The first sound that came through the cathedral speakers was Garrett’s voice.
Not the careful, grieving voice he had used for reporters that morning.
Not the soft voice he used when people from his father’s company were nearby.
This was the voice he used when he believed we were alone.
“You are leaving the hospital tomorrow.”
A rustle followed, then my own exhausted voice.
“The doctor said I should stay.”
“I don’t care what the doctor said.”
The recording echoed beneath the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling.
Garrett stopped moving.
Maya rested against my chest, whimpering softly.
I kept one hand beneath her and the other wrapped around the edge of the lectern because my legs were beginning to shake again.
On the recording, Garrett continued.
“My father’s funeral will be televised.
You will be there.
You will look composed.
And you will not create some postpartum spectacle that becomes the story instead of him.”
A murmur moved through the pews.
I watched Samantha’s face drain of color.
Garrett recovered first.
“Turn that off,” he said.
I didn’t touch the phone.
The recording continued.
My voice sounded weak enough to make me hate hearing it.
“I can barely walk.”
“Then learn to stand still.”
A few people gasped.
Garrett lunged toward the lectern, but several guests had already risen.
He seemed to realize that wrestling a phone away from his postoperative wife in front of television cameras would not improve the situation.
So he stopped.
“This is private,” he announced to the room.
“My wife is medicated and emotional.
She has no idea what she’s doing.”
That was when Samantha made her mistake.
“She’s always recording things out of context,” she snapped.
Every face near the front turned toward her.
Until that second, no one had known whether Samantha was familiar with the recordings.
Now they did.
I looked at her.
“You knew?” I asked.
She realized too late what she had admitted.
“I knew Garrett was trying to manage a difficult situation.”
“A difficult situation?”
“My recovery?”
“The funeral,” she said sharply.
“Our father just died.”
I pressed the screen again.
The second recording began.
It had been made in the car that morning.
Maya had been crying in the back seat.
I had asked Garrett to turn around because I felt fresh blood under my dressing.
His recorded voice filled the church.
“We are ten minutes from the cathedral.
You can bleed for ten minutes.”
Someone near the aisle whispered, “Dear God.”
Garrett stared at the floor.
