Chapter 18 #2
But Cristiano wasn’t having any of that.
“Don’t do that. You always used to do that to yourself.”
“Do what?”
“Minimize. Self-deprecate.”
As he stood in my apartment that day, gazing around with hungry eyes, he didn’t see the cracked linoleum and the water-stained ceiling.
He saw Leon’s paintings fixed on the refrigerator, the box of toys, the living room I’d made cozy with secondhand furniture, and my beautiful, happy son animatedly showing him a T-rex. Cristiano saw love.
Adora turns to look at me. “I watched my brother for years, Mina. He looked at you like you were his whole world. He wanted to make things better for you, even if his methods were…”
“Crazy?”
“I was going to say misguided.” A ghost of a smile. “But yes. Crazy works too.”
I stare at the spaces where Leon should be sleeping. Where Cristiano should be recovering.
I want them back.
I want them back so much I can barely breathe.
Cristiano risked a beating so I might have a chance at a better education.
I don’t know what to do with this information.
It doesn’t erase the terror of being locked in that wardrobe, or the devastation of being tied up with his belt.
But it adds something to the picture. A dimension I didn’t have before.
Mom has said little as her lips move in silent prayer, but now she speaks. “He was a sweet little boy. Always polite. But he was troubled, and I worried about my Mina.” She looks at me, her face creased with worry. “He looks so much like his father. His mother saw it, God rest her soul.”
“He’s not our father,” Adora says. “I know you’re afraid he might be. But he’s not. He never was.”
Before I can respond, the door opens.
A nurse enters, and behind her, two orderlies wheeling a bed.
Cristiano.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved. He’s pale against the white sheets, his face drawn, tubes and wires trailing from his body. A monitor beeps steadily beside him.
“The surgery went well,” the nurse says, helping the orderlies position the bed. “He’ll be in and out of consciousness for the next several hours. The anesthesia takes time to wear off.”
I barely hear her. I’m at his side, reaching for his hand, needing to touch him and prove he’s real. He’s alive. He came back to me.
His fingers are cold. I wrap both my hands around them, trying to share my warmth.
“Cristiano,” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”
His eyelids flutter. His lips move, forming shapes that don’t quite become words.
“He may be confused when he wakes,” the nurse says. “That’s normal. Don’t be alarmed if he doesn’t make sense.”
She finishes checking his monitors and leaves. Mom and Adora hang back, giving me space.
I pull a chair close to his bed and sit, still holding his hand. His chest rises and falls steadily. Minutes pass. Maybe ten, maybe twenty. Time has lost all meaning.
Then his hand tightens on mine.
“Mina.” His voice is a rasp, barely audible.
“I’m here.” I lean closer. “I’m right here.”
His eyes open, just unfocused slits, his pupils wide and dulling the amber. But he finds my face and locks on to it like I’m the only thing in the world.
“Did I save our son?”
My heart turns over. He’s barely conscious, pumped full of morphine, and his first thought is Leon.
“You’ve been incredible,” I tell him. “They said the surgery went perfectly. They have part of your liver. They’re putting it in Leon right now.”
“Good.” His eyes drift closed, then snap open again, suddenly urgent. “Don’t go, Mina.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“I won’t let anything happen to Leon.” His words are slurring, running together. “I promised. You can’t—”
He’s trying to sit up. Actually trying to sit up, though his body barely responds. The monitor beside him beeps faster.
“Cristiano, stop! You need to stay still.”
“If something happens—” He’s gripping my hand so hard it hurts. “If something happens, you can’t— Mina, you said— This morning you said—”
What I said this morning must have been haunting him while he was under.
I wish they’d put me to sleep as well, and if anything happens to Leon, then they could just not wake me up.
He’s afraid I’ll hurt myself if Leon doesn’t make it. Even drugged and barely conscious, he’s terrified.
“Leon is going to be fine,” I say firmly. “You’re saving him, and I’m not going anywhere. Not away from you, not away from Leon, not anywhere. Do you understand?”
His eyes search my face, wild and desperate. “Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Promise me, Mina. Stay.”
“I promise.”
My breath catches as I realize what I’m saying. How he might be interpreting my words. I quickly reframe my promise.
“I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Some of the tension drains out of him. His grip on my hand loosens slightly, though he doesn’t let go.
“Okay,” he mumbles. “You promised.”
His eyes close. For a moment I think he’s drifted off again, but then his lips move.
“Love you.”
The words are barely a breath. I’m not even sure he knows he said them.
But I heard.
