Chapter 33
Fia
Jordan sat in our university library, headphones in, writing up a case report for his portfolio in a thin t-shirt.
No matter how many dark-wood shelves lined the panelled walls, the high ceilings and old, rickety windows always made it feel cold.
I’d brought a blanket in my rucksack as I always did, and when the few other early risers looked over with a judgemental stare at how I’d wrapped myself up in it, Jordan narrowed his eyes at them, daring them to comment.
I didn’t care. They could think what they wanted. I was nice and cosy, wearing gloves as I researched on my laptop. Having to restart my placement meant I also had to rewrite my previous assignments.
Not that I was doing that. I was deep in Zoltán’s reports.
I researched name after name, cross-checking them against other files, other patients they had.
Cross-checking names from both reports, especially anything tied to Benedek Farkas.
Names were easy to trace in the file.
But so much of the English translation felt… rushed. Sloppy.
And so I’d begged Livie to track down the original, Hungarian medical report. And since Christmas, in any spare moment, I had been translating it into English to compare.
The person who had translated it didn’t know the case as I did.
There were some lines that made me screw my nose, but I wanted to be sure. I translated line by line. Checked name by name as I went through them.
They were completely different from the report I’d been given. Jordan had tracked down those in the original secret report. One of which had transferred to our placement hospital. When asked, the doctor had refused to talk about it.
But I was getting close to those lines that had confused me, and I needed something concrete, something to believe in before I let my feelings win.
With Jordan preoccupied, I went back to my phone, paused my music, and listened to the audio of Zolt’s livestream last week.
I’d seen the video, but I couldn’t look at his face without crumbling.
Whenever I hit the brick wall of another push back, like the doctor not wanting to speak to us, I listened to his voice. The accent that had once undone me sexually broke my heart now.
“Fia Bacque did not know. She is innocent. She know Hungarian and English. She did not make mistake. She no responsible for my health, my career, my disgrace. She love — loved me. She not risk my health.”
His accent was just as thick, but his fluency, his confidence shocked me. He’d rehearsed.
I closed my eyes, letting my whole body hone in on his confession. “I was hurt. I did not know. I would not race if knew.”
There was a pause as he gathered himself, swallowed, and said, “I am sorry. I not mean to hurt anyone.”
I tore off the headphones, blinking away tears, when there was movement in my peripheral vision. Jordan was standing, talking to a petite woman who leaned back against his desk. She smiled at me and took his hand.
A pinprick jabbed under my ribs. I missed that.
He said over his shoulder, “We’re going to get a coffee. Do you want anything?”
I shook my head, put my phone down, wrapped myself up tighter in the blanket, and decided that while he was gone, I would get some serious investigation done. Because I knew I was coming up to one of the phrases in the neurology consultation that made me second-guess the entire report.
‘Patient not acting appropriately. Brother assisted with arrangements.’
What did that even mean?
I checked the Hungarian report, going over it once, twice, three times, and to be quadruply sure, flipped through my Hungarian translation book carefully, so nothing fell out.
Not “not acting appropriately.” Incapable of acting.
Not “assisted.” Authorised.
Impaired capacity; brother designated to handle affairs.
Zolt wasn’t capable of consenting to anything. He’d been comatose. He’d suffered a lethal brain injury. I doubted he’d understood anything in that hospital. But his brother did and seemingly dismissed it.
The brother he trusted as his manager and believed every word of.
I closed down the tab of the report without noting my findings, breathing through pursed lips as I tried to rationalise what this meant. I’d known it, but seeing it in front of me… I felt it.
The betrayal.
The anger.
Hatred.
But not for me, for him.
And I was suddenly so hot, the blanket was discarded around the feet of my chair, and I was at the front of my Hungarian translations book, staring at my name on the envelope Everly had given me. I flipped it over, and his sprawl made me halt.
‘This from Zoltán if you no wish to open.’
In English.
Multiple reasons had stopped me from opening it, but that was the one that had given me the most pause. A warning. Thoughtful as ever.
It was his jagged writing, the ‘Z’ of his name like a thunderbolt. Each letter was separate, broken, as if every one of them had been written with a trembling hand.
With gentle, nimble fingers, I broke the seal, careful not to rip the envelope, and read.
Fia,
I am write this in English because I want you know how hard I try. Sorry for all wrong word. My tutor say “keep simple,” but nothing I feel for you is simple.
I know I make your life broke. Your job, your study, your name. I hate me for this.
But Fia, I not lie to you. I not know all the bad in my head. I know I feel sick, dizzy, yes, but no doctor say “never race again.” If I know this, I never put you and racers in this danger. I swear with my heart.
You tell me I ruin you. I very sorry. But you make me. You make me want more. Learn more. Speak more. Be more. You are every reason I open book, every reason I train, every reason I try.
I do stream because I want world to know: not Fia fault. Only me. I can lose race, lose career, lose everything, but not let them take you with me.
