(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoilers, etc.)

Chapter 2: "Awake"

The hospital room in Naples is stark, a sea of white. White walls, white sheets, white furniture, white cabinets. Above the bed, a crucifix carved from dark wood hangs and I stare at it, oddly fascinated. Years ago, I was amused when Olivia's mother presented us with a sterling silver crucifix for Caitlin's nursery. My Catholic wife took it from her mother, smiling graciously and I remember watching her later hang it over the crib. It was all new to me. As a child, there was never a presence of God in my life. I was raised to believe in no one but myself.

Now, the suffering savior gazes down at me and I shift uncomfortably. His face is twisted in agony, in sharp contrast to the peaceful slumber that my wife lies in. I turn away from Him, leaning back in the chair as my eyes move over her. Her chest rises slowly, her lips parted slightly. She's pale, I realize. Paler than usual.

"What's that?"

"Oh, this?" she asked nonchalantly, touching her straw hat. "Just my hat."

I reached over, turning the wide brim up. "I knew you were under here somewhere," I teased.

"Darling," she sighed, her arms around my neck. "I can't be in the sun too long. My alabaster skin can't tolerate it."

But, she grew to love the sun, easing into it gently on the deck of The Splendour. Back in the old days, when it was just the two of us and we could take the boat out for long weekend trips to Catalina and Baja. We haven't taken the boat out in years, I realize with a start.

She shifts and my heart skips a beat as she sighs. No, she's still asleep. I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees. The doctors assured me there would be no long-term effects from pumping the pills and alcohol out of her stomach and that sleep was the best thing for her now. And yet, I can't help but wish her eyes would open. If only to ask: why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy?

"Scusi?"

I look up, expecting another doctor. Instead, I find a young man hovering in the doorway, clutching a small bouquet of flowers. His eyes anxiously jump from my wife to me as I stand, sizing him up. He's all of twenty-five years old, if that, with dark eyes and jet-black curls offset by olive skin. A current of familiarity goes through me and I struggle to place it as he steps in tentatively. "Signora Richards…she is well?" he asks, his English cloaked in a thick Italian accent.

"Who are you?" I ask, claiming my spot to the left of her bed as he slowly moves to the right side.

"Mario. Mario di Biaggi." He lays the flowers next to her on the bed, the wildflowers grazing her hand. "I know Signora Richards from the cruise ship. I am her maggiodomo."

I meet his gaze slowly as I say softly, "You were the one who found her." He nods and I watch him turn back to Olivia. His lips move silently and it takes me a moment to realize he's praying over her. Suddenly, I'm glad he's there. He's spent the last several months with my wife. He can tell me what I need to know. When he finally blesses himself, I say, "I'm her husband." He nods, his eyes large. "Do you know Olivia well?"

Another nod. "She is the only guest," he explains slowly, "who stay so long. Some people two weeks, sometimes a month. But her, she stay for-"

"Almost three months." I look down at her, her dark hair pooled around her head. It's the clearest evidence of the march of time. The last time I saw her, it was short and barely skimmed her shoulders. Now, her long hair comes to a curl at the ends, snaking over and around her collarbone. "Did she tell you why she stayed so long?"

I'm surprised by his answer.

"No. But, I know she was molto triste," he says softly, looking me in the eye. "A great sadness take her over." With a sigh, he shrugs and continues, "I do not think if that's what you want me to say."

It's not, but what choice do I have? My wife mixed herself a lethal cocktail of vodka and sleeping pills. Like scrounging through her credit card bills, I'm forced to rely on the impressions of strangers to figure out what's going through her mind. And, like with the bills, I'm no closer to solving the eternal mystery that is my wife. A part of me wonders if I ever will.

"She…" He pauses. I don't know if it's because English isn't his first language or because he's trying to figure out if he should continue with what he's about to say. I nod, trying to encourage him so he can satisfy my insatiable longing to understand. "In the beginning," he finally says, "she do not talk to me much. I only see her at night when she order her meals for the next day. She stay in her stateroom all day."

"How much alcohol was she ordering?"

