“The physical therapy is the important part,” Patricia explained. “Do the exercises even when you don’t feel like doing them, and you’ll recover much faster.”
Mom laughed.
“I was a nurse for years. I know exactly what hospital staff say about patients who refuse their exercises.”
Patricia laughed too.
“Oh, then you’re going to be our favorite patient.”
Everything felt completely ordinary.
I was scrolling through my phone when Patricia said:
“All right, Helen. I’m going to start your IV now.”
She pushed the sleeve of Mom’s hospital gown higher.
Then she stopped.
The sudden silence made me look up.
Patricia was holding my mother’s wrist.
And she was staring directly at the blue flower.
Her entire expression had changed.
The friendly smile was gone.
She looked stunned.
Not confused.
Not curious.
She looked like she recognized it.
For several seconds, Patricia simply stared.
Then she seemed to collect herself.
She gently pulled Mom’s sleeve back down over the tattoo.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” she said.
Her voice sounded controlled, but tense.
“I need to check something.”
Then she left.
Mom and I looked at each other.
“That was strange,” I said.
“Yes.”
Mom’s voice sounded calm.
Her hands did not.
She had folded them tightly in her lap.
“Do you know what that was about?”
Mom looked down at her covered wrist.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But I knew my mother.
She didn’t believe it was nothing.
Something about her expression told me she had been afraid of this moment for a very long time.
Five minutes passed.
Patricia didn’t return.
Then I noticed two hospital security officers standing outside the room.
They weren’t rushing.
They were speaking quietly and occasionally glancing through the door.
My stomach tightened.
“Mom.”
“I see them,” she whispered.
The door opened.
A physician entered with the two officers.
He was probably in his fifties, with gray hair and the calm authority of someone senior.
He wasn’t Mom’s surgeon.
He introduced himself as Dr. Reeves.
But he wasn’t looking at my mother’s face.
He was staring at her wrist.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, “where did you get that symbol?”
Symbol.
Not tattoo.
Symbol.
My mother went completely pale.
That was when I knew this wasn’t some misunderstanding.
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom?” I asked. “What is happening?”
