A nurse appears in the doorway and knocks on the half-open door. “Mr. Montoni? Dr. Whitman from psychological services would like to speak with you. It’s a required evaluation before the surgery can proceed.”
“I’ll be back soon,” I tell Mina, reluctant to take my hands away from her face now that I’m touching her.
“Okay,” she whispers. “Cristiano…thank you. I don’t know how to—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t thank me for saving my own son’s life.” I stop, and take abreath. “We’ll talk later. But right now, I need to go convince a psychologist that I’m mentally stable enough to donate an organ.”
Mina’s eyebrows rise, and she tenses, worry flickering in her eyes.
My voice drops, low, intimate, and darkly ironic. “What? I am. Or at least I can be very convincing, remember?”
Taking advantage of her racing thoughts, I lean forward and press a slow kiss to her forehead, before rising to my feet.
The psychologist is a rumpled man with kind eyes. He introduces himself as Dr. Whitman and gestures for me to sit across from him in a small consultation room.
“Mr. Montoni. I appreciate you making time for this. I know it’s been a difficult day.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He glances through some papers. “I’d like to start by understanding the circumstances. You learned that Leon was your son…when, exactly?”
“A few hours ago.”
He nods, his eyes flickering over my face, hunting for clues as to my state of mind. “And you’ve already agreed to donate a portion of your liver.”
“Yes,” I say calmly.
“That’s a very fast decision, Mr. Montoni. This is major surgery with significant risks and recovery time.” He studies me over his glasses. “Most donors take days, sometimes weeks, to reach that decision. Even when it’s their own child.”
“There’s nothing to decide. Leon needs me.”
He flips through his paperwork. I can see the questions he wants to ask circling behind his eyes.
“Tell me about your relationship with Ms. Santoro.”
“What about it?”
“You have a complicated history, from what I understand.”
My eyes drop to the papers he’s holding. I discussed all this with the surgeon, and he wrote up everything and passed it to a psychologist.
“You could say that.”
“She kept your son from you for four years.” He says it neutrally, but I hear the subtext. “That must have been upsetting to learn.”
“It was.”
“And yet, within hours of discovering this, you’ve agreed to undergo major surgery.” He leans forward slightly. “Mr. Montoni, I have to ask, do you feel that Ms. Santoro is pressuring you into this decision?”
I stare at him.
“She hid this child from you,” he continues. “She only revealed the truth when she needed something from you. A person in your position might feel like she’s taking advantage of the situation. Using your emotional response to manipulate you into a dangerous medical procedure.”
For a long moment, I don’t answer.
Then I laugh.
It’s not a pleasant sound. Dr. Whitman shifts in his chair.
