A few minutes later, a woman in blue scrubs with tired eyes and a ponytail that’s seen better days pulls up Anna’s chart on a tablet and walks me through it.
“The surgery went very well. Dr. Okafor was able to repair the fracture with pins. No need for a full replacement, which is really the best outcome we could have hoped for given her age.” She scrolls through something on the screen. “She’s been stable since recovery. Alert off and on. We’re monitoring for any post-op delirium, but so far she’s been about what we’d expect.”
Relief loosens the vise around my ribs, but not enough.
“What about the anesthesia?” I ask. “Was it general?”
The doctor looks up. “No. They used a spinal block. Lower risk for someone with her history.”
I nod, some of the tension bleeding out of my shoulders. “Okay. Good.”
“If she keeps doing this well overnight, we’ll likely start transfer planning to inpatient rehab tomorrow. But we’ll reassess in the morning.”
“Can I see her?”
She smiles gently. “Of course. She’s resting, but she’s awake.”
Luca has been leaning against the wall a few feet back, giving me space. When I turn to him, he straightens.
“I want to go in alone first,” I say. “Just to see how she is. To see if… she knows me.”
Sympathy moves behind his eyes. He gets it. “Okay.”
But for a second, I still can’t make myself move.
His hand settles at the small of my back, warm and steady. “I’ll be right here.”
I nod, throat tight, and head in the direction the doctor pointed me, the warmth of his hand still burning through my shirt.
The hallway is too bright and too quiet. My sneakers squeak on the linoleum, and every step feels louder than it should. Room 314. The door is half open.
I push it the rest of the way and step inside.
Anna is propped up in the hospital bed, smaller than I remember. The blanket is pulled to her chin, and there’s an IV line running to the back of her hand. Her gray hair is loose around her face instead of in the braid she likes, and the fluorescent light isn’t doing her any favors.
She looks pale. Fragile. Old in a way that guts me every single time because in my head she’s still the woman who could carryme on her hip and hum loud enough to drown out whatever was happening downstairs.
She’s awake. Her eyes are open but unfocused, aimed at the window.
“Anna?”
Her head turns. Slowly. Her gaze finds me and then moves over my face with a kind of searching patience that makes my stomach clench. I hold my breath and pray she comes back to me.
Her brow furrows.
“It’s me,” I say softly. “It’s Natalia.”
The furrow deepens. She blinks. Once. Twice.
Then I see it happen. The searching gives way to recognition.
“Nat.” Her whole face softens. “There you are.”
Relief hits so hard it turns my legs unsteady. I have to brace a hand on the doorframe before I trust myself to move.
Then I’m there, taking her hand, and the breath I’ve been holding comes out as something close to a sob. Her fingers curl around mine. Thin and cool, but strong enough.
“I’m here.” I squeeze her hand. “I came as fast as I could.”
