“Will you please update me on our family’s activities this morning?”

“Dad’s out on the farm. Gil’s gaming downstairs. Mom’s in the kitchen, baking bread. The dogs are with her, waiting for scraps. We should be at Zach and Zoe’s soccer game. Everyone else is, but Mom said we needed to stay home. For you. So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What’s the general vibe, you think?”

She lifts the pencil to her chin, tapping. It’s a question I try to ask often, my small effort to help her notice such things. “Um, busy and tense, I’d say. Mom’s been on the phone all morning.”

“No doubt,” I sigh, grabbing the clothes. “Alright, time’s up on the portrait. Show me the final product.”

She turns the sketch toward me with slight amusement as I take in the exaggerated lines now etched into the image’s face.

“Fucking hell, Marigold! You made me look older?”

“It’s a joke,” she giggles.

“That’s pretty good,” I admit, “as long as you burn that sketch.”

Her face grows serious again. “Can I just throw it away?”

“Fine.”

I exit the guest bedroom, once the room I shared with Colin, and sneak into the bathroom across the hall.

Leaning against the sink, I vaguely remember Dad finding me in Marina’s room once she’d fallen asleep, driving me home—my childhood home, it turns out—and pushing me into a shower. Trying to eat, but failing. Crawling into bed, sopping up tears with my pillow like she did.

I can’t remember the last time I cried like that. I don’t cry, generally. Not that I have some idiotic machoism about it—men can, should, and do cry—but I prefer not to. When you’re a doctor, it’s best to be as emotionless as possible. It’s oddly comforting.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, I look older than yesterday. Marigold’s drawing wasn’t that far off. Baggy red eyes. Matted lines from sleep and worry. Rough stubble, grays mixing with the browns. I look almost as bad as I feel.

Is she okay? Should I call? What would I say?

Hey, Marina. It’s me, the asshole who wrecked your wedding day and nearly ended your life. Can you please alleviate my guilt and tell me that you’re okay? Can I hold your hand again so I’ll feel better?

Goddamnit.

Splashing my face with ice-cold water, I know I must leave her alone. She doesn’t need me around, reminding her of what she’s lost.

She’s suffered enough.

Nothing can be done.