Chapter 339: Mom’s Bedside Manner

On the tape, the man finished his French. Paper rustled.

Damien leaned closer to the player. "A date. November, 2003. ’Patient G. Fourth session.’"

"Doctor." Her mother’s voice again, patient, almost kind. "In English. We agreed."

A chair creaked. When the man spoke again, it was in plain American English.

"Of course. My apologies, Madame."

"Not Madame. Not here."

A pause.

"Mrs. Vale," the man said.

"Thank you."

Her mother’s English was flat and careful and American, the voice of every bedtime story Aria could remember. A Frenchwoman had built that voice on purpose, one vowel at a time.

Aria pulled her knees up onto the chair and wrapped her arms around them.

’Mrs. Vale,’ she thought. ’In 2003. A year before I was born.’

"How is he?" Geneviève asked.

"Sleeping more. Twelve hours. Fourteen, some days. He eats when he’s told to."

"And when he’s awake?"

"Quiet. Agreeable." Dr. Evans cleared his throat. "Yesterday he asked about the sea. He wanted to know where the boats had gone."

"What did you tell him?"

"That he’d been dreaming."

"Good."

"He asked for his brother on Tuesday."

A cup clinked against a saucer.

"What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. You said to wait for you."

"Tell him he doesn’t have one."

’Brother,’ Aria thought. ’Dad has a brother?’

"And his hand?" Geneviève asked.

"He still rubs the little finger. Every morning, as if something’s missing."

"Something is."

Evans hesitated. "Will you be giving it back?"

"Doctor."

"Forgive me."

"Has his wife called?"

"Twice this week. The nurses told her he was resting."

"Keep telling her that."

’His wife,’ Aria thought. ’Lydia.’

"Does he still ask about Marseille?" Geneviève said.

"Less every week."

"I’d like it to be never, Doctor."

"I understand. But I’m obliged to tell you, at these doses there are risks." Evans sounded like a man reading side effects off a bottle he had already decided to sell. "Headaches, for a start. Confusion. In ten or twenty years, I can’t promise you what any of this does to the brain."

In California, a surgeon was getting ready to cut a tumor out of her father’s head.

Aria’s hands went cold.

"In twenty years," her mother said, "that will be my problem. Not yours."

"As you like."

"One more question, and then you can go." The voice softened. "What name did he answer to this morning?"

The tape hissed.

When Evans answered, he sounded almost reluctant.

"Raymond."

Geneviève laughed. It was low and warm and pleased, the laugh of a woman hearing that her roses had bloomed.

"Then we’re making progress."

Aria hit stop.

She pulled the foam earpiece out of her ear and set it on the desk.

"Everyone said he chose it," she said. "That he gave up his whole life because she begged him for a normal one. I hated that story. I thought it was the worst thing anyone could say about her."

Damien set his own earpiece down beside hers.

"He didn’t choose anything," Aria said. "She asked the doctor what name he answered to. Like she was checking on a dog she was training."

Damien stood. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, and lifted her off the chair. Then he sat down in it himself and settled her across his lap, sideways, her legs hanging over the arm and her shoulder against his chest.

The shirt had ridden up to her hips. He tugged the hem down over her thighs and left his hand there.

"I’ve missed that voice for ten years," Aria said into his collarbone. "I used to lie in bed and try to remember it. And the first time I hear it again, it’s asking a doctor how long until my father forgets who he is."

"You can still miss her."

"After that?"

She lifted her head and looked at him. His golden eyes were steady, and all of his attention was on her.

She kissed him hard. She took his jaw in both hands and kissed him like her life depended on it. Then he kissed her back, slower and deeper, until she had to breathe through her nose. His hand slid up under the shirt and spread across her bare back, holding her against him.

When she pulled back, she kept her forehead against his.

"You’re here," she said. ℴ𝒗ⅇ𝑙.

"I’m here."

"Elias needs to hear this. Whatever she gave him, the surgeon should know before anyone opens his head."

Damien kept one arm around her and reached for his phone on the desk. He sent Elias three lines.

[Damien: Raymond’s memory was altered with drugs in 2003. High doses, for months. The surgeon needs to know.]

The reply came before he set the phone down.

[Elias: Received. Forwarding to neurosurgery. It changes the anesthesia plan.]

Damien handed her the phone.

She typed it herself. [Will he be okay?]

The reply took a minute.

[Elias: He’s better off than he was an hour ago. Go to sleep. Both of you.]

"That’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me," Aria said.

She gave the phone back and pressed her face into his neck until her eyes stopped stinging.

"What time do we leave?"

"Seven. Rémy lands in Marseille at six. We’ll be there to meet him."

Aria looked past his shoulder at the little silver player. A third of the tape had wound onto the right-hand spool.

"Play the rest," she said.

"Tonight?"

"If I sleep on it, I’ll wake up making excuses for her."

He studied her. Then he reached past her for the earpieces. He fitted one into her ear himself, tucking the cord behind her shoulder, and put the other in his own.

She curled closer against his chest. His arm locked around her waist.

He pressed play.

Hiss. The creak of the chair. Evans shuffling his papers like a man hoping he’d been dismissed.

"Now," Geneviève said. "The next stage. What will you need?"

"The same as last time. The room. Two nurses who don’t talk."

"And?"

The tape ran on. Aria could hear Evans breathing.

"And someone strong enough to hold him down."