Chapter 16 #3
Cristiano pauses at the door. For a moment, he just stands there, looking at Leon. Something in his expression makes my chest ache.
Then he turns and walks out, his men following behind him, and I’m alone with my son.
I open the paper bag and find a container of soup, still hot.
A crusty bread roll. A bottle of apple juice.
A plastic spoon wrapped in a napkin. I’m not hungry.
I haven’t been hungry for days. But the capo’s words echo in my head.
For the bambino, you must be strong. I force myself to take a sip of the juice.
It’s cold and sweet and my body responds immediately, suddenly ravenous.
I drink half the bottle before I make myself stop.
Leon sleeps on. His breathing is steady. The monitors show stable vitals. In this quiet, clean room, with soft light and no screaming babies, he almost looks peaceful.
I reach out and brush a curl from his forehead.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know if I’m apologizing for letting him get sick, for the nightmare of the urgent care center, for not being able to afford better than North Malus Hospital, or for the father he never knew.
Someone appears in the doorway. I look up, expecting a nurse, and see my mother. She’s clutching a small overnight bag, her eyes wide as she takes in the private room, the sleeping child in the pristine bed, and me beside him. She looks as shocked by all of this as I feel.
“Mina.” She crosses to me, pulling me into a hug that smells like home. “Mr. Montoni sent his own driver for me. He said to bring you clothes and to stay with Leon while you rest.” She pulls back, looking around the room with bewilderment. “What’s happening? Why are we here?”
She stops. Looks at Leon. Looks at me. She drops her voice.
“He knows, doesn’t he? About Leon?”
My throat closes up.
“He knows, Mom.” The words come out rough, scraped raw. “He saw Leon’s eyes. He knows everything.”
My mother’s face goes pale. “Oh, Mina.”
“We haven’t talked about what it means. What happens next.” I’m shaking again. “But he’s helping. He’s getting tested to see if he’s a donor match.”
My mother is silent for a long moment. Then she sets the overnight bag on the armchair and takes my hands in hers.
“You need to rest,” she says firmly. “You look half dead.”
“I can’t leave Leon.”
“I’ll be here. I won’t leave his side for a second.” She squeezes my hands. “There’s a bathroom through that door. Go shower. Put on clean clothes. You’ll feel better.”
“Mom—”
“Mina.” Her voice is gentle but firm. The voice she used when I was a little girl and tried to stay up past my bedtime. “You can’t take care of him if you collapse. Let me help. Please.”
I look at Leon. At the steady rise and fall of his chest. At the monitors showing stable vitals.
He’s safe. For now, he’s safe.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay.”
The bathroom has an institutional air to it with handrails fixed to the walls, but it still manages to feel luxurious. A rainfall showerhead. Fluffy white towels. It’s absurd, really, a bathroom this nice attached to a hospital room.
When I step under the hot spray, I almost cry with relief. The water pounds against my shoulders, washing away days of grime and sweat and fear. I wash my hair, and then I stand there for longer than I should, letting the heat seep into my aching muscles and watching the water swirl down the drain.
I don’t know what happens now. If Cristiano is a match, will he really undergo major surgery for a little boy he’s only met a handful of times? Scar his body and weaken himself like that? I hid his child from him for years. That’s not something anyone just forgives.
And if he isn’t a match?
I can’t think about that now. I can barely think at all.
I turn off the water and dry myself with one of the soft towels. The overnight bag my mother brought contains fresh underwear, a clean T-shirt, a sweater, and a pair of soft leggings. Simple, comfortable things. I put them on, and after I’ve brushed my teeth, I feel almost human again.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Mom is sitting beside Leon’s bed, reading softly from a picture book she must have brought from home. A story about a lost rabbit. Her voice is gentle and soothing. The same voice that read me to sleep a thousand times when I was small.
Leon is still sleeping, but his face looks more peaceful than it has in days.
I sink into the armchair by the window. It’s comfortable, like I knew it would be. I pull my legs up underneath me and watch my mother read.
My eyes are so heavy. I should stay awake and watch Leon. I should be ready in case something happens, in case the monitors start beeping, and Leon needs me.
I try to fight it. I’ve been fighting it for days.
But the chair is soft, and the room is warm, my mother’s voice is a gentle murmur, and Leon is breathing, steady and even.
The last thing I think, before sleep finally takes me, is that I’ve traded one kind of fear for another.
Cristiano is doing everything he can to save our son.
What will he want in return?