Part 3: The Repair Shop

Daniel asked whether I was hurt. I told him I was recovering in hospital and that the team had explained the next steps, but I did not want to describe every medical detail over the phone. He accepted that and asked when I would be comfortable talking again.

“I found something at the bindery,” I said. “I think it's the letter we were looking for. I don't remember where I found it.”

He was quiet. “I got an email from you about the exhibition. I didn't answer because I didn't know what to say.”

“Did it mention the letter?”

“No. It said you wanted me there.”

I had sent the email before finding the letter. The invitation on the hall table was a second attempt, one I had not mailed. That sequence did not repair our argument, but it gave us a place to begin.

Daniel offered to come to the hospital. I asked for a day to think. The care team had a schedule for my rehabilitation, and I needed rest between sessions. He said he would wait for my message.

When I told Mira, she looked relieved. “You don't have to make the visit into a reunion that fixes six years.”

“I know. I keep imagining what Mom would have wanted.”

“She wanted both of you to have a chance to speak. That's not the same as requiring a particular ending.”

Jo called with an update from the bindery. The exhibition had been postponed, not canceled. The library had agreed to hold the space for a later date if the team could confirm the new schedule. Jo had asked the other conservators what work they could take on and would not promise my participation without asking me.

I thanked her. Then I felt a familiar urge to review every frame and label. The rehabilitation therapist suggested that I choose one small task if the care team agreed it fit my current plan. I decided to review the invitation wording for the revised date. Jo sent a draft, and I marked two changes before resting.

Daniel visited two days later. He stood in the doorway carrying no flowers or large bag, only a folded photograph. He had asked the nurse whether I was ready before entering.

He looked older than the last time I saw him. The resemblance to Dr. Lane was less striking when they were not both standing beside my bed. Daniel's hair had more gray, and he still tilted his head when he was unsure whether to interrupt.

“I brought this,” he said. The photograph showed our mother at the kitchen table, holding a book open between us. I was about twelve. Daniel was missing a front tooth.

“I remember that book,” I said. “She read the same chapter three times because you kept falling asleep.”

“She read it three times because you kept asking whether the dog came back.”

We laughed, then fell quiet. I asked whether he wanted to see the folder when Jo brought it. He said yes, but he did not want me to rush my recovery to arrange it.

Before leaving, he told me something I had not expected. He had found a receipt among his own papers showing that he had borrowed a box from our mother's apartment after we sorted it.

“I thought I'd returned everything,” he said. “Maybe the letter was with me all along.”

I wanted to ask why he had accused me. Instead I asked whether he still had the receipt. He did. We agreed to look at it when I was ready.