The Second Time Around

PART ONE: BEFORE PROLOGUE: The Weight of Silence The silence was the worst part. Not the sterile hum of the hospital machines,she'd grown used to that by hour. Not the muffled sobs of strangers in the hallway or the efficient footsteps of nurses who'd seen a thousand grief-stricken families and knew exactly what to say. Not even the deafening absence of her children's laughter, though that came close. No, it was the silence inside her chest. The place where her heart used to beat. Selene Chen-Vanderbilt lay in a hospital bed—ICU, room 412, a room she would never forget for the rest of her life and stared at the ceiling tiles. They had a faint water stain in one corner. She'd been counting the acoustic holes in each tile for the past six hours. Two thousand, one hundred and forty-seven so far. Counting was better than thinking. Better than remembering. The sun was setting outside her window. She could see the Manhattan skyline from her bed if she turned her head, but she didn't. She didn't want to see the city. The city was where everything had happened. The city was where she'd built her perfect life and then watched it burn. A nurse came in, Janet, her name tag said with a tray of broth. The broth looked like it had been designed by someone who'd never actually tasted food. "You need to eat something," Janet said gently, setting the tray on the bedside table. "Doctor says you need to keep your strength up." "Why?" Selene's voice didn't sound like hers. It sounded like it was coming from very far away. "What's the point of keeping my strength up?" Janet's face softened with the particular sadness of someone who dealt with grief on a daily basis. "For yourself, Mrs. Vanderbilt. For your health." "My health." Selene let out a sound that might have been a laugh if laughs weren't supposed to have joy in them. "There is no health for me. There's no point. They're gone. All of them. And I—" She stopped. Couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say out loud what she'd been thinking for six days. I killed them with my selfishness. I killed them with my i********: stories. I killed them with my need to be seen, to be envied, to be perfect. "Mrs. Vanderbilt—" Janet started, but Selene just shook her head. "Please leave me alone. I need to think." But thinking was impossible. Thinking meant remembering Lily's gap-toothed smile, the one she got when she was trying to be funny. Thinking meant seeing Ethan's serious eyes, the way he looked at the world like he was trying to solve an equation. Thinking meant hearing Alexander's rare, precious laugh—the one he only gave to her, in the privacy of their home, when he thought no one else could hear. Thinking meant admitting that she'd wasted every single moment they'd shared. She'd been too busy editing photos. Too busy choosing filters. Too busy captioning moments instead of living them. Look at my perfect family. Aren't we blessed? Another beautiful evening in our Manhattan penthouse. #Grateful #FamilyFirst #LivingMyBestLife Ethan's science project turned out so well! So proud of my brilliant boy. #ProudMom #FutureNobel She'd been a documentary filmmaker of her own life, and she'd completely missed the actual story. The night wore on. Visiting hours ended. Other patients called for their nurses. The hospital settled into the particular silence of late night, a silence punctuated by beeping machines and the occasional announcement over the PA system. Around 3 AM, Selene felt something shift in her body. A pressure in her chest. A tightness that started spreading through her head. She tried to press the call button but her hand wouldn't work right. The room started to tilt. The ceiling tiles began to swirl. This is it, she thought distantly. This is what it feels like when your body gives up. And maybe that was okay. Maybe it was a mercy. But then her eyes snapped open. And everything was different.