Chapter 5. Reunion
1107 Words
Iris
With each step I take towards Helen Harris's room, I feel calmer. I'm sure my face has also regained that immutable expression, that mask that has always helped me hide my emotions.
I let out a soft sigh as I grasp the doorknob.
"Here we go," I whisper.
Upon entering the room, I am met with my friend's surprised and curious look, which is quite amusing. I suppose she thought that, not seeing me in the hallway, I wouldn't meet with the patient, as always.
She knows I don't like to interact too much with people, much less with patients. The memory of my sick mother, and how she gradually lost her vitality until one day she didn't open her eyes again is very vivid.
Seeing patients and their families takes me back to those moments of anguish and pain stored in my memory, and to other dark paths of my past that I don't want to remember, especially not now.
That's why Agatha, besides being the best surgical oncologist in the world, is the principal investigator of this project and the face of my investment and sometimes of the entire Artemisa Martakis Foundation. My friend is always the one who receives the hugs and congratulations from patients, families, and even recognition from the media, which she well deserves.
I continue my path until I am in front of Helen and her husband's bed, maintaining my cold and professional demeanor. They both look at me with surprise and joy, despite the tension that begins to build more and more in the small room, and that is starting to suffocate me.
"Iris! My little one!" my mother-in-law says excitedly and stretches out her hands to hug me.
The way she calls me and her longing gaze make me feel like that little girl again, the one who would happily run into her arms whenever I was sad, happy, or simply because I loved her. I hesitate for a moment... but I quickly recover.
"Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Harris," I say seriously, taking a step back to keep my distance from them and make it clear that no, I am no longer that "little one."
With a look of surprise and pain, Helen lowers her arms. Her husband pats her shoulder reassuringly before hugging her, clearly showing his support.
Michael Harris, the imposing businessman I remembered, now a bit more aged, returns my gaze, but it's not one of anger for the way I responded to his wife. Instead, it's a tender look, full of understanding, as if he knows why I am so cold with them.
My godfather gives me a smile that changes his entire expression from tenderness to guilt and regret.
"Hello, Iris!" says Michael Sr.
"Good day," I respond curtly.
"We knew it was you behind the Foundation. It's a beautiful tribute that it bears her name and that you're funding this project. Your mom would be so proud of you," Helen interrupts with her usual cheerful, rapid-fire speech. At the end of her speech, her voice breaks when she talks about my mother.
I place my hands behind my back to clench my fists and resist the urge to cry and seek her comfort by curling up in her arms.
"No Iris, don't give in."
"Yes, it's in honor of my mother. I understand you're here to be part of the clinical trial," I say seriously as I approach to take the tablet containing the patient's data, with the clear intention of diverting attention to what's important, why they are here.
"You're just like your mother," Helen says nostalgically.
Her words stop me in my tracks while I'm reading her medical history.
She's right, every day I look more and more like my mother.
Her dark hair, her gray eyes, even the shape of her body... My father nicknamed her "Greek Goddess," the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Before returning home for that horrible marriage, Agatha started calling me that because every day I looked more like my mother. But when I returned to Switzerland with a broken heart and a completely changed attitude, she added "cold" to that nickname.
Every day I look more like my mother, and that makes me feel very proud, but at the same time, sad and angry because it reminds me of Michael's cruelty. That "scoundrel" of a husband always reproached me for not being as beautiful as my mother, mocked me for not being the worthy daughter of Artemisa Martakis, for not even having a hint of the grace, beauty, and elegance that Greek women possess.
A mocking smile spreads across my face.
What will Michael say when he sees me? When he sees that his "not beautiful or worthy wife" is as beautiful as Artemisa.
What will he say when he sees this Greek Goddess and beauty?
I calmly put the tablet back in its place and turn to look at both of them, who are waiting for my response.
"On behalf of the Martakis Foundation, we thank you for your trust and hope that this trial will help improve your health and quality of life. Agatha Müller is in charge of this project and will be with you at all times. If you'll excuse me," I nod towards the couple who continue to look at me in astonishment and leave the room.
I feel my heart racing and a lump forming in my throat. I'm sure I'm going to break down, this was difficult.
"Iris," I hear Michael Harris's agitated voice behind me, but I continue on my way, ignoring him, but walking much faster.
"Iris, give me a few minutes, please," My godfather reaches me just as I enter the elevator, visibly out of breath from running to catch up with me.
I look at him coldly as he holds the door to prevent it from closing. His gaze scans my face, expecting something... perhaps affection, longing, anger...
Finding nothing, he seems to give up on his mission.
"I'm sorry, my little one. I deeply regret all the mistakes I've made as your godfather, as your father-in-law, as your parents' friend. I promised Artemisa to take care of you, and I didn't. I'm sorry. I hope you can give us a few minutes, I have something very important to tell you that can help you reclaim your life," he says solemnly.
Without waiting for my response, he releases the door.
A rogue tear escapes at that apology which, to be honest, doesn't belong to him, but to his son.
"What could he tell me?" I say, confused, rethinking his words.
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