PART 2: The Lock Only Three People Could Open
For a long moment after Vittorio left, Rosalind said nothing. She had come to stand in the doorway of West Suite 4 without a sound, still wearing the gray cashmere cardigan she’d put on that morning.
“How much did you hear?” I asked.
“Enough.” Her jaw was tight. “Nell, I need you to bring Poppy upstairs tonight. Quietly. Gwen will meet you at the service stairs.”
“Mrs. Sartori, your son said…”
“My son says a great many things.” She looked at Poppy, who was feeding Biscuit an imaginary cracker. “He’s also the reason I changed the lock on that room last week. Only three people have keys now. Gwen, Dr. Okafor, and me.”
A chill ran through me. “You think he’d hurt Matteo?”
Rosalind didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
At nine o’clock that night, Poppy climbed back onto the same chair beside Matteo’s bed.
The room was dim, lit only by the blue glow of the monitors. Gwen stood by the window with a tablet, and Dr. Samuel Okafor, a tall, gray-haired neurologist, sat in the corner with a notepad. Rosalind stood at the foot of the bed, gripping her own elbows as though she were cold.
“Same as last time, sweetheart,” I whispered. “Just sing.”
Poppy took Matteo’s hand.
“Hi, mister. I told you I’d sing better.”
She sang “You Are My Sunshine,” slower this time, with a little wobble on the high notes. Midway through the second verse, Matteo’s heart rate began to climb. Gwen’s tablet beeped softly.
“Keep going,” Dr. Okafor said, barely above a breath.
Poppy didn’t need to be told. When she reached the last line, Matteo’s fingers moved against hers.
Just once. A slight curl.
Rosalind made a sound I will never forget, something between a gasp and a sob, and pressed her hand over her mouth.
“Did you see?” Poppy said brightly. “He squeezed me!”
Dr. Okafor looked up from his notepad with wet eyes. “Yes, little one. He did.”
On the sixth night, Matteo opened his eyes.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no gasp, no sudden sitting up. Poppy was halfway through her song when his eyelids fluttered and then parted, slow and heavy, like doors that hadn’t been opened in years. His gaze drifted across the ceiling, then settled on the small girl in the chair with a stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.
His lips cracked open.
“Sun… shine,” he rasped.
Poppy beamed. “You’re awake! Mommy, he’s awake!”
I was already crying. Rosalind dropped to her knees beside the bed and took her son’s hand, and Dr. Okafor was calling for the rest of the medical team in a voice that shook.
But Matteo’s eyes weren’t on his mother or his doctors.
They moved to me, then to Poppy, then to the door, where a shadow had paused in the hallway light. Vittorio, in his bespoke suit, with one hand frozen on the doorframe and his face drained of all color.
Matteo’s dry lips moved again.
“You,” he whispered.
Vittorio turned and walked away without a word.
