Trapped in the Pool with a BROKEN ARM and I AM DONE Chapter 07
Everett gripped the thin page so tightly that his fingertips gradually turned white
His eyes remained fixed on the word withdrawal.
“What System? What mission?”
His hoarse voice dropped to a whisper.
“Maren, what kind of game were you playing?”
He yanked open every drawer in the apartment and began searching through them frantically.
He wanted proof of another prank, or an itinerary showing where I had secretly gone.
He pulled one drawer out so violently that it crashed to the floor and scattered everything across the room.
There was no itinerary.
There was only an old, yellowing medical file.
Everett picked it up and opened it.
The most recent medical entry, written in clinical language, was dated only two weeks earlier.
Old injury to the right radius. Avoid lifting heavy objects and all strenuous activity.
Everett’s pupils contracted sharply when he read the date beside the diagnosis.
Two weeks earlier.
Brielle had complained that professional movers cost too much.
Everett had immediately volunteered his time and strength to help her move.
Then he called and ordered me to come help them.
I told him my wrist hurt and I could not lift anything heavy.
How had he answered me?
“Maren, can you stop acting so delicate?”
“Brielle is half your size and she’s carrying boxes. You swim every day, so lifting one won’t kill you.”
- “You just don’t want to help her, and you’re making excuses.”
That day, I swallowed the pain and carried three large moving boxes up five flights of stairs for Brielle
By the time I finally returned home, my injured wrist had swollen to nearly twice its usual size
Everett never looked at it. He spent the evening texting Brielle to ask whether she felt tired
Everett collapsed heavily onto the floor, and the open medical file slipped from his numb hand
“It was real.”
He clutched his head as a broken sob escaped his throat.
“Maren, I’m sorry. I forgot.”
A draft passed through the apartment, making the bedroom door creak.
Everett’s head snapped up.
For one desperate instant, he seemed to see me wearing my old pajamas near the kitchen doorway.
I was looking down as I carefully picked every piece of onion from my bowl.
“Maren!”
He scrambled to his feet so quickly that he nearly fell, then rushed into the kitchen.
His arms closed around empty air.
There was nothing there.
Everett caught himself against the kitchen counter and gasped desperately for breath.
Then he opened the refrigerator and pulled out several ingredients.
“You aren’t dead. You can’t be dead.”
“You’re only angry with me, so you went somewhere to hide.”
“I’ll cook for you. I’ll make your favorite barbecue ribs.”
“Once you smell them, you’ll come out.”
He mechanically cut the meat, lit the stove, and poured oil into a skillet.
Thick gray smoke rose from the overheated skillet, but he remained too lost to notice.
He walked into the bedroom and found an old jacket I had worn.
Holding it tightly, he buried his face in the fabric and desperately breathed in the lingering scent of laundry
detergent.
The bitter, choking smell of burning oil gradually spread through the apartment from the kitchen.
The skillet had boiled dry, and flames climbed nearly two feet before catching the range hood.
Everett remained seated on the edge of the bed, clutching my jacket.
