Chapter 5
A corner of his mouth moved.
That was how things had become between them.
Easy.
Not entirely comfortable.
But no longer careful.
Claire had been visiting Elliot every day.
Ruth had visited twice.
They were rebuilding something slowly, without pretending the years between them didn’t matter.
Sometimes Ruth and Claire spoke in the family room for an hour before going near the incubator.
Sometimes they sat together in silence.
Once, I saw Ruth teaching Claire how to knit using a ball of pale green yarn.
The result looked nothing like the hat they had intended to make.
They laughed until Claire had to wipe tears from her face.
Sebastian had watched from across the NICU.
He hadn’t interrupted.
But afterward he had stood beside me and said, “They’re getting better.”
“They are.”
“Do people usually?”
“At knitting?”
“At families.”
I considered the question.
“Sometimes.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“It’s also vague.”
“I’ve noticed nurses enjoy vagueness when facts are inconvenient.”
“We call it clinical judgment.”
That had earned me another almost-smile.
Now Claire sat beside Sebastian with her lunch.
“You’re nervous about Tuesday,” she said.
Sebastian unwrapped his sandwich.
“No.”
“You’ve checked your jacket pocket four times.”
His hand froze halfway there.
Claire grinned.
I looked away so he could keep some dignity.
He took a bite.
“What did Ruth tell you?” he asked.
“About Matteo?”
“Yes.”
“Not much.”
Claire’s smile faded.
“She said he’s quiet. Smart. He likes old movies and fixes computers.”
Sebastian listened without moving.
“She said he changes his mind about college every few weeks. Engineering, architecture, something with environmental science.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“Which part?”
“Changing his mind.”
Claire leaned back.
“You did that?”
“At seventeen.”
“I thought you came out of the womb wearing a suit.”
I choked on my coffee.
Sebastian stared at her.
Claire looked completely innocent.
Then he shook his head.
“Apparently I’ve lost control of this unit.”
“You never had control of this unit,” I said.
Claire smiled.
Then her expression softened.
“Ruth said Matteo remembers you.”
Sebastian stopped eating.
“What exactly did she say?”
“That he remembers your voice.”
His face changed.
Barely.
But enough.
Claire continued.
“And that you used to tap the book three times before starting a new chapter.”
Sebastian looked at The Wind in the Willows resting beside Elliot.
His fingertips touched the cover.
“I still do that.”
“I know.”
Claire nodded toward the book.
“You did it yesterday.”
For several seconds, Sebastian said nothing.
Then he quietly tapped the cover.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Elliot opened his eyes.
Claire smiled.
“There. Apparently it runs in the family.”
Monday was harder.
Anticipation had turned the hours strange.
Sebastian arrived early, left before noon, returned at three, and spent more time pacing the family lounge than holding Elliot.
At four, Dr. Park found him standing beside the vending machines.
“You’re making everyone nervous,” she said.
Sebastian looked around.
“I’m standing.”
“You’re standing aggressively.”
He glanced at me.
“Is that medically recognized?”
“No,” I said. “But she’s right.”
Elaine held out a paper cup.
“Tea.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
“You do today.”
He accepted it.
That was progress.
We took over a corner table near the windows.
Elaine sat across from him.
“You know you’re allowed to leave tomorrow if it becomes too much.”
Sebastian stared at the untouched tea.
“Why would I leave?”
“Because seeing someone after seventeen years can be complicated.”
“I’ve handled complicated.”
Elaine gave him the expression doctors reserve for stubborn patients.
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
“No?”
“No. You don’t get bonus points for suffering through a conversation badly.”
He looked up.
“I’m not planning to suffer.”
“You’re planning?”
“No.”
“That’s probably better.”
I smiled.
Sebastian looked between us.
“Do you coordinate these lectures?”
“Continuously,” Elaine said.
Then she became more serious.
“You’ve been carrying guilt for a long time.”
Sebastian’s expression closed.
Elaine continued anyway.
“I’m not asking what you did or didn’t do seventeen years ago. I’m asking you not to make tomorrow about proving something.”
He frowned.
“What would I be proving?”
“That you deserve forgiveness.”
The words landed heavily.
Sebastian looked toward the window.
The hospital courtyard below was bright with late-summer sun.
A family walked toward the parking garage, a father carrying balloons, a little girl skipping beside him.
“I don’t know if I do,” Sebastian said.
Elaine folded her hands.
“That’s not the first question.”
“What is?”
“Whether Matteo wants a brother now.”
The room went still.
Sebastian looked at her.
“And if he does?”
“Then learn how to be one.”
That night, I stayed late.
Not intentionally.
One of the younger nurses had called in sick, and staffing became a puzzle requiring too much coffee and not enough patience.
