“She’s on her way.”
Dr Hassan entered the room a moment later, a clipboard in her hands. She walked quickly, efficiently, urgently, and Fiero appreciated that. This was an urgent situation.
She spoke in clipped tones. “Swelling in the brain is going down nicely, though it’s going to be days before we can do a proper assessment.”
Nausea ran through Fiero. Elodie had been sharp as a whip that night, and so funny. Any kind of brain injury was terrible and traumatic but somehow the idea of it affecting Elodie was so much worse.
“In your experience, though? How does it look?” His voice was surprisingly gravelled.
“I can’t comment.”
“I’m not going to hold you to it, Doctor. I’m simply asking for an insight into what you’ve seen before and your best guess.”
Doctor Hassan shifted her gaze to Fiero’s. “I don’t deal in guesswork, Mr Montebello. I will tell you it’s not the worst brain injury I’ve seen, and that I’d be optimistic for a full and meaningful recovery. But naturally there can be unforeseen complications. It’s a long road ahead, with no guarantees.”
“But you think, at this stage, Elodie’s condition is likely to improve?”
“We’ll see.” She put a slide into a backlit screen and ran her eyes over it. Fiero did the same, though very little of the shapes made any kind of sense to him.
The doctor flicked the light off and turned to Fiero. “She’s had two MRIs since she came in –,”
“What?” Fiero whirled around to face the nurse. “When did she arrive?”
“Early this morning,” Doctor Hassan answered his question, and moved past it. “We will do another scan tonight, and continue to monitor her. In terms of her other physical injuries, these appear mostly superficial. Bones that will heal easily enough. Cracked ribs, which will cause immense pain for a time but they too shall heal.”
It was cruel to see such a beautiful and vibrant woman so completely shut down, so broken. His gut twisted.
“What can I do?”
“Not a lot, I’m sorry.” Doctor Hassan’s smile was sympathetic. “You must wait. The next twenty four hours are crucial.”
“Did she say anything at all?” He directed the question to both the doctor and nurse.
The nurse shrugged. “I wasn’t here.” She flipped the page and frowned. “Ah.”
“Ah?” Fiero lifted one single brow.
“There’s a note here from the crèche.”
“The crèche?” His mother was English, he’d attended Oxford and then Yale. His command of the language was as good as a native speaker and yet he wondered briefly if he misunderstood.
“A two year old boy – Jack Gardiner – was admitted at the same time as Miss Gardiner.”
Everything exploded through his mind all at once.
A little boy – Elodie’s boy. A two year old boy belonging to Elodie. Realisation grew inside of him slowly, but there was doubt too. Surely this couldn’t be his child? There was no way he’d been a father for over two years and not known it. Right?
The strength of his memories, the hurt they carried, caused him to groan audibly. Memories of the precious baby he’d loved and lost, the son his wife had delivered, the son who’d been born without breath. The baby they’d lost.
His throat felt raw, as though it had been scraped with razor blades.
But he was getting ahead of himself. Elodie had a son, a two year old boy, but it didn’t necessarily follow that the child was Fiero’s.
At his lack of reaction, the nurse’s eyes beetled together. “The crèche is open until eight.”
Fiero shot a glance at his wristwatch. It was six. “Where is it?”
“Second floor, ward F.”