Chapter 1: Absence

The first thing I notice each morning is absence.

It’s been four hundred and seven days since the crash, and still, the absence is the first thing I feel. Before the heat. Before the light. Before the desert air that somehow always finds its way through the cracks in my windows, carrying the scent of creosote and dust. Absence is a physical weight in my chest, a hollow space where my family lived.

I wake from the nightmare: the screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the silence that follows, and for one precious, terrible second, I forget. I reach for Mark’s side of the bed, my hand finding empty sheets. I listen for the sound of Ella’s music drifting from her room, Sam’s heavy footsteps on the stairs. The silence is deafening.

Then I remember.

And absence settles on me like a second skin.

I lie in the darkness of my small West Valley house, watching the ceiling fan spin lazily overhead. The blades cut through the warm air, a rhythmic whir that’s become the soundtrack to my sleepless nights. The desert sun is beginning to paint the sky in shades of orange and pink beyond my curtains, the light creeping through the gaps like it’s searching for something to illuminate. Another day. Another shift. Another performance.

Get up, Nicola. You have work.

The voice in my head sounds like Mark’s. It used to be comforting, a gentle nudge from the man who knew me better than anyone. Now it’s just another reminder that he’s gone. That the voice is only mine, pretending to be his.

I force myself out of bed. My feet find the cool tile floor an adjustment, even after a year in Arizona. In Ohio, the floors were always cold in the morning, wooden planks that creaked underfoot. I can still hear that creak sometimes, late at night, when I’m drifting between waking and sleep. The sound of Mark padding to the bathroom. The sound of Sam sneaking downstairs for a midnight snack. The sound of Ella’s door opening, just a crack, to check if anyone was still awake.

Here, the tile is perpetually cool, a small mercy against the heat that will build throughout the day. I bought this house six months after the crash, fleeing the memories that clung to every corner of our Ohio home. The West Valley was supposed to be a fresh start. A place where no one knew me. A place where I could disappear into my work and forget.

I haven’t forgotten. I’ve just gotten better at pretending.

The bathroom mirror is unkind. It shows a woman who looks older than thirty-eight. Dark circles under eyes that have lost their light. Hair that hasn’t been properly cut in months, pulled back in a utilitarian ponytail. The body of someone who’s been surviving on coffee and adrenaline, the hollow cheeks and sharp collarbones of someone who’s forgotten what it feels like to enjoy a meal. I’ve lost fifteen pounds since the crash. I don’t know if I’ll ever gain them back.

You look like a ghost, I tell you in my reflection.

Maybe that’s what I am.

I turn on the shower, letting the water heat up while I stare at my own eyes. They were Mark’s favorite feature. “Your eyes are the color of honey,” he’d say, cupping my face in his hands. “Warm and golden and full of light.” I don’t see the light anymore. I see the absence, reflected at me like a warning.

The shower helps. Hot water on my skin, the steam filling the small bathroom. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting it wash away the remnants of the nightmare. The crash is always there, lurking in my subconscious, waiting to ambush me. The sound of metal tearing. The smell of gasoline. The phone call that shattered my world.

I was in Phoenix. They were visiting my parents in Ohio. A holiday trip. A chance for the kids to see their grandparents. I had to work because there was a staffing crisis, and I couldn’t get the time off. I kissed them goodbye at the airport. Mark promised to send photos. Ella rolled her eyes but hugged me tight. Sam gave me one of his crooked smiles, the one that always melted my heart.

“See you in a week, Mom,” he said.

I never saw them again.

The crash was on the Ohio Turnpike. A semi-truck lost control in wet conditions. My family was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The car was crushed. The funeral was three days later. I stood in the rain, wearing black, holding my parents’ hands, watching three caskets being lowered into the ground.

I haven’t been back to Ohio since.

Stop it, I tell myself. You can’t afford to fall apart. You have a shift tonight.

The shower is the only place I let myself feel anything. Once I step out, I become Nurse Archer. The competent professional. The woman who has it together. The person I’ve been pretending to be for the past year.

I dry off and stand in front of the mirror again, my skin still damp, my hair dripping onto the tile floor. I look at my body, the appendectomy scar low on my right side, the stretch marks across my stomach from carrying Ella and Sam, the small tattoo on my left hip I got when I was twenty-two. A lotus flower, meant to symbolize new beginnings. I’d gotten it right after I graduated nursing school, convinced I was finally becoming the person I was meant to be.

I was wrong about so many things.

I dress in my “going home” armor, soft, loose sweatpants and an oversized Mercy General hoodie. The hoodie is a relic from my first nursing job, so worn that the letters are barely legible. It’s a comfort object, a reminder of a time when the world made sense. I pull it over my head, and the familiar fabric feels like a hug from a version of myself I barely recognize anymore.

The kitchen is small and utilitarian, with a counter separating the cooking area from the living room. I make coffee with robotic precision, the same French press, the same organic beans, the same mug I’ve been using since I moved in. The mug is chipped, bought at a thrift store the day after I arrived. I couldn’t bear to unpack our old kitchenware. Mark’s favorite mug, the one with the faded “World’s Best Dad” printed in cheerful yellow letters, is still in a box somewhere. I haven’t opened it. I don’t think I ever will.

