Chapter 32 #3
She explained what researchers knew, what they did not, and how individual outcomes varied. She spoke about cardiovascular health, sleep, mood treatment, cognitive activity, social connection, and future monitoring.
She corrected several claims from the websites Noah had read.
Not because they were entirely false.
Because they had been stripped of context and turned into personal predictions.
“Could I forget Reid again?” he asked.
“It is possible for many medical reasons across a lifetime.”
His face tightened.
“It is not inevitable because of this injury.”
He breathed out.
Dr. Whitcomb leaned forward.
“The most useful thing you can do now is protect the brain you have, treat symptoms early, and build a life with enough support that fear is not your only planning tool.”
Noah looked at me.
“We’re making documents.”
“Advance planning?”
“Yes.”
“That can be wise. Do it with an attorney who understands capacity and medical directives, not because you expect decline soon, but because adults should record their wishes.”
His shoulders lowered.
She examined him.
Reviewed headaches.
Approved longer work periods with rest.
Confirmed the upcoming scans.
Then she smiled.
“If imaging is stable, I want to see you every two weeks rather than weekly.”
Noah stared.
“You’re releasing me?”
“I am reducing surveillance.”
“Same emotional effect.”
“You are moving into another phase of recovery.”
He looked toward me.
Pride and fear mixed in his face.
I gave him my hand.
After the appointment, we went to a café.
Noah ordered decaf with visible resentment and eggs with roasted tomatoes.
He kept checking his phone.
“The clinic will notify us.”
“I know.”
“Looking does not accelerate laboratory work.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“What time does mail arrive?”
“The results are electronic.”
“The printed copies may arrive.”
“You want to drive home and stand beside the mailbox?”
“I want to finish breakfast quickly.”
We did.
In the station wagon, he bounced one knee until his hip complained.
“Stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Your leg is.”
He placed a hand over it.
“I’m calm.”
My phone rang through the car speakers.
The yard.
I answered.
“Callahan Marine Works.”
Caleb’s voice came through.
“How far away are you?”
“Ten minutes.”
A pause.
“What happened?”
“No work emergency.”
His tone suggested another kind.
“Someone is here for Noah.”
Noah turned toward me.
“Who?”
Caleb heard him.
“A woman.”
My stomach went cold.
“What woman?”
“She says she’s family.”
Noah’s face emptied.
“Leah?”
“No.”
Caleb lowered his voice.
“She says she’s his mother.”
The car seemed to lose all sound.
Noah stared ahead.
I gripped the wheel.
“Tell her to leave.”
“I did.”
“What?”
Noah looked at me sharply.
Caleb continued.
“She refuses. Says she came too far and will wait outside if necessary.”
“Do not let her near the apartment.”
“She’s in the break room. Owen is with her.”
“I said outside.”
“She started crying.”
I did not care.
Noah reached for the phone controls.
“Don’t make her leave.”
I looked at him.
His skin had gone pale.
“Noah.”
“I want to see her.”
“You do not owe her access.”
“I know.”
“You’re tired.”
“I know.”
“She has ignored every call since the accident.”
“I know.”
His voice shook.
“Take me home.”
I ended the call.
The remaining drive felt endless.
Noah did not speak.
His hand stayed clenched around the walking pole across his lap. Once, I reached toward him.
He did not take my hand.
Not rejection.
Containment.
He was holding himself together with every part available.
The silver sedan in the customer lot was old enough to carry rust along the wheel arches.
I recognized it.
Years ago, Noah’s mother had driven the same car to Leah’s wedding and refused to sit at our table.
My anger became cold.
Caleb met us near the rear entrance.
“I’m sorry.”
“You did nothing.”
He looked at Noah.
“She hasn’t said much.”
“Is Owen there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Noah opened the passenger door before I could reach it.
His first step faltered.
I came around the car and offered my arm.
He took it.
We entered the workshop together.
The north bay was quiet.
Owen stood outside the break room with his arms folded. When he saw us, relief crossed his face.
“She’s inside.”
Noah stopped.
I touched the base of his neck.
“Three notes?”
He nodded.
I gave the whistle softly.
Two short.
One long.
His shoulders lowered.
“You can leave at any second,” I said.
“I know.”
“I will tell her to go.”
“I know.”
“You do not have to protect her feelings.”
His eye shone.
“I know.”
We walked to the break room.
A woman sat at the table beneath the harsh fluorescent light.
She had aged since I last saw her.
Her hair, once dark like Noah’s, had gone almost entirely silver. She wore a beige coat buttoned to the throat and held a leather handbag with both hands. Her posture remained rigid, as though any softness might expose a weakness.
She looked first at me.
Disapproval settled over her features as naturally as breath.
Then she saw Noah.
Her face changed.
Not enough.
She did not stand.
“Noah.”
He froze beside me.
The walking pole struck the floor once.
His mouth opened.
For several seconds, no word came.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Mom?”