Isabel squinted up at the harsh fluorescent lights and winced at the pain in her head. She glanced around at the stark white walls and tried to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. The metal cabinets topped with jars of cotton swabs and tongue suppressors, and boxes of rubber gloves suggested she was in the hospital.
But why? What had happened? And why couldn’t she remember?
She tried to sit up but the stabbing pain in her skull laid her flat. She called out for someone, anyone, and a friendly, redheaded nurse swished into the room.
“Welcome back, sunshine,” she said in a voice that was entirely too cheerful for the occasion. “You have a visitor.”
Isabel glanced at the name tag on the woman’s lapel. Clara. Clara! In a single word, the memory of the day’s events came crashing back, and the room spun on its axis. She gripped the handrails of the bed and waited for it to stop.
When her breathing leveled off, she opened her eyes to find an ashen-face Clara leaning over her. Isabel tried to speak but the effort was too much.
“You had me worried for a minute there, Ms. Jameson,” Clara said.
Isabel bolted upright, ignored the pounding in her head, and locked eyes with Clara. The woman had just called her by her maiden name, and Isabel was certain that all her identification showed her married name. She squinted, still holding Clara’s gaze, but saw no sign of recognition. This was not her Clara. The name was only a coincidence. Or was it?
“Clara, what did you just call me?”
“Ms. Stevens. That’s your name, isn’t it? Isabel Stevens?”
Isabel studied the young woman before nodding. “Yes, sorry, I thought you called me by a different name.”
Clara chortled. “Must be the concussion. But don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Your husband is here to take you home where you can get some rest. Shall I send him in now?”
Isabel sighed, disappointed that Clara—or anyone from the team—had not shown up. She wanted—needed—to understand what had happened. More importantly, why things happened as they did. She wondered whether she would ever see Clara or Faruk again.
“Sure, send Michael in. And Clara?” Isabel asked, trying once more to make the connection.
“Yes, dear?”
Their eyes met and held for a long moment but Clara’s confused expression confirmed it. This was not her Clara.
“Thank you,” she said to the nurse.
“Sure thing, sweetie.”
A few minutes passed before Michael poked his head around the curtain. He rushed to Isabel’s side and drew her into his arms. As soon as she saw him, the reality of all that had happened that day struck her and she collapsed into Michael’s arms.
She knew Faruk had saved her life, but she couldn’t help feeling as though she’d failed in some way. It’s not like she’d wanted to die, but she had come to accept that it was her destiny. She’d been given a chance to make things right on her last day, and now suddenly her entire life was before her again. Alan Rosenberg was alive and well, thanks to Faruk, and so was she. It was a lot to get her mind around. But once she did, she was going to start living. Really living this time.
On her terms.
October 2, 2003:
Isabel glanced at the clock and shot out of bed. Her heart fluttered in her chest and her breath came quickly. She felt a sense of urgency. Why, she wasn’t quite sure. Her eyes darted around the room and settled on the plastic hospital band lying on the bedside table. And her face erupted into an enormous smile.
Today was the first day of the rest of her life. Her life. Her brand new life. And she had no intention of wasting a single moment of it. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When she emerged, the pungent aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted her.
Michael sat at the kitchen table reading the paper. She slid into the chair across from him and accepted the cup of coffee he placed before her.
“Thanks.” She closed her eyes and basked in the steamy warmth from the mug.
“You’re welcome,” Michael said. “How are you feeling today?”
Drawing in a deep breath and pushing it out, she met her husband’s gaze. “Michael, I want to be a writer.”
Michael’s eyebrows slid up his forehead. “Okay, where’d that come from?”
“It’s what I was going to do before my father blackmailed me into becoming a lawyer. Before I switched to pre-law, I was an English major, with an emphasis in creative writing.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “I didn’t know. But Is, you’re thirty-one years old. You’ve never had a writing job. How are you going to make money writing? We have obligations. If you want to write, then write. Just do it in your spare time.”
Isabel’s jaw clenched and she banged her coffee cup on the table. “I’ll figure it out, Michael, but it’s what I’m going to do. And there’s one more thing.” She paused to make sure she had his attention. “I want to have a baby.”
His face darkened and the muscles in his neck tightened. “For Christ’s sake, Isabel. Where is all this coming from?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Does it have anything to do with this?” He slid the morning paper across the table.
Isabel reached for the newspaper and read the headline. “Driver Saves Lives of Woman and Five Children, Vanishes into Thin Air.” Her mouth fell open. So she hadn’t imagined it. She met Michael’s probing stare. “It has everything to do with it.”
His eyes creased at the corners. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”
Okay, let’s see. I died yesterday, twice actually, and in my life review I saw where my life went off track. I was supposed to die for good last night, but Faruk—the angel manning the check-in desk in heaven—sacrificed himself for me.
She pushed the paper back across the table. “Let’s just say I’ve had an awakening. A rude one, but a necessary one. I haven’t been happy since I can remember. I hate being a lawyer, and I’m angry that you married me without telling me you don’t want children. It was emotional blackmail and you know it. Now I’m turning the tables on you, Michael. I want a baby or divorce. The choice is yours.”
Michael’s jaw set into a tight line. “I told you how I felt about that yesterday. The answer is still no. No children. If you want to divorce me because of that, I won’t contest it.”
His words hung in the air like a foul odor. She’d expected them, but that didn’t stop them from skewering her heart.
Over the next few weeks, she tried to talk to him, tried to convince him he’d be a great father. When that failed, she begged him to change his mind. She could see that he was as devastated as she was. They talked calmly, hurled angry words, and cried together. And after a month, Michael moved into the spare bedroom.
Another week passed and Isabel had almost given up hope when she was awakened by a gentle shaking. “Is, are you awake?”
She sat up. “Michael. What is it? What’s wrong?”
He sat down on the bed and took her hand. The moon cast its glow through the slatted blinds and illuminated his face. Tears streaked down his cheeks. When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “I should’ve told you that I didn’t want children. But I thought…I just loved you,” his eyes rose to meet hers, “I mean, love you, I still love you…so much and…”
Her heart tripped in her chest. What was he saying? Had he changed his mind? Did he want to stay married and have children after all?
She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. “And what, Michael?”
“When I fell in love with you, I could actually see the children…our children…I could see myself as a father. You made me feel as though anything were possible. That I didn’t have to accept my father’s legacy.”
Her smile filled her face and the words spewed forth. “You don’t, Michael. You’re not him. You’re kind and gentle and so loving; you’ll be a wonderful father—”
Michael pulled his hands from hers and rose from the bed. “No, I…I’m sorry, Is…that’s not what I meant.” He shoved his hand through his tousled hair and paced. “I…I…”
Isabel’s mouth went dry. She could almost feel her heart splinter into tiny shards. “Michael, what are you trying to say?”
A vacuum of silence filled the room. In the moonlight, she could see that his face was ravaged by grief.
When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper. “I want a divorce.”