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CHAPTER 24
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2026-10-26 18:15:18
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Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. Hartwell   CHAPTER 37
He comes anyway.Thatâs the thing nobody warned me about. I thought a word like Again would be a door. I thought if I slammed it hard enough, the man on the other side would finally go away.Instead, on Sunday morning at ten fifty-eight, I stand on the clinic steps with a mug of tea going cold in my hands, and Damien Hartwell crosses the town square in a white shirt and sits down on our bench.Alone.âOh, honey,â Marisol says softly, behind me.I donât answer.He takes out his phone. I watch him set a timer, the small deliberate motions I know by heart, and place it face-up on the wood beside him. Then he folds his hands between his knees and looks straight ahead at the fountain, as though someone were sitting next to him.Beside him on the bench is a paper cup of water. Next to the cup, a little gray sleeve of saltines.He doesnât look toward the clinic. He just sits there in the sun with his back straight, as still as a man at a funeral, while the bells ring and the little girl in t
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. Hartwell   CHAPTER 36
I see them on Saturday morning, through glass.Iâm not looking for them. I want ginger tea, and the only place in town that sells it is CafĂ© Luz, a narrow yellow storefront on the corner of the square with a window full of sugar skulls. Iâve been awake since four. Iâm halfway across the cobblestones with one hand pressed to the small of my back when something in the window catches my eye, and my feet stop.A corner table. Two chairs. A white tablecloth.A woman in a cream silk blouse with her hair swept over one shoulder, leaning forward on her elbows, smiling at the man across from her.Bianca.And the man is Damien.I donât breathe.Heâs in the gray jacket. The same one as Thursday. He looks terrible, gray-faced and hollow-eyed, sitting very straight with both hands flat on the table, like a man in a dentistâs chair. He isnât smiling. But he isnât leaving either.Bianca says something. I canât hear it. I only see her mouth curve, slow and sweet, and her hand slides across the tablec
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. Hartwell   CHAPTER 35
(D)The photograph is already everywhere by Sunday night.Damien reads it on Mrs. Ortegaâs tablet, in the kitchen, under a yellow light, while she stands behind him with her arms folded and her mouth in a flat line. She doesnât say anything. She has been saying nothing for forty minutes, which, for Mrs. Ortega, is a form of violence.HARTWELL HEIRâS SURPRISE FAMILY REUNION IN TEXAS!His own face looks back at him. Shirt sleeves rolled. A baby in his arms. And on his expression, caught in a single sharp frame, a naked, helpless tenderness he has never meant for anyone but one woman.Bianca stands beside him, laughing, her hand on his shoulder.It is a very good photograph. He would admire the composition, if he werenât fighting the urge to be sick.âIs it yours?â Mrs. Ortega asks at last, in a quiet, steady voice. âThe baby.ââI donât know.ââMijo.ââI donât know, Mrs. Ortega.â He closes his eyes. âIâve been told yes. Iâve been shown nothing. I held her for four seconds and I felt⊠I d
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. Hartwell   CHAPTER 34
The Riverbend Fall Festival is Mrs. Ortegaâs idea of heaven.She has been planning it since August. Paper flags crisscross the town square. The fountain is wrapped in marigolds. There are tables of tamales and candied pecans and a man with a guitar playing the same three songs, and in the middle of it all, a booth with a hand-lettered banner that reads FREE BLOOD PRESSURE CHECKS, ASK THE DOCTORA.Thatâs me.Itâs a perfect autumn Saturday. The light is golden, the air smells of woodsmoke and sugar, and for two uninterrupted hours I take the blood pressure of every grandmother in the county and tell each one to eat less salt. Nobody has asked me to forgive anybody. Iâm wearing a loose yellow dress that Marisol bullied me into buying, and my back aches in a way Marisol swears is normal.Iâm almost happy.Across the square, Damien is hauling crates of oranges for Mrs. Ortegaâs stall, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He doesnât look at me. He hasnât, since the scan, not directly, as though loo
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. Hartwell   CHAPTER 33
By the twentieth week, I canât hide it anymore.The hoodie no longer works. Iâve let out my scrubs twice, and the curve under my palm has gone from a rumor to a fact. Mr. Alvarez calls it âthe little drum.â Dr. Hollis pretends not to notice with such elaborate courtesy that Iâd like to hug him.âYouâre showing,â Marisol announces, on a Tuesday, over a plate of tamales. âLike, showing showing. Like a basketball in a sweater.ââThank you for that.âThe anatomy scan is that evening.Elias arranged it, in a quiet room at the end of a corridor in his hospital where the lights hum and the floors smell of wax. I lie on the narrow table in a paper gown, a blanket pulled to my chin, with Marisol on a plastic chair at my side and my heart beating in my throat.Iâve done this scan a hundred times from the other side of the screen. Iâve never been so afraid of a picture.âReady?â Elias asks gently.I nod.He squeezes warm gel across my stomach, and the probe presses cool and firm. Gray swirls res
Too Late To Say Sorry, Mr. Hartwell   CHAPTER 32
It takes Priya four days.I mail one of the bottles under the name Anna Lane, overnight, sealed in three layers of bubble wrap and a box that Marisol swears she wrapped with âthe intensity of a woman defusing a bomb.â Then I wait. I take blood pressures. I vomit quietly into the clinic sink. I smile at Lucia when she comes in for her thirteen-week check, and I hold her hand while we listen to her babyâs heartbeat, and I donât cry until Iâm alone.On Thursday night, at a quarter past eleven, my prepaid phone rings.Iâm sitting on the edge of my bed in the dark, shoes off, my hand on my stomach. Iâve been in this position for an hour. I donât remember deciding to.âDr. Vance.â Priyaâs voice is low and tight. âAre you alone?ââYes.ââSit down.ââIâm already sitting.ââThen hold on to something.âI grip the edge of the mattress.âI ran it twice,â she says. âI ran it a third time, because I didnât believe the first two. Same compound as the original. The anti-progestin. Same carrier, same
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