Chapter 3 - The Suitcase
Paramedics checked me in Noah’s bedroom because I refused to leave him alone.
Nausea.
Dizziness.
Shaking.
Dehydration.
Blood pressure low enough to concern them.
I had barely eaten all day.
Stress could explain some of it.
Not all.
One paramedic asked:
“Any chance you took medication?”
“No.”
“Alcohol?”
“No.”
“Anything unusual?”
I thought about dinner.
Half a bowl of soup.
Daniel made it.
That thought terrified me so quickly I almost said nothing.
Then stopped myself.
“Test me.”
The paramedic looked at me.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
That was truthful.
Meanwhile police photographed the hallway.
The cracked bathroom door.
The damaged frame.
My phone.
The active emergency-call log.
And the suitcase.
Dark blue.
Large.
It belonged to me.
Officer Morales asked:
“Did you pack this?”
“No.”
“Did you know it was packed?”
“No.”
“Are you planning a trip?”
“No.”
Daniel shouted from downstairs:
“She told me she was leaving!”
The officer looked toward the staircase.
Then back at me.
“Did you?”
“I told him I wanted a separation.”
“When?”
“Two nights ago.”
“Did you say you were leaving tonight?”
“No.”
“Taking Noah?”
“No.”
The suitcase stood open now.
Inside were my clothes.
Noah’s too.
Seven days, maybe ten.
Underwear.
Sweaters.
Shoes.
Toiletries.
Noah’s asthma inhaler.
His favorite red sweatshirt.
And a folder.
The officer did not open it immediately.
He photographed where it was.
May you like
Then called a supervisor.
The woman in the hallway—Melissa—looked at the folder and started crying.
