“That’s quite helpful,” the doctor says, as if she’s found the missing piece to a puzzle. “The next twenty-four hours should tell us more. I’ll run some blood tests, do an MRI, a liver scan, and wait for his files. Feel free to go home and we’ll ring when we know more.”

William and I both say, “We’re not going anywhere.”

Corrigan nods once. “Then sit tight and I’ll come back as soon as I know anything.”

“Anything, Doctor. Please,” Antonia is compelled to say. I hate seeing her this helpless.

The doctor leaves.

We sit and we wait.

The waiting turns into doing. Nothing important or relevant, just doing. Go to the bathroom. Go get some gum. Go stretch your legs. We’re a constantly shifting constellation. William rises and leaves for an hour, comes back with ruddy cheeks, cigarette breath, and a newspaper. Antonia curls into a corner on the floor and pretends to sleep. I pace. Occasionally, when we cluster, we exchange words, though honestly I don’t know what they are.

Sometime in the late evening, after an hour or so of silence, Antonia says softly, “Ella? Just curious, what do your parents do?” My eyes flick to William. He gazes impassively back at me. Clearly he hasn’t told her everything he discovered about me. Probably because he’d have to admit he “discovered” it in the first place.

“My mother’s a receptionist.” I have to clear my tired, unused voice to continue. “At a medical office. My father’s dead.”

Antonia’s eyes go soft. “So sorry. I had no idea.”

“Thank you.” Her sincerity prompts me to continue. “It was quick. Car accident.”

“How awful for you.”

I’m about to say, No, not at all. It’s better that way. That’s my standard response whenever someone finds out about my father’s death. But this time it’s different. Her tone makes it feel different. Why? Before I can formulate a response, Antonia continues.

“I can’t imagine enduring the pain of death without having been able to love someone whilst they were dying.”

I’m not prepared to have this discussion. “Well, there was nothing to do about it. It’s not like you get a choice.” Antonia simply nods. “Anyway, when he was alive, he ran a bar.”

She smiles. “A bar. How fun. William’s father ran a bar.”

I act as if this is new information to me, but William says, “He was also quite community-minded, your father, yes? A politician of sorts. A bit of a cause fighter?”

Antonia looks to her husband, surprised. As do I. “Yes. That’s true.”

Antonia turns back to me, grinning. “So that’s where you get that fire from. Apple and the tree and whatnot. Do you love your job?”

I inhale to answer, but hesitate. My concept of love has so altered these past few months, I’m not sure the answer is the same as it once was. It’s complicated. Loving anything is complicated. I choose my next words carefully, as if I’m being interviewed. “I love believing in something and fighting for it.”

Antonia nods. “And are you happy?”

“Yes,” I reply, and only after it’s said do I realize it’s a rote response.

Antonia just nods again. “Very good. I’m sure your father would be proud. Every parent merely wants their child to be happy. And healthy,” she adds. “Besides, you’re keeping your father alive. In you. That’s lovely.”

Antonia goes back to fiddling with the remote for the suspended television in the corner, oblivious to the impact of what she’s said. Is that why I do what I do? Am I keeping my father alive in the only way I can?

What if he had survived that car crash, even for a day or two? What if we had talked to each other, held each other, loved each other, and then he died? Would that have made any difference? Would I be someone other than who I chose to—

My eyes catch William’s. He’s watching me as if my skull has been cracked open like an egg, my thoughts on full display.

“Excuse me?” We all turn to the voice behind us, coming from the archway at the nurses’ station. A young, petite woman in scrubs looks at me. “A Sebastian Melmoth is asking for you, miss?”

MAGGIE, CHARLIE, AND Tom have stopped by the hospital on their way back to Oxford. We stand in the warm vestibule between the double sliding doors of the entryway. They give me my suitcase, as well as Jamie’s, and I thank them. Maggie, who hasn’t stopped holding Tom’s hand (even when she keeps reaching out to hug me), says, with a tone that suggests this question has been weighing on her, “You’re not going home, are you?”

“No, I’ll stay here.” Her face lights up. She pulls me into a hug yet again and I pat her back. “I don’t need to be at Oxford until term starts.”

She pulls away and looks at me, that perpetually wrinkled brow further creased in confusion. Charlie interjects. “She didn’t mean Oxford, darling. She meant your actual home. America.”

“Oh. Oh!” I clarify, “Well, yeah, of course. In June. I have to.” They exchange a look that I’m too anxious and tired to parse. “I want to. Jamie wants me to.” I pull them all into a hug, promise I’ll update them, and watch them walk back toward Maggie’s car. “Charlie!” I call. He pivots back to me. “Please let Cecelia know what’s going on?”

He takes his phone out of his pocket and crosses back to the vestibule. He takes off his sunglasses, looking at his screen as he says, “Yes, I have her number.” He looks up at me. He doesn’t turn back to the car. His head tilts and the look in his eyes is too much.

“Don’t,” I warn, tears burning.

“About last night. What I said.”

“I know, you were drunk. Apology accepted.”

“Oh, I’m not apologizing. In the words of the immortal Piaf, ‘Je ne regrette rien.’ No.” Charlie considers his words. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Love.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes a little. “From you of all people?”

He shrugs. “You have what everyone wants. What even I want.” He helicopters his sunglasses. “I mean, not right now, but, you know, eventually. When I’m thick around the middle and thinning on top and living in”—he shudders—“the real world.”

I smirk. “And in the meantime: Ridley?”

“Who?”

I level a look at him. He smiles, slips his sunglasses back on, and looks into the middle distance. “Yes. Sure. Why not?”

IT SEEMS THAT only a few hours later Cecelia appears, bursting into the predawn flatness of the waiting room, pink-cheeked and red-eyed, her scarf trailing behind her. I look up from the book of Matthew Arnold’s poetry I found in my bag, which I’ve been reading like a Bible. I stand as she beelines for me, throwing her arms around my neck, her cheek against mine still cold from outside. I cling to her. “I got the first train as soon as Charlie phoned,” she breathes.

“I thought you had to be in Oxford?”

“This is more important.” She pulls back. “Is he all right? How is he?”

“We don’t know.”

She sees Antonia and William napping in the seats across from me, Antonia’s head resting on William’s broad shoulder, his arm around her. He’s been doing that a lot, putting his arm around her, kissing her cheek, holding her hand. I always thought Antonia was William’s keeper. Helping him through emotional moments, reminding him to breathe, taking him to task when he’d gored those around him. But I was only seeing one side of the coin. How foolish. No coin has only one side. Cecelia’s voice cuts through my musings. “How are they?” she asks.