Chapter 5 - ROSALIE FEELS HER FEET AGAINThe new neurologist was Dr. Margaret Sloan.
Fifty-six.
Direct.
Unimpressed by money.
Dante liked her immediately.
She reviewed Rosalie’s records for six hours before examining her.
Then she asked:
“Who told you recovery was impossible?”
Dante looked at her.
“Several doctors.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He felt irritation.
“Dr. Kerwin gave the final prognosis.”
“Final?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Sloan looked toward Rosalie.
“Medical prognoses shouldn’t be treated like court sentences.”
Dante folded his arms.
“What are you seeing?”
“Preserved reflex pathways.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning her lower limbs are weak, but I’m not convinced the functional loss is as absolute as her prior records suggest.”
Dante’s heart began pounding.
“Can she walk?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could she have walked earlier?”
“I don’t know.”
“Doctor.”
She looked at him.
“You’re used to answers.”
“Yes.”
“Medicine often doesn’t have them.”
Dante hated her a little more.
Respected her a lot more.
Rosalie asked:
“Can I get stronger?”
Dr. Sloan smiled.
“Yes.”
That was enough.
They began new testing.
Nerve conduction.
Imaging.
Muscle response.
Repeated strength assessments.
Rosalie hated some of it.
Loved all of it.
Every test meant someone was looking again.
Dante realized, painfully, how much the family had stopped looking.
Not stopped caring.
Stopped questioning.
There was a difference.
And maybe Isabella had known he would do exactly that.
Accept an answer from people he trusted because grief made uncertainty unbearable.
Late that night, Rosalie sat in bed.
Dante adjusted her blanket.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you stop trying?”
The question struck without warning.
He sat.
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“We stopped going places.”
“The doctors said—”
“I know.”
Rosalie looked at him.
“You believed them.”
Dante swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you believe me?”
His face changed.
“When?”
“I kept telling you my legs felt different.”
He remembered.
Tingling.
Pressure.
Occasional spasms.
Doctors had called them nonspecific.
Victor reinforced that.
Don’t get her hopes up.
Dante had agreed.
“I thought I was protecting you.”
Rosalie looked toward the window.
“From hope?”
He had no answer.
The next morning, Dante called Victor Salerno.
His oldest friend.
Trusted adviser.
The man who had handled Rosalie’s medical scheduling when Dante was drowning in grief and business after Isabella’s death.
“Bring me every medical record you have.”
Victor laughed lightly.
“Why?”
“Because I asked.”
Pause.
“What’s going on?”
“Rosalie stood.”
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
Dante heard something in Victor’s voice.
Not joy.
Not exactly.
Fear.
It lasted half a second.
Enough.
Dante’s instincts woke up.
“Bring me the files.”
Victor answered:
“Of course.”
Dante hung up.
May you like
And for the first time, he wondered whether the people around him had stopped asking questions for the same reasons he had.
Or for very different ones.
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