Chapter 5 - THE BLUE BOTTLE
The independent neurologist arrived at eight the next morning.
Dr. Naomi Hart was direct, careful, and unimpressed by my name.
She reviewed Isabella's records.
Examined her.
Ordered appropriate testing.
And requested a full medication reconciliation.
By noon, she had concerns.
"Mr. Duca," she said, "your mother's medication regimen warrants immediate review."
I stared.
"Has she been deliberately sedated?"
"I can't establish intent from the records alone."
She looked at the chart.
"But some prescriptions appear inconsistent with the treatment plan documented by her previous team."
My stomach tightened.
"Can she recover?"
"Some medication effects may improve when treatment is appropriately adjusted. Her underlying stroke deficits require separate evaluation. We should avoid promising a particular outcome."
I nodded.
For once, I appreciated someone refusing to tell me what I wanted to hear.
Dr. Hart continued.
"I'd also like a speech-language specialist to assess her communication."
"Whatever she needs."
She studied me.
"Mr. Duca, I understand your concern. But your mother is the patient. Her preferences and consent matter."
I looked toward Isabella.
She sat in her wheelchair near the window.
Her eyes were open.
Watching us.
I crossed the room.
Knelt before her.
"Mom."
Her fingers moved.
I took her hand.
"I'm sorry."
Her eyes filled.
"I should have noticed."
She tried to speak.
I waited.
Her lips trembled.
Then she whispered:
"Not... your..."
I shook my head.
"Don't."
She squeezed my fingers.
"Listen."
I went still.
She looked toward the bedside cabinet.
Her hand moved weakly.
I followed her gaze.
Inside the cabinet was a framed photograph of my parents.
Behind it lay a folded card.
I opened it.
A drawing.
A blue bottle.
And a handwritten number.
17\.
I looked at her.
"Seventeen?"
She blinked once.
"Room seventeen?"
Another blink.
"Locker seventeen?"
She squeezed my hand.
I stared.
"Locker seventeen."
Tears filled her eyes.
Then she whispered:
"Carlo."
My heart stopped.
My father.
The blue bottle.
Locker seventeen.
May you like
Something had been hidden before his death.
And my mother had been trying to tell me for months.
