The woman I thought Was An Angel: chapter 3

The woman I thought Was An Angel: chapter 3

                                Written by 

                                    sir 

                                      Emmanuel.E

Three days in the hospital, and the walls were starting to close in on me.

The drip was still in my arm. My body felt like it weighed 1000kg. But the worst pain wasn’t in my chest. It was in my head.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw the names. Deacon Paul. Bro. Emeka. Oga Tony. 34 of them.

Ada never left my side. She brought food. She prayed. She wiped my face with a wet towel. To the nurses, she was the perfect wife. To me, she was a stranger wearing my wife’s face.

On the third night, around 1am, the ward was quiet. Only the sound of machines and someone coughing two beds away.

Ada shifted in the chair beside me. She leaned close. Her perfume filled the small space between us.

“Baby,” she whispered. Her voice was low, urgent. “I need you.”

I didn’t answer. I was too tired to even turn my head.

“I know you’re sick,” she continued, her hand finding mine on the bedsheet. “But just... help me. Please. I can’t sleep. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

My heart skipped. 

I knew what she was asking. I knew what she wanted. 

And I also knew what it meant. If I said no, if I pushed her away, someone else would give her what she wanted. The phone in her bag proved that. The messages proved that.

The thought made me sick.

“I... I can’t, Ada,” I managed. My voice was hoarse. “I’m weak. The doctor said I need rest.”

Her face changed for half a second. Not anger. Something else. Desperation. Then she forced a smile and squeezed my hand.

“It’s okay, my king,” she said quickly, too quickly. “I understand. Let’s pray instead.”

She picked up her Bible and started reading Psalm 51. “Create in me a clean heart, O God...”

But her eyes weren’t on the Bible. They kept drifting to the door. Like she was expecting someone. Like she was weighing her options.

I lay there and stared at the ceiling. 

My wife. Sick husband in a hospital bed. And she was asking me for that.

Part of me wanted to get up, to prove I was still a man, to keep her from going to those other men. 

The other part of me was disgusted. Broken. 

So I did nothing. I just lay there, frowning at the ceiling, while she pretended to pray.

When morning came, she was all smiles again. 

“Good morning, Daddy. How are you feeling? I made you pap.”

She fed me like a child. She sang worship songs. She posted on her status: “Standing in faith for my husband’s healing. God is faithful.”

The church members replied with 100 “Amens.”

And me? I was lying in that bed realizing something: 

The problem wasn’t just her past. 

The problem was now.

Chapter 2 was about finding out the truth. 

Chapter 3 was about realizing the truth wasn’t going anywhere.