PART 3
By the third week of my return, the daily grind had established a new rhythm, heavy with routine and scrutiny. I spent my mornings rounding under the direct observation of Dr. Patel or Dr. Vance, and my evenings filling out administrative reports that documented every conversation, every dosage adjustment, every consent form.
The public scandal had largely died down, replaced by the relentless, 24-hour news cycle of the internet, but the internal ripple effects remained. Some staff members remained distant; others, surprisingly, showed subtle gestures of solidarity. A senior nurse named Sarah left a fresh cup of dark coffee on my desk one morning with a post-it note that read simply: Keep your head up.
Then, on a damp Thursday afternoon, Nora returned to the hospital.
I was standing at the nursing station reviewing a lab panel when I saw her walk through the double glass doors of the oncology wing. She carried a small canvas tote bag and looked noticeably thinner than she had at the funeral. Her eyes swept the hallway until they met mine.
My immediate instinct was to step back into the breakroom, to avoid another confrontation. But I remembered my promise to myself and to Dr. Vance. I didn’t hide. I walked out from behind the counter and met her halfway down the corridor.
“Nora,” I said softly. “Hello.”
She stopped a few feet away, holding her bag tight against her side. “Dr. Lucas.”
“Is there… is there something you need? If it’s about Alicia’s remaining personal belongings, social services handled—”
“No,” she interrupted, her voice flat, almost devoid of emotion. “It’s not that. I brought back these.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small manila folder. She handed it to me.
Inside were several pages of handwritten notes, lined notebook paper torn from a spiral binder. I recognized the neat, slightly rounded handwriting instantly. It was Alicia’s.
“I found these while clearing out her closet at home,” Nora said, looking away toward the window overlooking the parking lot. “They’re journal entries she wrote during her last month here. Before the wedding.”
I looked down at the top page. The date was three weeks before she died.
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked.
“Because I lied to myself,” Nora said, her voice trembling slightly for the first time. “I told myself you manipulated her. I told the review board that you were the one who drove the idea, even if I didn’t have proof. I wanted someone to blame for how fast she slipped away. It was easier to be furious with you than to admit that my sister was dying and there was nothing I could do to hold onto her.”
I stood silent, holding the papers between my fingers.
“Read page three,” Nora whispered.
I turned to the third page. Alicia had written in blue ballpoint pen, the letters leaning heavily to the right:
I talked to Dr. Lucas again today. He looks so tired. He spends all his time trying to fix people who can’t be fixed. I told him I wanted to get married. He looked like he wanted to jump out the window. He kept talking about ethics and rules. But I’m going to convince him. Not because I’m in love with him, but because he’s the only one here who doesn’t look at me like I’m already a ghost. If I can get him to say yes to something crazy, maybe I can prove I still have a say in my own life before it’s over.
A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure in the middle of the busy hallway.
“She planned it all,” Nora said softly. “The inheritance, the wish, all of it. She knew you were struggling with money—she heard you on the phone one night outside her room. She thought she was playing fairy godmother before she left.”
“She had a good heart,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“She did,” Nora agreed, wiping a single stray tear from her cheek with her thumb. “But she was eighteen, Lucas. She was a kid facing the end of the world, trying to leave a mark. And you… you were the adult who should have said no.”
“I know,” I said. “I know I should have.”
Nora looked at me for a long moment. The sharp, burning hostility that had defined her gaze at the funeral and in her kitchen was gone, replaced by a quiet, shared grief.
“I called the reviewer again yesterday,” she said quietly. “I told them I wanted to formally amend my record. I told them you didn’t trick her. That it was her idea from the start.”
“Nora, you didn’t have to do that. The review is already over.”
“I had to do it for myself,” she said, pulling her coat tight around her shoulders. “I don’t forgive you for breaking the rules. You were her doctor, and you let the lines get blurred when we needed you to be steady. But I won’t let people call you a thief.”
She turned and began walking down the corridor toward the exit. She didn’t look back.
