“It means he’s out of intensive care. His speech is clearer. They’ve started rehabilitation.”
She drew back. “And his memory?”
I shook my head.
Her expression tightened.
“He knows who you are,” I added. “He remembers your name because we’ve told him. He remembers that you’re his sister.”
“But he doesn’t remember me.”
“Not the way you mean.”
Leah looked toward the glass doors. People moved through the lobby behind them, blurred by reflections of the cloudy sky.
“What about you?”
“He knows my name.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I picked up her bag.
The automatic doors opened with a breath of disinfected air.
“I’m still here,” I said.
She followed me inside.
The neurological ward remained dim at every hour. Curtains were half drawn. Voices stayed low. Even the wheels of the carts seemed quieter there, as though the building itself understood that sound could become pain.
As we walked, I told Leah what to expect.
“Noah gets tired quickly. When he’s tired, his words go missing or come out wrong. He still has headaches most of the time. Light bothers him, and too many people talking at once can overwhelm him.”
“Should I keep the visit short?”
“We’ll let him decide.”
“What should I say?”
“The truth, but not everything at once.”
She gave me a humorless smile. “That sounds easy.”
“It isn’t.”
“What if he asks about Dad?”
“Answer whatever he asks. Don’t volunteer more than he can manage.”
“And the girls?”
“He knows their names. He’s seen recent photographs.”
“Did he understand?”
“I don’t know.”
