Chapter 5
The desk was piled high with medical journals, including The Lancet, The Journal of Medicine, and Annals of Surgery.
Some were so worn out from being read again and again that the dog-eared corners were filled with handwritten notes.
Others were still wrapped in plastic, stacked on top, gathering dust.
The drawers were crammed with all sorts of paperwork. There were invitations to academic conferences he never got to attend. He was always scheduled for a shift at the hospital.
Surgery records he'd write in pencil, only to erase them later, since the final signature was never his.
Certificates from online courses he'd signed up for himself, studying in front of a computer in the break room after midnight surgeries, something Maisy never even knew about.
At the very bottom, there was a brown paper envelope.
He pulled it out and opened it. Inside was a certificate, all in Natarian, with a gold-embossed cover, signed by the International Microsurgery Society.
It was a Lifetime Achievement Award, given to one of the top five microsurgeons in the world. The date on it was the year he and Maisy got married.
He closed the certificate and put it back in the envelope. Then he dug out a cardboard box from the drawer, the one left over from his last Amazon book delivery.
It was just the right size to hold a few journals and some clothes.
He placed the journals into the box.
He opened the closet. He barely had any clothes, just the same few he rotated every day. He hadn't bothered buying anything new in three years. There was no point.
He spent every day in a lab coat, and after work, it didn't really matter what he wore, nobody cared. He folded a couple of T-shirts and a jacket, dropped them into the box.
He grabbed a gray hoodie, the collar all stretched out from years of wear. He'd picked it up in college, and it had stuck with him for nearly ten years.
Then he walked into the bedroom.
It was his and Maisy's bedroom. The bed was huge, 7 feet wide. But for the past three years, most nights, he was the only one in it. Maisy always came home late.
Sometimes, she'd push open the bedroom door at two or three in the morning, and he'd pretend to be asleep, listening to her in the dark as she kicked off her heels, took off her makeup, and changed into her pajamas.
The heels would hit the carpet with a dull thud, then the sound of a drawer opening and closing, and finally, he'd feel the mattress dip as she climbed in.
She'd lie down with her back to him.
Sometimes, he'd reach out and touch her shoulder. She wouldn't move. After a while, her breathing would turn slow and deep. Then he'd pull his hand back.
He stood in the doorway, staring at the big empty bed, feeling nothing at all.
On the nightstand sat a reading lamp he'd bought, he liked to flip through a few pages before sleeping, and its warm glow never bothered Maisy.
Beside the lamp was an empty glass, with a dried ring at the bottom.
He pulled out the fountain pen his adoptive father had left him from the nightstand. The paint worn off the barrel, revealing the brass underneath.
His adoptive father had pressed it into his hand before he died, saying, "This pen has been with me my whole life. Now it's yours."
He'd used it for years, refilling the ink again and again, but the nib still glided as smoothly as ever.
Then he placed it gently in the box.
He reached under the pillow and pulled out his wedding ring. It was a simple platinum band. They'd bought it the year they got married.
Maisy had said the wedding was already costing too much, so they should keep the rings simple.
He remembered her standing at the jewelry store counter, picking out the style in just three seconds, she had to rush back to the hospital for a meeting.
He'd agreed. She'd worn it for a while, but three months later, she took it off. She said it was too much trouble during surgeries, and she never put it back on.
He, on the other hand, had always kept his on. Unless he was scrubbing in for surgery and slipped it into his pocket, it stayed on his ring finger.
After three years, the tiny inscription of their initials and wedding date inside was already starting to blur.
Now, he set it down on the nightstand. He didn't leave a note or a message. The metal hit the marble surface with a soft, crisp sound.
When the box was full, Arthur stood in the living room, taking it all in one last time. He'd spent three years in this 3,200-square-foot apartment, and now he was leaving with nothing but this box.
He left the keys at the front desk. The girl there recognized him and smiled. "Dr. Russell, it's been a while."
He smiled back. "Yeah, it has."
"Been working a lot lately? Those dark circles under your eyes look pretty bad."
"Not too bad."
As he walked out of the building, he glanced up at the apartment he and Maisy had shared. It was on the sixth floor, facing south, with a big balcony.
He remembered when they first moved in, he'd thought about planting some flowers out there, roses, maybe, or some low-maintenance succulents.
He'd even gone to the flower market, but in the end, he just bought a pothos and put it in the study. Pothos were the easiest to keep alive, just give them a little water and they'd thrive.
He picked it because, even back then, he already knew that in this house, the only things he could keep alive were the ones that didn't need much care.
Even the pothos, he left behind.
Maisy sat in Arthur's study.
It was the fifth day since Arthur had left.
Maisy finally managed to make time to return to their marital home, not because she missed him, but because that influencer's lawyer had upgraded the warning letter into a real lawsuit.
The legal team had spread the documents across her desk, telling her that the best solution was to find Arthur.
If he came back to perform the surgery, the other side would agree to drop the case.
When she pushed the door open, the silence inside made her stop in her tracks. The place felt cavernous, eerily empty. She'd never spent a single night here alone.
Whenever she came home, Arthur was always around, sometimes reading in the study, sometimes cooking food in the kitchen.
He'd always make a little extra, leave it simmering, waiting for her return. She'd eaten it a few times.
It was simple spaghetti in a light broth, topped with a fried egg, barely any salt. She never said it tasted good, but she never complained, either.
Now, the kitchen was empty. The living room was empty too.
She went upstairs and pushed open the study door. The desk was still there, and so were the journals. She walked over and picked one up.
The whole thing was in Natarian, Maisy couldn't understand any of the medical terms, not a single word. But on the first page, there was a photo.
It was a photo from an awards ceremony. Arthur was standing on stage, wearing a formal suit she'd never seen before, dark, perfectly tailored, making him look sharp and unstoppable.
He was holding a medal, and the crowd below was full of people from all over the world, all applauding. There was a line of Natarian text under the photo, so she used her phone to translate it.
[Recipient of the International Microsurgery Society Lifetime Achievement Award, Arthur Russell.]
The date printed there was the same year they got married.