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Harborview Medical Center, September 1997
Light faded in the hospital room, and Olivia had fallen asleep. I stopped talking, feeling foolish that my story of horror had lulled her to sleep. But the moment I stopped, her eyes flew open.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I had no idea. I didn’t know that sort of thing was going on in Europe.”
“I couldn’t believe it myself, even though I lived through it,” I said.
“I want to hear more, but I’m so tired, Luka.” She yawned as if to make a point.
I stood. “I’ll let you sleep.”
She reached out, and I took her hand. “Will you come back in the morning? I want to hear all of it.”
I squeezed her hand. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
I stayed at The Hotel Sorrento near the hospital, a historic hotel with aged luxury that reminded me of the deep history of Europe. My bathroom floor and walls were marble, the wood door and trim were crafted from a dark, rich cherry, the window didn’t quite close, no doubt due to decades of the old building settling. Although the sounds of city streets leaked in that night, I fell asleep quickly and slept a dreamless sleep. Perhaps telling my story for the first time had lifted a weight from my soul.
The hotel didn’t serve breakfast, so I walked a couple of blocks in the early morning hubbub of Seattle and found some coffee and pastries at a bakery. Then I made my way back to the hospital. The receptionist recognized me. She greeted me with a smile and a good morning, and called Olivia’s nurse’s station.
“She’s with her neurologist now. You’ll would have to wait about thirty minutes.”
I felt stupid having to ask, but I did. “My English is not good enough to understand medical terms,” I explained. “What is a neurologist?”
She smiled and tapped her head. “The brain, the spine, that sort of thing.”
I still didn’t know what was wrong with Olivia. I sat and waited until the receptionist answered a call then told me I could go up.
Olivia was sitting up in bed, finishing breakfast when I arrived.
“Good morning,” she said when I stood in the doorway. “Where is our darling chef Sam when I need him? They fed me oatmeal and applesauce for breakfast.”
She seemed happier this morning. More relaxed. A little more like herself.
“Yes, Sam spoiled us.” I walked a little farther in. “You were with the doctor? How are you?”
She waved a hand as if shooing away a fly. “Please, pull up a chair. I want to hear the rest of your story.” She sipped the last of her coffee, suddenly looking serious. “Your upsetting story. I’m so sorry.”
My turn to wave away her concerns. “You deserve to know.”
“Let’s wait a few minutes until they clear the breakfast away, okay? Tell me what you did last night.”
I filled her in on the hotel and my search for breakfast this morning, and as the sun began to filter in through the window, a young man arrived and took away the dishes. She fussed with her pillows, trying to sit up higher in her bed. I leaned over to help her, so near to her face that I could have kissed her.
The day crept by, interrupted by another visit from one of Olivia’s neurologists, followed by a trip to the imaging department for scans. We made small talk between the interruptions, and after an early dinner, Olivia said, “I want to hear more, but would you mind getting us some coffee first? From the cafeteria?”
I left to get the coffee. I hoped she soon would talk about was wrong with her. What was so bad she had to be airlifted to a trauma hospital in Seattle? She wouldn’t let the doctors or nurses tell me. I only knew that her doctor was a neurologist.
Olivia eagerly accepted the cup of coffee. I had brought the coffee in nice ceramic cups I had begged from the cafeteria staff. I didn’t think Olivia, the coffee connoisseur, would appreciate a paper cup.
“How did you get out of prison?” she asked.
I took a sip of my coffee, and my hand trembled.
She spotted that. “Are you sure you want to tell me this?”
“If we are to have a future together, Olivia, we should share histories that have shaped us as people. So we understand one another.”
Her expression changed. “Us? A future together?”
“What do you think?”
At first, she looked delighted, then crestfallen.
My heart fell.
“You tell me your story first,” she said, “then I’ll tell you mine. You may change your mind.”
