‘He saved your father’s life!’
This changes the temperature. I’m not sure any of us have spoken this out loud.
After a beat, Mark says, ‘I was just the driver.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘Thank you, Marko. Thank you.’ Then in Greek, ‘And God bless you.’
She heads towards the waiting room and the others follow, but I tug Mark’s hand so he hangs back with me.
‘You werenotjust the driver. We googled strangulated hernias – he could have died.’
‘The ones who saved your dad’s life are the team in theatre.’
‘If you hadn’t acted so fast, there’d be nothing for those people to do.’
‘Emergencies are part of my job. This is just another Saturday night for me.’
It’s the perfect, flippant response, delivered with a killer smile. But I don’t buy it. Not by a long shot.
‘Why are you being like this?’
‘Like what?’
‘Making light of what you did.’
‘I’m not being modest. I’ll happily take the credit when it’s due. But there’s a whole team in theatre right now who deserve it more than me.’ He half-turns. ‘On that note, I should check in.’
I hold his gaze. There’s something he’s not telling me. Something he’s not quite masking. Not from me.
I take both his hands in mine. ‘You came through for us. We owe you.’
When he finally looks at me, his expression is unreadable.
‘No one owes me anything. Your father’s done more for me than you could ever imagine.’
Before I can ask what he means, he pulls free and walks away.
Chapter 49
Mum has been busy cooking all day so I can take Dad some ‘proper food’ when I visit this afternoon. She went to see him this morning and was so horrified with the food they’d given him that she went straight from the hospital to Yousefi’s, the Kurdish greengrocer, to get what she needed to make him something he’ll like.
I survey the kitchen counter, currently doubling as an obstacle course of tupperware.
‘Mum, I’m not sure I can take all this food.’
‘People take food into hospitals all the time. Your auntie Styliani took your uncle Kyriako steak, egg and chips when he had his bypass.’
I feel like a drug smuggler as I enter the hospital reception. I’ve got a tote bag over my shoulder, the tupperware box still warm with the fried chicken and okra. I wait for someone to order me to halt, but somehow, I make it to the lifts without a SWAT team descending on me.
I find Dad’s ward easily. He’s in the last bed on a row of eight.
‘Hey, Dad,’ I say and swoop down to kiss him on the cheek.
‘Hello, darling,’ he says, then when he spots my bag. ‘Oh, have you got thebamiesyour mum promised me? I hope they’re from Yousefi.’
I smile, relieved he’s so chipper. ‘Of course, Dad – still warm. I’ve brought some Cypriot bread, too.’
I pull up a chair and sit beside him. ‘How are you feeling?’
