Chapter 15 #3
The entire floor is chaos. Too many beds crammed into too small a space.
Thin curtains offering the illusion of privacy while doing nothing to block sound.
A baby screaming somewhere to my left. A toddler crying to my right.
Parents slumped in plastic chairs, hollow-eyed and exhausted.
Nurses rushing past with clipboards, looking harried and overwhelmed.
And there, in a bed by the window, is Leon.
I barely recognize him. His skin is yellow. Not pale, not sallow. Actually yellow, like he’s been stained with dye. He’s hooked up to monitors and IVs, wires trailing from his small body, machines beeping steadily beside him. His dark curls are matted against his forehead. His eyes are closed.
He looks like he’s dying.
Beside him, in a hard plastic chair, is Mina. She looks almost as unwell as Leon.
There are dark circles under her eyes so deep they look like bruises. Her hair is thrown back in an untidy ponytail. Her hands are wrapped around Leon’s small fingers, and she’s staring at his face with an intensity that borders on madness.
She hasn’t slept. I can see it in the tremor of her hands, the glassy sheen of her eyes, the way she sways slightly even while sitting still.
“Mina.”
Her head jerks up. For a moment, she stares at me like I’m a hallucination, and her exhausted mind has conjured me out of nothing.
“Cristiano?” Her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“Your mother told me where you were.” I cross to her, weaving between the cramped beds, ignoring the curious stares from other parents. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why would I call you?”
I swallow down the ache in my throat. “I would have come. I would have been here.”
“I didn’t need you here.”
“Mina.” I crouch beside her chair, bringing myself to her eye level. This close, I can see the cracks in her composure. The barely contained terror. The exhaustion that’s eating her alive. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them back. “I’ve been doing everything alone for a long time. I’m used to it.”
I reach for her hand, but before I can touch her, a voice interrupts.
“Ms. Santoro?”
We both stand and turn.
A doctor appears at the foot of Leon’s bed, an older woman with a brisk manner and a clipboard clutched against her chest. She looks harried and impatient as her eyes flick to me, taking in my suit, my presence, but she doesn’t ask who I am.
“Ms. Santoro. I have the results of your tissue matching.”
Mina goes rigid beside me. “And?”
The doctor glances at me again, clearly uncertain whether to speak in front of a stranger.
“It’s fine,” Mina says. Her voice sounds like glass about to shatter. “Just tell me. Please.”
“You’re not a match.” The doctor says it flatly, like she’s reading off lab results. “Blood type is compatible, but the HLA markers aren’t aligned. A liver transplant from you would have a high likelihood of rejection.”
Mina sways. I reach out instinctively, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. Couldn’t the doctor have delivered that kind of news with some sensitivity?
“What does that mean?” she whispers.
“It means we need to look at other options.” The doctor is already making notes on her clipboard, barely looking at Mina.
How dare she not even look at Mina. “The waiting list, or another family member. Someone on the paternal side would give us the best chance.” She looks up, fixing Mina with a pointed stare.
“Have you given any more thought to contacting the father?”
Mina doesn’t answer. She’s staring at Leon, frozen, like she hasn’t heard.
“Ms. Santoro.” The doctor’s voice sharpens with impatience.
“I understand this may be a difficult situation, but your son is running out of time. If there’s any biological family on the father’s side, we need to test them.
Now is not the time to be…” She pauses, searching for a word. “Protective of your privacy.”
Cold anger flickers through me. The judgment in her voice is barely concealed.
She’s looking at Mina like she’s a difficult single mother who’s made a mess of her life.
Mina has been alone in this hellhole of a hospital for days, watching her son die, and the last thing she needs is condescension from a doctor who can’t be bothered to deliver devastating news with a shred of compassion.
Mina doesn’t answer. She’s staring at Leon, frozen, like she hasn’t heard. Her stillness is making my chest tight, making my pulse race, like there’s something important I’m missing.
Why isn’t she saying anything? Just what kind of man is Leon’s father?
“Mina.” I touch her shoulder gently. “He’d want to know. He’d want the chance to save his son.”
She flinches at my touch. Still doesn’t speak.
“Mina.” I keep my voice low, coaxing. “Whoever he is, whatever happened between you, none of that matters now. What matters is Leon.”
Pain and fear flicker over her face as she stares at me. For a moment, she sways on her feet, and I reach out to steady her, but she steps away from me, closer to Leon’s bedside.
After taking a deep, shuddering breath, she sits down on the chair and strokes his hair, careful not to disturb the wires and tubes.
“Leon, baby.” Her voice is soft and tender. “Can you wake up for Mama? I need you to open your eyes.”
I frown, confused. The doctor looks equally puzzled.
“Leon.” Mina’s fingers are gentle against his damp curls, but her hand shakes. “Wake up, sweetheart. Just for a moment. Open your eyes.”
The boy stirs. A small sound escapes his lips, something between a whimper and a sigh. His eyelids flutter.
“That’s it, baby. Open your eyes. Look at Mama.”
Slowly, Leon’s eyes open.
The first thing I notice is the yellow. The whites of his eyes are stained gold, a symptom of the liver failure that’s ravaging his small body. It makes my chest ache, seeing this bright, beautiful child so sick.
Then I see his irises.
And the world stops.
They’re not brown. Leon’s eyes have always been brown. Every time I’ve seen him, his eyes have been a warm, ordinary brown.
But the eyes looking up at me now are amber.
Golden amber, bright even through the haze of illness. The same shade I see every morning in the mirror. The same shade my father had, and his father before him, and every Montoni man stretching back generations.
My eyes.
Leon has my eyes.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The room is spinning, tilting, the floor dropping away beneath my feet.
But I did the math, and he was conceived five months after I left for Italy.
I look at Mina. She’s watching me, her face pale and drawn, her eyes filled with a fear I’ve never seen before. Not when I locked her in the wardrobe. Not even when I tied her up with my belt.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she whispers, tears running down her cheeks. “Please don’t punish Leon because of me.”