Chapter 2
Episode 2kitu žaizda pilvo suprask Danija trukus skrandžiui prasirgus iš išvijus per dvi savaites tada autobshija gydziaudi ne extreme ši harmonija ir sunkių darbų iki šiandien aš esu apgautas Keitės ji nori iš šlovės aš DK sakau klysti vadindamas operacinė psichikos gydymu alio ten tų Marytė jensek atsi riaugek kiaulestectiesa nėra moderni
The doctor left, and the silence returned. I sat on the plastic mattress, the gown thin against my skin. The clock on the wall ticked. A fly buzzed against the window, trapped between the glass and the gray sky. I closed my eyes and saw the children again—Lars’s chin, Ida’s laugh. But the image frayed, replaced by a darker memory: the scar across my belly, the one I had hidden from my husband for years.
I had told him it was a cyst. A harmless thing, removed in a day. But the truth was older, heavier. It had happened in Denmark, two weeks after the bus accident. The one that killed the woman next to me. I had been thrown forward, the seat belt cutting into my stomach, and when they pulled me out, there was blood. They operated. They said it was a tear in the stomach lining, a slow bleed that had nearly killed me. But the wound that stayed was not the one they stitched.
A knock at the door. It opened before I could answer.
A woman in a nurse’s uniform stepped in. She was older than Mette, with gray-streaked hair and a face that had seen too many winters. Her name tag read Marytė. Not a Danish name. Something from the east, from the other side of the sea.
“Fru Jensen,” she said, her voice low and rough. “I am to check your vitals.”
She moved with a practiced stillness, taking my wrist, counting my pulse. Her fingers were cold. I watched her face, the way her lips pressed together when she saw the numbers on the monitor.
“Your heart is fast,” she said. “But that is normal here. Everyone’s heart is fast.”
I wanted to ask her where she was from, but the words tangled. Instead, I said, “The doctor said I’m not the first.”
Marytė looked at me. Her eyes were dark, almost black. “No. You are not the first. But you are the one who came today.” She paused, then added, “I had a sister. She came to a place like this. She did not leave.”
Her voice was flat, but something in it cracked. I felt the crack in my own chest, the blue agony shifting like a live thing.
“I have a scar,” I said. “On my stomach. From an operation. They said it was a tear, but I think it was something else. I think it was the beginning.”
Marytė did not answer. She wrote something on a chart, then looked at me again.
“You will have to talk to the doctor about that. But for now, rest. The body needs to heal before the mind can.”
She turned to leave, but at the door she stopped. “There is a woman named Kate who called for you. She said she is a journalist. She wants to write about your story. I told her you were not available.”
My stomach clenched. Kate. Keitė. The one who had smiled at me in the supermarket, who had asked about my children, who had said she wanted to help. But I had seen the hunger in her eyes, the way she licked her lips when I spoke of the blue. She wanted my pain for her pages.
“You did right,” I said. “She is not my friend.”
Marytė nodded once, then closed the door. The fly was still buzzing. The tree outside had stopped swaying. I lay back on the plastic mattress and pressed my hand to my belly, feeling the old scar beneath the gown. The wound that had never closed. The wound that had brought me here, to this white room, to this woman who knew about sisters and silence.
The clock ticked. The fly buzzed. And somewhere far away, a phone rang, unanswered.