His face turns and his eyes narrow as he shakes his head. "No, she ask for none." Abruptly, he looks down, his voice cloaked in pain as he continues, "The vodka was the first she ask from me. I'm sorry I give it to her."

My hand brushes Olivia's, our pinkie fingers touching as I watch him suspiciously. "Are you telling me my wife didn't drink anything alcoholic until two days ago?" He looks up, nodding deeply. Why would he lie? Why should he be anything but painfully honest? "Are you sure?" I murmur. "She could've gone to one of the ship's bars or restaurants-"

"No," he corrects, "she is no like the others. She never leave her stateroom."

"At all?" I look back at her face, finally understanding why she was so pale.

"Si." His face is animated now as he continues, "She just want to be sola."

That crosses the language gap. She wanted to be alone. She ran away from our children, our home, and our life. She ran away from me. "Did she tell you we have children?" I ask, suddenly annoyed by her selfishness. We were drowning in grief, the family in shambles and she just left. Ran off to some foreign corner of the world, licking her wounds while I stayed behind to pick up the pieces.

His eyes flicker, suddenly wary. "When we start to talk, I ask her if she has family who miss her. She has been on the cruise ship so long, you see." I wait, my hand resting over her still one. "She say that she hope her children do and…"

"Go on," I say brusquely, fed up with the pretense of patience.

He swallows and it's clear this is a truth he's reluctantly confessing. "She say her husband is angry with her. She do not think he - that you miss her."

You're my wife. I cannot let you just walk away. But, I did. I gave her what she wanted. I let her walk away, even though I asked her to stay. Hoped she would. I sigh deeply and turn back to him. "That night- before you found her… How was she?" His brow furrows and I try again. "What kind of mood was she in?"

He nods quickly. "Quiet. A letter come and I think it make her sad."

"Who was it from?"

"She say her daughter. But, she no open it. It is on the desk in her room when I come that evening." His face falls and there's a noticeable quiver in his voice when he continues. "I go to order her meals, but before I can, she ask for the vodka. But, I do not know she-"

"Keep going. Did you see if she opened the letter?"

"Si! When I come back with the vodka, the letter is open and there is photos on the desk. I give her the bottle and I leave."

Photos. Of course, the photos would set her off. Trey was a happy and healthy newborn, the furthest thing from our dead son. A reminder of all that we should have had, the second chance at happiness. How quickly it slipped through our fingers. Vaguely, I realize he's still talking and I listen.

"Later, I remember Signora Richards no told me what she want to eat. So, I go back to ask." He pauses, turning to look at my wife's still form. "She no come to the door. Right away, I know something wrong. Signora Richards always come to the door. I use my key and I go in."

I lean in, sucked down the rabbit hole as he spoke. I have to know. I need to know.

"Sh- she is laying on the bed." He gestures to the foot of the hospital bed, helping me to visualize the horrible sight from that night on the cruise. "On her stomaco. Her arm is hanging off and a glass fall on the floor. She-"

"Enough," I growl, turning away. "I see it. I understand."

With dozens of pills and a bottle of vodka, she nearly ended it all. I know I'm supposed to be grateful to this young Italian, but I can't help but be jealous. He got to be the one to find her. He got to be the one to save her. A husband is supposed to the one to save his wife, not a virtual stranger. I wasn't there. I wasn't there for my wife. Wife? A wife is someone that you love and that you cherish and that you are there for when they need you. And you have never been there for me when I really needed you, not the first time we lost the baby and not this time.

I flinch and turn slowly, ice running through my veins. He backs away slowly from the bed, holding up his hands as he murmurs an apology. He's frightened and I exhale deeply. The exhaustion is catching up to me, the all-night flight to Naples and then the time change. The stress of listening to Caitlin's sobbing and Sean's stunned silence on the phone when I told them about their mother. And, deep down, in the spot where Olivia once accused me of burying my feelings so deep they would never see the light of day, is the guilt I feel as I watch her sleep. It's a thin line between life and death and she danced too close to it, crossing over for a terrifying moment. "Thank you for telling me," I murmur, turning back to Olivia.

