Chapter 410: Nadia

He held his coffee.

"She said the letters were a specific kind of real," he said. "That this was better."

"Yes," said Nadia. "That’s exactly the right word for it." She held her cup. "You chose the right pace. Four months of letters first. Some people would have rushed to in-person. You didn’t."

"It wasn’t ready before," he said.

"No," she said. "It wasn’t." She held his gaze. "How did you know."

"Her letters told me," he said. "She was building toward it but she wasn’t rushing. When she wrote I think it’s time she had been sitting on it for a while."

Nadia held him in the medical read for a moment.

"You read her letters very carefully," she said.

"I read everything carefully," he said.

"I know," she said. "She told me." A pause. "She said your letters were careful and warm and that you chose what to put in them."

"She said that to me too," he said.

"She knew she was describing herself," said Nadia.

He held his coffee.

"Yes," he said. "I think so."

Nadia looked at the atrium window.

"I’ve been her doctor for four years," she said. "She’s a good patient in the way that difficult patients are good — she asks the right questions, she follows the treatment correctly, she argues when she disagrees with my reasoning but she has good reasons for arguing." She held her coffee. "When the letter arrived. The first one. She brought it to her next appointment and put it on the desk and said: I need you to know this happened."

He held his gaze on her.

"She needed to tell someone," he said.

"She needed to tell the person she trusted with things," said Nadia. "Which at that point was me." She held her coffee. "She was very calm about it. She said: I have a grandson. He wrote me a letter. I’m going to write back." She held the coffee. "And then she asked me to check her blood pressure because the letter had arrived that morning and she hadn’t slept."

He held that.

"What was it," he said.

"Fine," said Nadia. "She was fine. She was just processing something significant while being extremely composed about it." She almost smiled. "Very Margaret."

He held his coffee.

Around them the café moved with its Tuesday afternoon traffic.

"Dr. Cross," he said.

"Nadia," she said.

"Nadia," he said. "What’s the condition. The one you manage."

She looked at him.

"She’s your grandmother," she said. "You should ask her."

"I’m asking you because I want the medical read," he said. "Not the version she’ll give me which will be accurate but compressed."

Nadia held his gaze.

"It’s manageable," she said. "She’s been on the same protocol for four years and it’s working. Nothing has changed." A pause. "She’s seventy-six and in good health for seventy-six. That’s the accurate version."

"That’s what I needed," he said.

"You were worried," she said.

"I wanted the information," he said.

"You can want information and be worried at the same time," she said.

He held her gaze.

"Yes," he said. "You can."

She held his gaze for a moment.

Then she looked at her watch.

"She’ll be up in twenty minutes," she said.

"I know," he said.

She stood.

She picked up her coffee.

She looked at him from standing height with the dark brown eyes and the expression she had that was not the social version and not entirely the medical version.

"You checked the clinic schedule before the first visit," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"You’re here forty minutes early today," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"You asked me for the medical read before going up," she said.

"Yes," he said.

She held his gaze.

"You’re very thorough," she said.

"Yes," he said.

She held the look for a moment longer.

"There’s a place near the hospital," she said. "On Mercer Cross Street. Two blocks east. It’s actually good. I’ve been meaning to go with someone who would appreciate it properly."

He held her gaze.

She held his.

"Friday," he said. "Seven."

"Friday at seven," she said.

She walked out.

He picked up his coffee.

He went upstairs.

Margaret was already in the waiting area when he arrived.

She looked up when she heard the elevator.

"You’re early," she said.

"I was downstairs," he said.

"Talking to Nadia," she said. Not a question.

"Yes," he said.

She held her handbag.

"She’s good," said Margaret. "I told you that last time."

"You did," he said. "She confirmed the medical read."

Margaret looked at him.

"She told you about the condition," she said.

"Manageable," he said. "Same protocol for four years. Nothing has changed. Good health for seventy-six."

"That’s exactly what I would have told you," said Margaret.

"I know," he said. "I wanted it from the doctor."

She held his gaze for a moment.

"You’re thorough," she said.

"Yes," he said.

"Catherine was thorough," she said. "She drove me absolutely mad with it sometimes. She wanted to understand things completely before she’d accept them."

"Did she ever accept things without understanding them completely," he said.

Margaret held her handbag.

"Once," she said. "That I know of."

He held her gaze.

She held his.

The clinic door opened. A nurse appeared with her name on a tablet.

"That’s me," said Margaret.

She stood.

She looked at him.

"Wait here," she said. "We’ll get coffee after. I have something for you today."

"The thing from the letter," he said.

"Yes," she said. "I brought it."

She went into the clinic.

He sat in the waiting area chair.

He looked at the tree in the courtyard through the window.

He thought about once, that I know of.

He thought about Catherine at whatever age she had been. Making one exception to the rule of complete understanding before acceptance. What that exception had been.

He held the tree.

He did not let himself fill in the answer.

He waited.

—-----

She came out forty minutes later.

The clinic had run long. She looked fine. She sat beside him and opened her handbag and took out something small wrapped in a cloth.