Three for a what?

I unlocked my door, sat at my desk, and checked my reflection in the black computer monitor. I smiled, making sure both corners of my mouth turned upward. They did. Then, opening my mouth unnecessarily wide, I repeated, “the sssk-hiiiigh is bl-ooo in Ssssiiinn-cinnati, the sssk-hiiiigh is bl-ooo in Ssssiiinn-cinnati.”

Deciding I wasn’t having a stroke, I jerked my computer mouse from left to right to find the icon on my screen and opened my inbox. Jack’s name appeared at the top. My chest tightened.

I lifted my hand from the mouse and began making small circles with my wrist before moving each finger, one at a time: pinky, ring finger, middle finger, index finger, thumb. My limbs were still working.

I clicked the email, looking away at first, my fingers trembling over the keyboard.

Raising my eyes to the screen, I read each word carefully.

Grace,

I wanted to tell you first before you heard it from anyone else. Jessica and I are getting married.

I hope you are well,
Jack

I was sure that I was disappearing, fading, each fragment of my body semiopaque. I checked my hand, touching the arm of the chair to make sure I was still made up of solid matter, that it didn’t pass through me. I staggered from my office down the hallway, hitting each closed door with my fist as I passed.

“Grace, are you okay?” the receptionist asked as I rounded the corner, craning her neck to peer at me. “You don’t look so good.”

Translucent holes were shining through my hands. I braced myself on her desk and began muttering, “It’s my fault. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.”

“What’s your fault?” she asked, her eyebrows knotted.

“I killed him. He’s getting married. I killed us.” The holes in my hands were getting bigger. I could see the wood of her desk through them.

“Grace, what are you talking about?”

Watching her mouth move, I heard the words, but couldn’t make sense of them. Shaking my head, my body wavered. I heard a soft cry and followed the sound with my eyes. Standing in the corner was a little boy with curly black hair and fat, freckled cheeks. He was sobbing, rubbing his eyes with the flats of his fists, repeating “Mother. Mother. Mother. Mother. Mother.”

I leaned forward to comfort him, and then the darkness came.

I was confined by something. Strapped down. The smell of illness and antiseptic. The white ceiling burned my irises. I blinked my eyes.

I was in a hospital bed. A small window to my left with no curtains. A faded red chair next to me. Absolutely nothing else in the room.

A tall man with thinning hair and a strong jawline entered the room carrying a glass of water and a file folder. He leaned over the bed, peering down at me.

“Hi Grace, I’m Dr. Hurley,” he said softly. “Do you know where you are?”

My throat was dry and itchy. I shook my head.