I returned to my office and closed the door.
For several minutes, I sat without turning on the light.
The photograph was no longer in my hands, but I could still remember its weight.
I could still see the expression on Sophie's mother's face when I mentioned Emily.
It had not been the look of someone who had simply heard a familiar name.
There was something more complicated in it.
I had spent years studying faces.
Fear often appeared before people could put it into words.
So did relief.
Guilt was harder to read.
It could look like anger, silence, or a person's sudden interest in something across the room.
I had seen all three in Sophie's mother.
I didn't know what they meant in her case.
I wasn't going to decide for her.
A knock came at my office door.
Dr. Harris stepped inside.
"You look like you haven't slept."
"I haven't slept enough."
He pulled a chair over.
"I heard you came back to check on Sophie."
"I did."
He studied me for a moment.
"Is everything all right?"
I almost said yes.
It was the answer I had given people for years whenever they asked a question I didn't want to answer.
Instead, I looked down at my desk.
"I'm dealing with something personal."
He nodded.
"You don't have to explain it."
That was one reason I trusted him.
He knew when to ask questions and when to leave a person alone.
"Thank you," I said.
He stood, then paused at the door.
"Sophie is in good hands."
"I know."
After he left, I checked the time.
I had been awake for hours, and my body was beginning to remind me of the thirteen-hour operation.
I should have gone home to rest.
I knew that.
But I couldn't make myself leave while the questions surrounding Emily remained unanswered.
I reviewed the notes concerning Sophie's care, then checked with the team again.
Nothing required my immediate intervention.
I was glad.
It meant I could give the other conversation the attention it deserved without neglecting the child who had brought me back to the hospital.
Later, I returned to Sophie's room.
Her mother was still there.
She looked up as I entered.
"Doctor, do you have a few minutes?"
"Yes."
She glanced at the chair beside her.
I sat.
For a moment, she simply watched her daughter breathe.
Then she turned toward me.
"I've been trying to work out how to tell you this."
I kept my hands folded in my lap.
"Take your time."
She took a shaky breath.
"Before the accident, I knew there were things about Emily that I didn't understand."
I waited.
"I heard your name, and I remembered what I'd been told. But when you introduced yourself, I wasn't sure whether I should say anything."
I looked at her carefully.
"What had you been told?"
She hesitated.
"I think I need to explain how I came to know about you first."
I nodded.
"All right."
She began speaking slowly, pausing whenever she seemed to lose her place.
I listened without interrupting.
Some of what she said concerned the reason my name had mattered to her.
Other parts were difficult to follow because she was still trying to separate what she knew directly from what she had heard from others.
I asked her to clarify when I needed to.
I didn't want to fill in missing details with my own assumptions.
When she finished that part of her explanation, she looked at me anxiously.
"I know this probably sounds strange."
"It sounds like something I need to understand better."
She nodded.
"I know."
I glanced at Sophie.
The child's face reminded me of Lucy again.
I had to stop myself from comparing them.
They were two different little girls, and I owed Sophie the dignity of being seen as herself.
I looked back at her mother.
"Why did you wait until now to speak with me?"
She pressed her lips together.
"Because I was afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of saying the wrong thing. Of making everything worse."
I considered that answer.
I had spent much of my career explaining terrible news to people who wanted a clear answer.
Sometimes I could give them one.
Sometimes all I could do was tell them what we knew and what remained uncertain.
I had learned that uncertainty could make people desperate.
It could also make them silent.
"I can't promise that what you tell me won't hurt," I said. "But not telling me doesn't make the questions disappear."
She lowered her head.
"I understand."
I wasn't sure she did.
Perhaps she understood only that I wanted answers.
Perhaps she had not yet realized that I was afraid of them, too.
I looked at her.
"Did you know Emily personally?"
She took a breath.
"Not in the way you might think."
I waited.
She seemed to reconsider her words.
"I mean, I knew about her. I knew her name and understood that she mattered to you."
The answer unsettled me.
"How did you learn about her?"
She looked toward the door.
For a moment, I thought she was going to stop talking altogether.
Then she turned back.
"Through the circumstances that brought all of this together."
I felt frustration rising.
"That's the same answer I've been hearing all morning."
"I'm sorry."
I leaned back and rubbed my eyes.
I didn't want to frighten her.
She had almost lost her daughter.
Whatever else she was dealing with, she had been through enough already.
But I couldn't pretend that these half-answers were satisfying.
"I don't need you to protect me from my own history," I said. "If there is something about Emily that I don't know, I need you to tell me what you know and be honest about what you don't."
She nodded.
"I will."
I watched her for another moment.
Then I asked the question that had been troubling me since Sebastian showed me the photograph.
"Why did he have that picture?"
She looked down at her hands.
"I think he was trying to bring the right people together."
"Who are the right people?"
She raised her eyes.
"You, me, and the people who know what happened."
I sat very still.
It wasn't a complete explanation.
But it was the first time she had spoken as though the purpose of the meeting was not simply to reveal something to me, but to allow several people to address something together.
I thought of the photograph on Sebastian's table.
I thought of the paper he had placed beside it.
I thought of the way he had said that someone believed I deserved to know the truth.
I had assumed I was being brought into a private revelation.
Perhaps I was being brought into a conversation that had been delayed for too long.
I stood.
"I'll speak with Sebastian again."
She looked worried.
"Are you angry with me?"
The question caught me off guard.
I could have answered quickly.
Instead, I considered it.
"No," I said. "I'm confused, and I want answers. Those aren't the same thing."
She let out a breath.
I could see some of the tension leave her shoulders.
I moved toward the door.
Before I left, I looked back at Sophie.
She was still resting.
Her small hand lay against the blanket.
I thought about the child I had lost and the child I had helped save.
I could not change the past.
But I could decide what kind of man I would be while facing whatever came next.
For the first time since Sebastian arrived at my house, I felt certain about one thing.
I would not turn away simply because the truth was difficult.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Sebastian Had Promised Answers, So I Asked Him to Stop Choosing the Order of My Questions and Tell Me What He Could Prove
At Sixty-Five, I Thought I Had Already Lost Everything That Mattered, Until a Little Girl Came Into My Operating Room
Part 10 of 15
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