Chapter 9: The Morning of the Surgery
Sofia woke up at five-thirty.
I know because Elena texted me at five thirty-two: *She's awake.
She's not scared.
She's asking if you're coming.*
I was already in the car.
The hospital was quiet at that hour — the particular quiet of a place that never fully sleeps, where the overnight staff move with the careful efficiency of people who have learned not to make unnecessary sound.
We checked in at six.
A nurse with kind eyes brought Sofia a warm blanket and a cup of ice chips, which Sofia examined with great seriousness before deciding they were acceptable.
"You can have real water after," the nurse told her.
"How much after?" Sofia asked.
"A few hours."
Sofia considered this.
"Okay."
Elena sat in the chair beside the bed, her hand over Sofia's.
She hadn't slept.
I could see it in the set of her shoulders, the careful stillness of someone running on will alone.
I stood near the window.
Dr.
Yuen came in at six forty-five, reviewed everything one final time, and spoke directly to Sofia.
"Ready?" he said.
"Ready," she said.
She looked at Elena.
Elena leaned down and said something very quietly — too quiet for me to hear.
Sofia nodded.
Then she looked at me.
"You'll be here after?" she asked.
"I'll be here," I said.
She reached out her hand.
I crossed the room and took it.
Her hand was small.
Warm.
She squeezed once, the way someone does when they want to make sure you're real, and then she let go and turned back to Dr.
Yuen and said, "Okay.
Let's go."
They wheeled her out at seven.
Elena and I sat in the waiting room for four hours and forty minutes.
We didn't talk much.
There wasn't much to say that the silence wasn't already saying.
At some point Elena's head dropped toward my shoulder — not intentionally, I think, just the weight of exhaustion finding the nearest solid thing — and I didn't move.
At nine, Dante texted: *All clear.
No movement from Caruso's people.*
At ten, he texted again: *Still clear.*
At eleven forty-three, Dr.
Yuen came through the doors.
Elena stood up so fast her chair scraped back.
He was smiling.
"She did beautifully," he said.
"Everything went exactly as planned.
She's in recovery.
You can see her in about thirty minutes."
Elena sat back down.
She put her face in her hands.
Her shoulders shook once, twice — the kind of crying that has been held back for so long it comes out almost silently, just the shaking, just the release of something that had been carried too long.
I put my hand on her back.
She didn't move away.
After a moment she straightened, pressed her palms against her face, and took a breath.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay," I said.
When they brought us to Sofia's room, Sofia was propped against two pillows, pale and drowsy but awake, a small bandage on her chest, an IV in her arm.
She looked at us both standing in the doorway.
"I told you," she said, her voice rough from the anesthesia.
"I was ready."
Elena laughed — a real laugh, the first one I'd heard from her.
It changed her whole face.
"Yes," she said, moving to the bedside.
"You were."
Sofia looked past her at me.
"You stayed," she said.
"I said I would."
She seemed to think about this with the same seriousness she gave everything.
May you like
"Good," she said.
And closed her eyes.
