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“Things will be okay, Claire.”
His familiar, reassuring voice makes her turn around slowly before she lets out a gut-wrenching exhale, meeting his gaze with her miserably glassy eyes. This small storage room feels too cramped to contain her overwhelming emotions, yet too vast and empty to keep her from falling apart.
Staring at him—steady but exhausted, especially under the dim, flickering light—she remains rooted less than seven feet away. It feels like the hardest thing in the world, especially when it seems the whole world is crushing her. But the weight of guilt on her shoulders stifles any desire to step closer.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she almost breaks, swallowing hard, feeling her nails dig into her palms.
Her sorrowful green eyes dart around again, searching for her late patient’s belongings, but her blurry vision won’t cooperate. The whole place is an organized mess. The packages and boxes surrounding her are reminders of those who have died—even though many belong to the living—left behind, locked away with no chance of being retrieved for months, until the pandemic hopefully ends. She reaches out to lean on the nearest shelf, feeling as though it all should just end, her whole life with it. Her growing anxiety nearly sweeps her off her feet, but her hand grips the cold metal, a desperate anchor as she fights to pull herself from the swamp of despair threatening to drown her.
“Claire, you did everything you could.”
But his simple words and soft expression only make her sigh heavily, her hands beginning to tremble. And that’s all it takes for her to break.
“That’s the point. I can’t do anything about this damn virus. I can’t do anything to save people’s lives. And yeah, all I can do is watch them die in the end,” her bottom lip quivers, and she blinks rapidly as tear tracks finally trace paths down her pallid cheeks. “I should have let that woman see her mother before she...”
“You couldn’t. It’s not your fault,” he steps closer, and she can tell he’s weighing his actions, unsure if she needs his proximity right now.
But the moment his form emerges from the blur of her tears and he stands just a few inches away, she reaches out to squeeze his hand and leans her head against his chest, dampening his crisp white shirt. She doesn't feel guilty about it. And that in itself means something.
“I couldn’t do anything. I can’t do anything,” she whispers into the fabric of his shirt as his arms close around her restless figure, pulling her into his space, making it their space. “Why does it feel like the end of me every single time?”
“Because you’re always there for your patients, always invested in their cases and their lives. And even though sometimes it ends with a patient dying, there are still people who survived because of you—because of your skills, and your compassion,” he rests his cheek against the crown of her head, feeling her soft curls tickle his skin. He closes his eyes as he speaks, his own breath catching when her body shudders in a futile attempt to stifle her quiet sobs.
“I feel terrible because I’m helpless and useless,” her words vibrate against him, a pocket of warmth in the cold room.
“Me too. But that doesn’t mean we actually are,” his voice coaxes her back from the darkness that felt like both nothing and everything at once. He keeps talking, holding her closer, feeling her pounding heart against his ribs. “You don’t even know how great you are, how strong you are. And while today we’re falling down, maybe tomorrow, or the day after, we’ll take off again. For all the people who are suffering now.”
Her hands grip the back of his shirt tightly, terrified of losing his soothing presence, but he stays, holding her in his arms. The silence is broken again by her deep, shuddering breath as she tries to calm down, enveloped by his overwhelming support.
“How’s your patient?”
“As fine as he can be on a ventilator,” he says hopelessly, and feels her lift her face only to bury it in the crook of his neck, placing a soft kiss on the exposed skin she can reach.
“I’m sorry, Neil,” she knows how tough it is for him to be unmoored by the unknown. “How are you feeling?”
His sigh prompts her to run a hand up and down his back. When he mutters “awful,” she feels his tense body begin to relax under her touch. Neil breathes her in and carefully finds her hand, bringing it to his lips to leave a soft kiss, glad to feel her warmth and to see her smile, however slight.
Claire lifts her tear-streaked face to gaze at him. “The only thing that makes this less horrible is you. Us, together against the world and whatever it throws at us.”
He lets out a soft exhale and nods, closing his eyes for a moment, savoring the simple pleasure of being with her in this rough time. They share their sorrows in each other’s embrace and finally feel more like themselves again. This storage room doesn’t seem so dreadful and cold anymore. Not as long as they hold each other.
“Us together... that’s everything I ever needed,” he smiles, a look of profound gratitude in his eyes. He thinks how lucky he is to be alive, safe, and loved by the most understanding woman, who trusts him with her feelings. And she is more than enough. “Let me take you home, love,” he tilts his head, staring into her beautiful green eyes and caressing her cheekbone gently.
Claire suddenly remembers why she came here in the first place and sighs, her eyebrows drawing together. “Yeah, I just... have to find something first.”
She carefully slips out of his embrace and, wiping the tears from her cheeks, searches for the package with the right name.
“Claire...”
“I know, it’s breaking the rules,” her eyeroll makes it clear she’s going to do what she’d planned anyway. He was going to say something else, but she pulls new gloves from her pocket and puts them on, reassuring him with her mindfulness. Among all the packages, she finally finds the right one. Inside are the patient’s clothes, a delicate necklace with a silver crucifix lying on top.
She carefully takes it out, returns the package to its place, and lays the necklace on a shelf. After changing her gloves, she cleans the cross meticulously with sanitizer. When she’s done, she discards the gloves and holds the cross carefully in her hand.
Neil simply exhales, understanding her heartwarming, silent question. He nods toward the door, smiling softly at her desire to make this small, vital gesture for the grieving woman.
She runs out as fast as she can, knowing the daughter must be waiting outside. The night's cold wind crashes against her skin, still warm from Neil’s touch, raising goosebumps. She breathes the fresh air deeply, catching her breath after the quick run, and scans the area. The woman approaches, maintaining her distance. Claire nods, places the cross carefully on the ground, and steps back. The woman picks up the cherished item, a lasting reminder of her late mother. She sighs, closing her eyes as her fingers close around the cool metal, and whispers a “thank you” that the wind carries away, but Claire understands.
It doesn’t take her long to change into her street clothes, grab her things, and leave the hospital, knowing Neil is waiting for her in the parking lot—tired, but grateful to have someone beside him during the most challenging moment of their lives. That’s enough to make him grin, seeing her look back at him with an exhausted but tender smile.
They get in the car to finally start their way home after another long day in this endless pandemic. “Everything okay?” he asks, noticing the sad, nostalgic look in her eyes.
“Yes,” she nods, knowing they are both remembering the day he was ready to die, and she gave him her cross. The one he now keeps with him as a reminder of what truly matters—a token of his survival, for which he is grateful to the surgical team, especially Claire, and to his faith.
“Maybe we should get something special for dinner?” Neil suggests, subconsciously playing with her fingers, his left hand resting on the wheel.
Her thumb strokes his palm lightly as she gives him a tender look. “I don’t need anything special. I already have you.” She catches the awe in his eyes and resists the urge to kiss him, a bold move that would steal his attention from the road. “Maybe we can cook something and then cuddle in bed, eat dinner, and watch that movie you’ve been wanting to see for so long?” she suggests, making him chuckle.
“You mean, I can cook, and you can distract me with talking, kissing, and hugging?” She sighs and opens her mouth to retort, but looks amused.
“I’ll also chop vegetables and set the plates,” she defends herself, and he lifts her hand to his lips for a kiss.
“I’d love that,” he says finally, leaving the day behind them as the car moves forward into the night.