"Please say to Signora Richards that I hope she is well soon." He flashes me a nervous half-smile before he leaves the room. That's when it hits me like a thunderbolt. This kid reminds me of Cole. Cole, the bane of my existence for the last year. Cole, who disappeared the same day Olivia did. Cole, who was nowhere to be found when Caitlin was convinced her mother had gone off to kill herself. Cole, who mysteriously reappeared with Olivia, neither of them saying where they had been.

The realization sweeps over and through me like a blustery winter breeze, invading every ounce of me. She tried to kill herself that day too. Cole stopped her the first time. I didn't. Mario saved her the second time. I didn't. I was nowhere to be found either time. I was locked away with Annie, cursing my wife's name. I let Olivia walk away from me at the airport, too proud to beg her to stay the way I wanted her to. The way I needed her to. You see, everybody I ever really loved in my life left. I remember waiting for you to go to sleep. I'd come lie down next to you and just watch, praying to God you wouldn't leave me, because I knew if you ever did, I'd die.

Except I didn't die. No, I was left painfully and cruelly alive. Alive and able to feel the heartache of knowing that my wife preferred death instead life with me. That she could slip away and give it all up - our life, our marriage, our children - and succumb to the pain. In what could've been her last days, she knew I was angry with her. Angry enough that when she wrote one final note, it was addressed only to the children. Not to me.

Heavily, I sit down in the chair next to her bed, watching her with full eyes. I reach into my pocket and pull out the faxed copy of her note. It's written on the ship's stationery, their logo in the top center. Rereading it now is unnecessary; I've had twelve hours sitting up on a plane all night with it. Her words are ingrained in my memory, seared like burns on my soul. The way she confessed her deep love for the children. The way she asked them to forgive her for being weak. The way she asked them to understand the pain that was consuming her. The way she explained she was tired of waking each day in a world where she was responsible for her youngest child dying.

From the bed, I hear the sheets rustle and I look up. She's stirring. Finally. I put the suicide note aside and lean in, watching as she sighs, moving her head. Her hand brushes against my own and I start, a lightening bolt going through me. "Olivia?" I murmur as her eyes flutter. She turns, her eyes squinting in the early afternoon sunlight. There's haze swimming in her blue irises as she looks back at me with a blank stare. "You're in Naples," I say, reaching out to take her hand.

Her hand flinches in mine and her face crumbles as she slowly begins to shake her head. "Nooooo," she moans, long and low in the silence. Her hands go to her face, muffled sobbing filling the silence.

I lean up with concern as she shudders and continues twisting on the bed. "Olivia-"

"Why?" she cries. Her arms fly down, landing at her sides as she gazes up at the ceiling. Tears fall from her eyes, staining her cheeks and I reach up to brush them away. Instead, her hand pushes mine away as she murmurs, "Why am I here?"

I stiffen and sit back in the chair. "The doctor says that all of your test results are fine. She's going to release you-"

"I don't care." Her voice is soft and the image of a wounded bird comes to mind, its wings fluttering helplessly. "I don't want to live." I inhale sharply as she finally turns to look at me, her eyes dull and vacant. "Why did they save me?" My stomach turns and I look away as she starts to cry again, but they're silent tears this time. I feel her eyes on me, burning into me as she continues, "You should have let them carry me away."

I shake my head, not able to understand that kind of futility. "Why, Olivia? Why would you do this?" I hiss.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" she sighs, her voice flat. She rubs her forehead and winces. I'm frozen to the chair as she finally continues, "You blamed me for the baby. You wanted me to pay. A life for a life."

"Olivia-"

"I don't want to live," she repeats, a sob rising in her throat. "Not without our baby. Not with you thinking I killed him."

I can't move. I'm physically incapable of anything other than breathing and watching her. She rolls over, the sheets surrounding her as she turns her back to me. Leaving me with the irrefutable knowledge that it was my fault she tried to kill herself. My fault our children were nearly left motherless. My fault she felt death was her only option.

I was just as responsible as if I handed her the glass of vodka and pills.

A/N: Thank you all for the awesome feedback! I'm truly bowled over by the enthusiastic reception for this story.