I drink my coffee standing at the counter, looking out the window at the desert sunrise. The sky is a palette of gold and coral, the sun just cresting the White Tank Mountains to the west. The light catches the saguaro cacti in my neighbor’s yard, their arms reaching toward the sky like supplicants. The desert is beautiful in its starkness, its refusal to apologize for the harshness of its existence.

Sometimes I think the desert understands me better than anyone.

The drive to West Valley Medical Center takes twenty minutes. The route is familiar now through the sprawl of retirement communities and strip malls, past the shimmering blue of Lake Pleasant, past the construction sites that seem to multiply every week. The West Valley is growing, expanding, swallowing the desert with its ambitions. New homes. New businesses. New lives.

I drive past a new housing development, the beige stucco homes rising from the dirt like mushrooms after rain. I wonder who lives in them. Couples starting families. People with hope. People who haven’t yet learned that everything can be taken away in a moment.

I work at a gleaming facility north of AZ 303, part of the National Health Alliance network. It’s a good hospital. Well-funded. Well-staffed. The kind of place where you can make a difference, if you’re not too busy pretending you’re okay. The building is all glass and steel, a modern monument to healthcare, and it feels as impersonal as a shopping mall. But inside, the floors hum with a different energy: the quiet urgency of care, the hushed conversations of staff and family, the beeping of machines that track the fragile border between life and death.

I pull into the employee parking lot and sit in my car for a long moment. The air conditioning hums. Desert heat pushes against the windows. I watch the other staff members arriving, some laughing, some tired, some with the same hollow look I see in the mirror. I study their faces, trying to find evidence that I’m not alone. That the numbness isn’t just mine.

Just another night, I tell myself. Just another shift. You’ve done this a thousand times.

The locker room is almost empty when I arrive. I’m early, as always. It’s easier to be early than to face the silence of my empty house. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a flat, unflattering glare on everything. The lockers are arranged in neat rows, each one a metal sanctuary for the staff’s personal belongings.

My locker is number 218. I’ve had it for three years. The letters are worn from use: NICOLA ARCHER, RN. I trace them with my finger, a ritual I’ve developed without meaning to. The letters are a reminder of who I’m supposed to be. Who I’m still pretending to be.

Inside the locker: extra scrubs, a spare pair of sneakers, my stethoscope, a small photo of my family. The photo is from two years ago, taken at a backyard barbecue. Mark is grinning, his arm around my shoulders. Ella is rolling her eyes at something Sam said. Sam is mid-laugh, his face half-obscured by a hamburger. It’s the most ordinary photo in the world. It’s the most precious thing I own.

I look at the photo and feel nothing.

That’s the problem. That’s always the problem. I’ve been numb for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be anything else. I go through the motions. I do my job. I smile at patients. I chart and medicate and comfort. But underneath, there’s nothing. Just a hollow space where my heart was.

You’re not okay, the voice in my head says. It sounds like Mark again. You haven’t been okay for a long time.

I know, I think back. But I don’t know how to fix it.

You know how. You just don’t want to.

I don’t know what you mean.

Yes, you do.

I close the locker door, the photo hidden again. I’m not ready to share my grief with anyone. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

The locker room door opens. It’s Bria Tennant, one of the night shift nurses. She’s younger than me, late twenties, sharp, competent, with a restless energy that makes me tired just watching her. She’s been in the West Valley about two years. We’re not exactly friends, but we’re friendly. The kind of colleagues who share shifts and occasional coffee but never ask too many questions.

“Nicola,” she says, nodding as she heads for her locker. “You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, which is the truth but not the whole truth.

“Same.” She unlocks her locker and starts pulling out her things. “Night shifts are brutal. I’ve been doing them for three months, and I still can’t adjust.”

Try doing them for three years, I think, but I don’t say it. I’m not in the mood for small talk.

The locker room fills slowly. Marlene from Med-Surg arrives, carrying a cup of coffee that’s probably her third of the day. Some of the CNAs come in, laughing about something I missed. The usual pre-shift chaos.

I’m pulling on my scrubs when Angela Harmon appears at the end of the lockers.

Angela is the Head Nurse of the night shift. She’s fifty, elegant, with silver-streaked hair she wears in an immaculate chignon and eyes that miss nothing. She has a reputation for being brilliant and eccentric, the kind of woman who speaks in riddles and expects you to keep up. Everyone respects her. Everyone is also a little afraid of her, including me.

She’s cradling her ever-present chipped green mug, the one she’s had for as long as anyone can remember. The cup is a legend. Nobody knows where it came from, but everyone knows not to touch it. It’s Angela’s talisman, her symbol of authority.

She catches my eye and gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then she disappears into her office.

I don’t think much of it. Angela is always watching. It’s part of what makes her such a good Head Nurse; she sees everything, misses nothing. But tonight, that nod feels different. Weighted. Like there’s something she wants to say.