My head drops onto our intertwined hands. I should correct him and make it clear that I’m grateful for what he’s doing, but this doesn’t mean what he thinks it means, that we’re not—that I’m not—
But there’s a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the relief that he made it through the surgery. His hand in mine. His barely conscious confession. The way he fought through the haze of morphine just to make sure I wouldn’t be alone.
“Rest now. I’ll be here.”
He sleeps, and I don’t let go of his hand.
The minutes stretch into hours. Cristiano drifts in and out, sometimes murmuring things that don’t make sense, sometimes surfacing enough to ask about Leon. Each time I tell him the same thing. Leon’s still in surgery, it’s going well, there are no complications.
Each time, he nods and slips back under.
Mom brings me water. Adora brings me a sandwich I can’t eat. They talk quietly in the corner, leaving me in my vigil at Cristiano’s bedside.
I watch his face in the gray afternoon light. The sharp lines of his jaw. The lashes against his pale skin. The slight furrow between his brows, even in sleep.
He did this for Leon.
The thought keeps circling back, impossible to escape. This man I’ve spent five years running from, and telling myself he was too dangerous to let near my son, just let surgeons cut out a piece of his liver to save Leon’s life. He didn’t think twice about it.
I think about what he asked, for me and Leon to come to the mansion after they’re discharged. To come home.
I close my eyes and let myself imagine it.
Just for a moment. Leon in the beautiful garden I’ve always loved, chasing butterflies.
Leon in the big kitchen, sitting at the counter while Mom makes him hot chocolate.
Leon curled up in Cristiano’s lap in front of a fire, being read a bedtime story, his small head tucked under his father’s chin.
Home.
Not a place.
A feeling.
Could we be a family?
The thought is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. The idea of sharing the weight of being a parent, of having someone beside me and Leon having a father, seems like a wonderful dream.
But Leon is still in surgery. The fantasy dissolves and cold fear rushes back in. Six hours now. Nearly seven. The nurse said recipient surgeries take longer, but how much longer? How much more can I take?
Cristiano stirs beside me.
“Leon?” The word is clearer this time. The drugs are starting to wear off.
“He’s still in surgery.”
He turns his head, finding me with those amber eyes. More focused now. More him.
“How long has it been?”
“About seven hours.”
He’s quiet, processing this. “Have you eaten? You should eat something.”
A startled laugh escapes me. “You just had major surgery and you’re worried about whether I’ve eaten?”
“You look pale.”
“I’m fine.”
“Mina.”
“I’m fine.”
He holds my gaze, and I see the worry there. For me, not himself. Always for me.
“After,” he says finally. “After we know Leon’s okay. You’ll eat.”
“After,” I agree.
He nods, satisfied, and his eyes drift closed again. But his hand stays wrapped around mine.
Hour eight. A nurse comes with another update. Still going well. The surgeons are on one of the final steps. Not much longer.
I cling to those words like a lifeline.
Cristiano is more awake now, though clearly in pain. The nurse shows him the button for the morphine pump for when he needs it.
“After I know Leon is all right. I want to be alert when my son wakes up,” he says, and his tone leaves no room for argument.
Hour nine. I’m wound so tight I feel like I might snap. Every sound in the corridor makes me jump. Every footstep could be news.
Cristiano hasn’t let go of my hand once. Even when he was unconscious, his fingers stayed locked around mine.
My mother is praying again. Adora is standing at the window, arms crossed, watching the sky darken toward evening.
There are footsteps in the corridor. Purposeful this time, and coming toward us. I stand up so fast my chair scrapes against the floor.
A woman in surgical scrubs appears in the doorway. She’s tired but smiling—smiling—and my knees nearly buckle.
“Ms. Santoro. Leon is out of surgery. Everything went smoothly. He’s in the pediatric ICU now, and he’s stable.”
The words wash over me like a wave. I hear my mother cry out behind me, hear Adora exhale sharply. But I can’t move or breathe.
“He’s okay?” I whisper.
“He’s going to need careful monitoring over the next few days, and a long recovery. But yes.” The surgeon’s smile widens. “He’s doing well. He’s a fighter, that one.”
My legs give out. I drop with my head in my arms beside Cristiano.
“Mina?” Cristiano’s voice is sharp with alarm. I hear the rustle of sheets, the beeping of monitors. “Mina?”
“He’s okay.” I’m crying now, sobbing, the words barely intelligible. “Leon’s okay. You saved him. Cristiano, you saved him.”
His hand finds my hair, my shoulder, pulling at me clumsily until I lift my head. He cups the back of my head and presses his forehead to mine, both of us shaking.
“My son,” he whispers. “Our son.”