“Hope. A friend of a friend told me about this hotshot new neurosurgeon the hospital just drafted.” She waves vaguely at the space between us. “Dr. Ali Yassa. He’s running a research study on experimental spinal treatments—some new laser technique that’s showing really promising results for chronic pain patients with little to no mobility.”
I take the sticky note. The email address stares back at me: [email protected].
“I don’t know all the details for participation,” Callie continues, “but from what I’ve heard, it could be life-changing. They’re saying this technology could put him in the running for a Nobel.”
Hope is a dangerous thing. It’s a lit match in a room full of gasoline, and I’ve been burned too many times to trust it. But I’m staring at this sticky note like it’s a winning lottery ticket anyway.
“So what do I do?”
“Email him,” Callie tells me. “You can use my name but it’d be pointless. He doesn’t know me.”
“I just email him, and say…what?” I look at her desperately.
Callie adjusts her bag strap. “That’s the tricky part. I was able to get the email, but there’s no official inquiry for experimental procedures. The hospital hasn’t even announced his employment yet. So, your guess is as good as mine, but Iwould email him and ask for a meeting if you can get through. I wish I could do more?—”
“You’ve already done too much, Callie. Thank you.” I hold up the sticky note in wonder like it’s the holy grail. “You are incredible.” Abandoning my better sense for boundaries, I reach out to collect her hand as if I can press my gratitude deep into her palm.
Right when I release her, she steps closer, rises to her tiptoes, and presses a kiss to my cheek—quick, gentle, final. “It’s wonderful how you take care of your mom, but take care of yourself too, okay? Even Superman had days off.”
I smirk at her. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Oh, I’m sure of it.” Callie gives me a wink. “Lois Lane would’ve insisted. All those big macho, mighty heroes are always kept in check by a woman.”
Lost for a response, I duck my head and answer with a sheepish nod.
She starts toward the stairs, then pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth? Whoever eventually gets through those walls is going to be a very lucky girl.”
And then she’s gone, her footsteps echoing down the stairwell until I can’t hear them anymore.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the yellow sticky in my hand. The email address blurs slightly, and I realize my eyes are burning. From exhaustion, probably. That’s what I tell myself.
When I go back inside, Mum is watching me with that look—the one that says she knows exactly what just happened and is waiting to see if I want to talk about it.
I don’t.
“She’s leaving,” I say instead, moving to the kitchen to start the kettle. Tea fixes everything, according to Mum. It doesn’t,obviously, but the ritual of making it helps. “Kansas. She got a big promotion.”
“Ah.” Mum’s voice is carefully neutral. “That’s a shame. She’s lovely.”
“She is.”
“And she fancies you.”
I busy myself with the tea bags. “Mum.”
“What? I’ve got eyes. Broken spine, not blind.” There’s a smile in her voice, but when I glance over, her expression is more thoughtful than teasing. “You could’ve had something there, you know. If you’d let yourself.”
“Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve.” The kettle starts to whistle, and I pour the water with more focus than the task requires. “Doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters if you’re lonely.”
“I’m not lonely. I’ve got you.” I bring her tea over—chamomile, two sugars, in the chipped mug she’s had since I was a kid. “Besides, I’m too tired to be lonely. Loneliness requires energy I don’t have.”
Mum takes the mug with both hands, cradling it like a small treasure. Her fingers are gnarled now, the joints swollen from inflammation, but her grip is still steady. Small mercies.
“You work too much,” she says. The same thing she’s said every day for the past two years.
“Someone’s gotta pay for this palatial estate.” I gesture grandly at our cramped living room.