At nearly eleven, I saw Sebastian through the glass doors.
He shouldn’t have been there.
Visiting hours for volunteers had ended.
He stood outside the unit holding something wrapped in brown paper.
I opened the door.
“You know what time it is?”
“Yes.”
“That makes this worse.”
“I’m not staying.”
“What’s that?”
He handed me the package.
Inside was a small wooden box.
Simple.
No engraving.
No expensive decoration.
I opened it.
There were seventeen envelopes inside.
Each had a year written on the front.
The first corresponded to Matteo’s eighth birthday.
The last to his twenty-fourth.
I looked up.
“You wrote these?”
“No.”
“Then what are they?”
“Things I should have.”
I frowned.
He leaned against the wall.
“Birthday cards. Letters. Notes. One for every year I missed.”
“You wrote them now?”
“Over the last few days.”
My chest tightened.
“What do they say?”
“Different things.”
“Are you giving them to him tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be too much.”
I smiled.
“You’re learning.”
“Don’t sound surprised.”
“I am.”
He took the box back.
“I thought I might give him one.”
“Which one?”
Sebastian lifted the first envelope.
Age eight.
“No.”
The second.
“Nine?”
“No.”
He moved through them.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Finally he reached seventeen.
He stared at it.
“What does that one say?” I asked.
“Happy birthday.”
“That’s all?”
“And that I hope he had a good day.”
I looked at him.
“That’s the one.”
He nodded slowly.
Then he tucked the envelope into his jacket.
The box remained in his hand.
“What will you do with the rest?”
“Keep them.”
“For what?”
“In case one day he wants them.”
That answer felt important.
Not giving Matteo everything at once.
Not demanding that the past be acknowledged.
Simply keeping the door open.
I stepped aside.
“Do you want to see Elliot before you go?”
Sebastian glanced at the darkened NICU.
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes.”
“Then let him sleep.”
He turned toward the elevator.
After a few steps, he stopped.
“Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“If Matteo doesn’t come tomorrow…”
I waited.
Sebastian looked down at the box.
“Don’t let me do something foolish like wait here for a week.”
“I’ll give you forty-eight hours.”
He almost smiled.
“Generous.”
Then he left.
Tuesday arrived under a gray sky.
Sebastian was at the hospital by seven.
Matteo’s letter hadn’t specified a time, which created a problem none of us had anticipated.
Every elevator door became a possibility.
Every teenager entering the lobby made Sebastian straighten.
Every hour that passed made him quieter.
At nine, nothing happened.
At ten-thirty, Claire arrived.
She had told us she wasn’t coming because she thought Sebastian needed space.
Apparently she had changed her mind.
She brought Ruth.
Sebastian saw them and frowned.
“You didn’t need to come.”
Ruth removed her raincoat.
“We know.”
Claire sat beside him.
“That’s why we came.”
He looked at me.
“Is everyone here impossible?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Park passed behind us.
“Correct.”
For the next two hours, the four of us took turns pretending we weren’t watching the elevator.
Ruth was the calmest.
She had the advantage of knowing Matteo best.
“Did he say he’d come?” Sebastian finally asked.
Ruth stirred her coffee.
“He said he wanted to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
“He could change his mind.”
“Yes.”
“You seem remarkably comfortable with that possibility.”
Ruth looked at him.
“I learned a long time ago not to force Matteo through doors he isn’t ready to walk through.”
The sentence carried more meaning than the immediate conversation.
Sebastian nodded.
“Fair.”
At twelve-fifteen, Claire went upstairs to see Elliot.
At twelve-forty, Ruth joined her.
At one, Sebastian was alone with me in the lobby.
His coffee had gone cold.
“You can go upstairs,” I said.
“No.”
“He may not arrive for hours.”
“I know.”
“Elliot will be insulted.”
“He’s four pounds.”
“Four pounds, eleven ounces.”
Sebastian corrected me automatically.
I smiled.
“See? He’s already changed you.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Probably twelve things at once.”
“That’s inefficient.”
“Feelings aren’t administrative.”
He sighed.
Then the elevator opened.
A young man stepped out.
Sebastian stopped breathing.
So did I.
The boy—young man, really—was tall and lean, with dark hair that curled slightly at the ends because of the rain.
He wore jeans, clean white sneakers, and a navy jacket zipped halfway up.
There was nothing dramatic about him.
No grand entrance.
No sign from the universe.
Just a seventeen-year-old standing in a hospital lobby with both hands shoved into his pockets.
He looked around.
His eyes found Sebastian.
And stopped.
The resemblance was subtle at first.
Then impossible to miss.
The same brow.
The same habit of going completely still when overwhelmed.
The same guarded eyes.
Sebastian stood.
Neither moved.
May you like
I stepped away.
This was not my moment.
