells, and now surgery? Using our son to get my attention won't work. Grow up."

"I'm not lying. I would never—"

"If you call again, I'll have security restrict your access to the mansion."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone. The screen blurred. I pressed my palm against my mouth and felt the scream building in my chest, felt it tear its way up my throat, felt it die against my skin because if I let it out I might never stop.

My phone rang.

I grabbed it. "Hello? Silas?"

"It's Dr. Aris." Pause. Breathing. "Aurora, I'm sorry. I don't know if you've left the hospital, but I wanted you to know—if you can't get the authorization, you should come back. Spend time with him. He doesn't have long."

The world tilted. I gripped the railing.

"No." The word came from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. "No. He's going into that surgery."

"Aurora—"

"I'll get it. I'll get the authorization. Just keep him stable. Please. Please keep him stable."

I ran.

The parking garage smelled like exhaust and mildew. My hands shook so badly I dropped my keys twice. When I finally got the car started, I was already crying—ugly, gasping sobs that made it hard to see.

I called Silas's secretary. Begged. He finally gave me the address.

The engine roared. Red lights blurred past. The speedometer climbed—80, 90, 100. Time is of essence. Time is of essence. The words became a prayer, a mantra, a threat.

My phone rang again.

I grabbed it. "Yeah?"

Not Silas's voice. Noise. Chaos. Someone shouting "Code blue!" in the background. Then another voice, calmer, too calm:

"Mrs. Vance, this is Nurse Patel. Dr. Aris asked me to call. If you're nearby, you should come now. There's no more time."

I could hear them. The panicked voices. The machines screaming. The sounds of people trying to save a life that had already decided to leave.

Then Dr. Aris's voice, faint, like he was standing far away:

"Call it. Time of death: 11:42 PM."

"No." The word escaped like breath. "No, no, no—"

I slammed my palm against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. Three times. The pain barely registered.

When I looked up, the headlights were already there.

White. Blinding. Beautiful, almost, like the light they talk about in near-death experiences. I had time to think: At least I'll see him.

Then impact.

Then nothing.

---

Eleven forty-two.

The numbers glowed red on the nightstand clock.

I stared at them, my heart hammering against my ribs, my body drenched in sweat. The sheets twisted around my legs like restraints.

Eleven forty-two.

I knew that number. I'd watched it burn itself into my memory. Time of death:—

My hand flew to my chest. Whole. Unbroken. I could feel my heartbeat, fast and frantic, but there—there, pounding against my palm.

I looked around.

Familiar walls. Familiar curtains. Familiar ceiling with that water stain in the corner I'd meant to mention to the housekeeper three years ago.

Three years ago.

My gaze dropped to the nightstand. To the stack of papers sitting there, crisp and white and devastating.

Divorce papers. Silas's signature already at the bottom. Mine still waiting.

Dated two years before Leo died.

Two years before.

Two years before.

I picked up the papers with shaking hands. Read the date again. And again. And again.

Then I started to laugh—a broken, hysterical sound that caught in my throat and turned into something that might have been a sob.

Two years.

I had two years.

And on the nightstand, right next to those papers, my phone sat silent. No missed calls. No voicemails. Because tonight—two years ago tonight—Silas had left me alone on our anniversary to take Clara to the hospital for a fainting spell that turned out to be nothing.

I remembered that night. Remembered crying myself to sleep. Remembered begging him to come home. Remembered hating myself for needing him so much.

I picked up the phone. Checked the date again. Checked the time.

11:43 PM.

One minute after Leo died. One minute after I died. Two years before any of it happened.

And the first thing I felt—the very first thing, before relief, before confusion, before anything else—was rage.

Hot and clean and beautiful.

I reached for a pen. Signed my name at the bottom of the divorce papers. The scratch of the nib against paper was the most satisfying sound I'd heard in years.

Then I set the pen down, pulled the covers up to my chin, and smiled at the ceiling.

Two years.

I had two years to learn everything. Two years to prepare. Two years to become someone Silas Vance would never see coming.

I closed my eyes, and for the first time in as long as I could remember, I slept without nightmares.

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