If you hate me forever, I take it. But I love you forever, and nothing take it.
Always,
Zoltán
I tried to read through it again, but everything was blurry, and my throat was painful with each swallow. I tried to brush the tears away with a trembling hand, not sure what it was that made me blubber.
My guilt?
My worry?
My love?
He’d had everything stripped from him and, instead of believing him, I’d ripped myself from his arms too.
Jordan made me jump as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Whoa, you okay?”
“Yes. No.” I shook my head, refusing to look at him as I placed my lifeline back into the envelope. “I’ve got to go.”
“Fia—”
But my laptop was in hand, book under my armpit, bag over my shoulder, blanket completely forgotten, and I was gone, running down the creaking stairs, careful not to shove into anyone with my impaired vision.
Outside of the building, my speed picked up until I was running to the car park, then plugging my seatbelt in as I pulled out of my parking space.
It wasn’t until I made it home that I realised I hadn’t even paid for my parking, but I didn’t give it enough thought for even an ‘oh, well’ because I was emptying the carry-on travel bag from all those months ago and filling it with jumpers and anything else at hand.
“Have you seen my passport?” I shouted out my door.
Seconds later, Everly’s head popped around the door frame. “Watcha doin’?” she sang, eyes pingponging around the mess I’d made of my newly decorated room.
I’d painted the walls beige, changed the rug, and changed the photos from art to family. All because I had memories of loving Zoltán, being a woo-girl, and texting him with kicking legs.
“Have you seen it?” I asked again, rummaging through the drawers of my dresser. Just make-up and used wipes. And my turul bracelet.
I stopped short. My heart was in my throat. A symbol of fate. My fate was tied to his.
I pocketed it.
“It’s in Dad’s safe,” she said, stepping back with low brows as I pushed past her down the stairs to Dad’s office. “Where it lives.”
She was fast on my heels, putting her athleisure to use. “Where are you going?”
“Hungary.”
She stopped short, beside Dad’s desk. “As in… to see Imre, or?”
I spun the dial of Dad’s safe on his shelf, grabbed the pile of passports, and flicked through each one to try and find my grumpy ID photo.
“Fia.”
“Zoltán. I’m going to see Zoltán.”
Silence. Just the sound of thick paper turning as my search grew more frantic.
“Have you spoken to him?”
“Nope.” Ah, yes, there was my miserable expression. I pocketed it and turned, the adrenaline ready to break me out of this house.
Everly stood in my way, palms up, trying to keep me locked in my life without him. “What’s happened?”
If I barged past, she would only come after me.
“I read his letter.”
Her eyes brightened. “And he proved he didn’t know?”
“Not exactly. I found something that makes it look—”
“Makes it look or makes you certain?”
“It’s not evidence. But I know. I just need him to tell me— I need to see him, Ev.”
She nodded and crushed me in a hug. “Okay, yes, go and see him. I’ll drive you.”
I couldn’t speak for nerves in the car. My body couldn’t keep still, my heart beating rapidly, my toe tapping, but an overwhelming warm calm had bloomed in my chest. No matter how scared I was, I knew this was right.
I bought my plane ticket on the drive, knowing it would be faster to get a plane to Budapest and travel south than wait for hours to get to a closer airport. I needed the distance between us to shrink. Now.
I needed to see him.
Ever wished me luck, I checked in, and an overwhelming calm and excitement ran through my entire being. As we took off, I was crying and smiling at the same time.
I was going to see him.
But I had to be practical too. During the three-hour journey, and then the train ride after, I continued my translations, building a bigger picture, sending my findings to Livie.
It wasn’t until I was staring at his front door that I realised I had never actually knocked on it.
Not once.
That first fateful day, it had been open for all the elegantly dressed wedding guests.
And every time after that, I entered with Zolt, opening the door for me and gesturing me through.
The doorbell was daunting. I knew if he was looking, he would see me standing there, biting my lip, rocking back and forth on my heels. He wouldn’t be spending his time staring at his doorbell camera.
There was something impersonal about ringing a doorbell.
I wanted to touch the door, the symbol of all the boundaries that had been put up between us. I wanted him to hear my sound and immediately know that it was my knuckles rapping on the wood.
I wanted to touch something that belonged to him. Something he interacted with every day. Him.
I wanted him to come rushing to the door, breathless and excited.
And then… I didn’t know.
A hug? Tears? A kiss?
And how I would react to any of this, I simply didn’t know. The entire journey from London Heathrow, I kept thinking about what I was going to say. I only managed to list what I shouldn’t say.
I forgive you. I love you. I need you. I missed you.
Even if they might all be true.
Answers. I was here for answers. Though I could have questioned him over the phone.
The truth. I wanted to look him in the eye while I learned the truth.
I would freeze if I stayed out here much longer. I hitched up my bag on my shoulder, pulled off the glove on my hand, and knocked thrice.