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She looks at me, her face full of silent questions I can’t answer.
After speaking with the floor receptionist—who looks at me like she’s seen a ghost, since I almost never return to the hospital after my shift—I lead Brooklyn to Kassia’s room, the woman who gave birth to me.
"Shall we?" I ask at the door.
"I’m nervous," she says.
"Why?"
"I know it’s silly because even if she doesn’t like me, I won’t know, but this person is special to you. I don’t want another woman in your life to dislike me." She says it jokingly, but now I’m certain my adoptive mother’s behavior hurt her.
"The only person who needs to like you is me."
She turns to face me. "And do you?"
"Don’t you know that by now?"
"You’re not exactly big on words, Dr. Athanasios," she says, and I frown, wondering if I haven’t shown her enough that I don’t just want to spend time fooling around with her.
"I—”
She cuts me off. "It’s fine. It’s too soon to be sure of what we feel," she says, but her eyes dart away from mine. "Now, take me to meet your friend."
Brooklyn
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I enter the room,which looks a lot like the one I was in when I woke up from my coma, and feel my heart sink at the sight of the gray-haired woman lying there in a sleep that, according to Athanasios, has lasted for years.
I was surprised to learn that he has a special connection with a particular patient. Athanasios seems so closed off to the rest of the world, only showing emotion in rare moments. But when he talked about this woman, his face hardened in a way I had never seen before. Her condition moves him somehow, and that alone has captured my interest.
"You really have no idea what caused this?" I ask softly as I approach the bed, but I regret it seconds later. "No, wait. Don’t tell me now."
"I can’t say for sure, but given her injuries, I have strong suspicions. Why did you ask me not to tell you now?"
"Because maybe she can hear us, like I could when I was in a coma, and I don’t want her to feel sad."
"The chances of her hearing are very slim," he says, without elaborating further.
I run the back of my hand over hers. Her skin is so thin, almost like parchment paper. "How old is she?"
"Sixty," he says without hesitation.
"She looks older."
"I don’t believe her life was easy."
"Okay. As I said earlier, I don’t want her to hear us talking about sad things. Can I try something?"
"What?"
"Do you have a comb?"
He looks at me, taking a few seconds to understand what I’m planning. Then, without a word, he leaves the room and returns in less than two minutes. "It’s a disposable one. We have some essentials kits for patients’ companions."
I take the comb out of the packaging. "Sit down. This is a girls-only conversation now. Does she have a name?"
He hesitates again. "She does, but you can’t tell anyone. Not even your family."