I stare down at my hands. The bandage is loose, pink blooming through the gauze.
“No,” I say softly.
“That was her.”
Chapter 67
Left Behind
The next few days are a blur. I move through them on autopilot, existing only between clinics, patients, and the hours I spend sitting at Dominik’s bedside. Anything to keep from thinking about Rafe, about how every part of me aches with grief: bones, joints, eyes, heart. How my chest still tightens when I remember the words I said, the way I sent him away. The look in his eyes. That hurt breaks me again every time I see it in my mind. I can’t sleep. I barely eat. But the daily tasks get me through to the next point.
I’m running on the fumes of what med school drilled into us, that being a doctor doesn’t always leave room for you in the equation. What matters is that Dominik is alive, my parents are safe, and the threat is in prison. Practical things. The things that matter, even if I’ve cut out the most beautiful and dangerous part of my life to protect everyone else. I don’t matter. They do, and I’d do it again. Every time I see Kacper squeal, Zosia laugh, Piotr kiss Aga’s bump, Natalia roll her eyes, Mama and Tata dance in the kitchen, Dominik smile, I’d do it again. I’d sacrifice my heart. What kills me is knowing I sacrificed Rafe’s too. That’s what makes me sob until I want to throw up when it’s quiet and no one can see.
Visiting hours are nearly over. The waiting room is dimly lit and half-empty. The corridors carry the musk of worry and over brewed coffee. Piotr and I sit side by side, coats folded over our laps, whileZosia sleeps curled in a chair too big for her, head tipped against my arm. Lena stands across from us, pale and drawn, her hair tied back in the kind of knot that happens when you’ve stopped caring three nights ago.
Dominik’s parents are with him now. They’ve been taking turns, shuffling between his room and the vending machines. The doctors say he’s lucky. The knife pierced his liver and they had to remove his gallbladder but otherwise he'll make a full recovery. Infection was the bigger scare, but he’s healing, stubborn as ever.
Lena glances toward the corridor. “I just need the bathroom,” she murmurs softly, not wanting to wake Zosia. I nod. She gives her daughter’s hair a quick stroke, presses a kiss to her temple, and disappears down the hall.
Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty. The fluorescent clock ticks on. When Dominik’s parents come out, his mother smoothing her blouse, his father rubbing his temples. I start to realize sheisn’tcoming back. Piotr catches my eye; I give him a look, and he shakes his head, anger and disbelief simmering beneath it.
“Would you mind sitting with her for a minute?” I ask, already standing.
He nods. “Idz. Odwiedz, (Go. Visit.)” he says. “He’ll need it for what’s coming.” His headtilts toward Zosia, and we both understand. The heartbreak waiting for him when she wakes, when he has to face that Lena’s gone and what that means for both of them.
Dominik’s propped up in bed, pale but alert, IV line looping from his arm. His voice is rough but warm. “Hey, doktorka. You didn’t have to come.”
“Oh yes, I did.” I move closer, instinctively checking his monitor, the notes scrawled on the board. “How’re you feeling today?”
“Like someone took a piece of me.”
I smile faintly. “Makes sense. You did lose your gallbladder.”
“A weak organ, then. I’ll live without it.” He attempts a smirk, even as exhaustion tugs at his face.
Despite everything, I laugh. “You scared us.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
He nods. “How’s Lena? And my little ksiezniczka (princess)?”
“Probably still asleep on the chairs.”
He sighs. “Tell them to go home. Get real rest.”
“I will,” I promise, even though I already know Lena won’t be there when I go back. He catches the flicker of dread in my expression, but I deflect it with a bright smile.
When I return, the waiting room feels emptier. Zosia’s still asleep, jacket slipping off her shoulder. No sign of Lena.
“She hasn’t come back?” I ask.
Piotr shakes his head, disgust rising. “No. I thought maybe coffee. But it’s not coffee, siostra.”
“No,” I say softly. The truth has already settled in my chest like ice. I pull Zosia’s jacket up, smoothing her hair. “Let’s get her home.”
Piotr lifts her gently, that fatherly instinct settling over him. Her head lolls against his shoulder. She stirs but doesn’t wake, her small arms looping around his neck. I smooth her hair again, staring at her soft face.How could anyone leave her?
Outside, the air smells of rain and exhaust, cars lined up with their own tragedies and triumphs behind fogged windows. I bring the cararound, and Piotr lays Zosia in the back seat, closing the door carefully. When he gets in, his hands are shaking with rage. He taps the dashboard lightly, voice low. “Nie jest juz u nas mile widziana. (She's no longer welcome with us.)”
I nod. “Nie jest warta ani jego, ani Zosi, (She isn't worthy of him or Zosia.)" I whisper.
