31. Visitor/2.

In the single ward unit, Guiliana stooped over the bed and kissed Sommer on her sallow, puffy cheek. 

"How good of you to come," the woman purred, leaning on two pillows stacked against the headboard. She always had such a sweet voice despite her pitiful state. Her crisp, golden hair paled under the built-in lamps, taking on a near-silvery hue. 

"Of course I'd come!" Guiliana gave her a scolding look. "You're one of my dearest friends! I couldn't sleep well without knowing you're getting better!" She put down a bouquet of roses strewn with baby's breath on the bedside table. "How're you feeling, my dear?"

"I'm fine," Sommer replied, forcing out a smile that narrowed her jaundiced eyes. "Zahid said they'd definitely find a match for my transplant this time. Then, I'll finally be able to live again! I want to see all their faces, you know, those who don't bother to visit me now, convinced that I'm a dead woman already. I want to flounce in my new dress before them." She laughed a little at the thought of her little comeback. 

"You'll be the most beautiful among us, Sommer." 

The laugh tapered. Sommer shifted in the bed. Her face slackened while she shook her head. "I did some thinking of late. Oh, how vain I've been, Guiliana! And stupid! To see happiness as how others treat me, I forgot that it is my happiness. Mine! Which I should be held accountable for! And I forgot to hold myself with grace through each day with gratitude!" she paused, her hand cupping over her eyes. "When Zahid was away, I missed him so much I forgot love isn't just to be loved. I forgot to be grateful. Oh, I've been such a terrible woman, Guiliana." She began to sob. 

"You're a wonderful woman, Sommer." Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, Guiliana hugged her. While her reassurance rang hollow, she entertained the alternatives. Should they have met in a different place and time, perhaps they would have been real friends, and neither of them would have got it so wrong in life. 

The quick visit she had planned dragged into hours, but she didn't mind. Hulling and paring an apple for her, listening to her stories from her brighter days — it felt nice, wholesome, like the unadorned kernel of life. She promised Sommer that she'd braid her hair on her next visit and intended to keep her promise. 

When she left, she closed the door and saw Zahid Abid standing against a wall with his head tilting back, his both hands in the pockets of his pants, his eyes closed and damp. 

 "Commander," she spoke softly. 

"Thank you for coming." Tired was too mild a word to describe the look in the pewter-colored eyes when Zahid opened them. Days' worth of stubble shadowed his square jaw. "And the roses," he croaked, a despondent smile passing his lips. "She loves them."

Guiliana returned the smile and turned on her heels. 

"Can we talk? In private?"

She looked over her shoulder and shrugged in consent. 

In the cafeteria, the commander found a table in the corner. Guiliana didn't follow him immediately but stopped by the counter and bought hot chocolate. 

"Drink," she said, putting it down before the man.

Who chuckled. "Not coffee?"

"It's nightfall." She tipped her head at the glass pane wall, where outside the last beam of the day went out in the sigh of autumn breeze. "You need food and sleep."

"You're too kind, Guiliana."

She pursed her lips, which might have hinted at a smile. Crossing her legs, she calculated the chance of him abusing her kindness and the extent of the plausible abuse. Her eyes traveled to the non-medical staff with badges of the Bellerophon Institute of Health chatting as they passed the elevator hall. 

"About your advice the other night," Zahid continued, taking her silence as a nod for him to go ahead. "Dr. Qusbecq?"

She withdrew her wandering gaze. "What about him?"

"Do you know him in person?"

In the next second or two, Guiliana considered the outcomes of her different choices of words. If she asked why it mattered, she would not only acknowledge it but also risk coming across as offensive, which raised an eyebrow. But should she deny… Obviously, Zahid came to her for Warshon. Her denial would put an end to it all. Still contemplating her conjecture about the Commander's likely link to Mustafa Agca, she offered a dismissive shrug, "I do."

"Is there, em, is there any chance that perhaps," Putting a lull between his stammering, he sipped the hot chocolate. "I was wondering if, em, that –"

"You want me to call him and see if he'd like to take a look at Sommer?" 

He nodded. Drawing a long breath before he looked her in the eye. "Please?"

A soft chuckle parted her lips. "You can very well book an appointment with him yourself," she said matter-of-factly. "He's busy, true, and you might need to wait a while. But if you let him know the urgency, he'll make time to see Sommer after hours. You don't need my help."

Licking his parched lips scaled with dead skin, he dropped his gaze. "Well, it's just so happened that the DEA raided his pharmaceutical plant the other day under my command, and with the allegation from Kovács Dolma, I don't think –"

"Warshon isn't that kind of doctor," she dismissed his concern. "He'll treat Sommer as he'll treat anyone in her condition." As she rose to her feet, she added, "I'd love to help, Commander. But it isn't my help you need." 

The hard leather soles of her stilettos clacked the tiled floor. All the tangled knots spun in her head while she waited for the elevator. 

It made no sense. 

Sommer seemed certain enough that she was getting a transplant this time. But if so, why should Zahid grovel for her help? Not to mention Taylan Dinc's shared pessimism. It could only prove one thing: Sommer was lied to. She wasn't getting the transplant, and Zahid knew it, as did Dinc. 

The elevator door slid aside. The mirror in the back caught her reflection, her face drained of color. She went in and pressed the top floor where the Bellerophon Health Fund was located; her hands braced on the railing. 

An incoming call turned her eyes to her watch. She snorted before tapping her earrings. "Lord Qusbecq." 

"You have some balls to hang up on me yesterday."

"And you must have the wisdom to forgive me, knowing that I was keeping an eye on Dinc for you and didn't wish to blow the cover." When Lord Qusbecq put her in the Ministry of Health, they had an agreement that she'd keep an eye on Dinc. Understandably, given Dinc's neutral stance between the Globalists and the Conservatives, Lord Qusbecq would want to know in advance should the neutrality tip. Through her, the lord also fed Serhat information if not misinformation to test his stepson's loyalty, luring him into all the wrong directions in the hope to catch him in action, while the simpleton of a stepson believed it was because she still wanted him. Little did either man know that it served her purposes to be the Health Minister's whore. 

A dry laugh scratched out through her earrings in two mirthless cackles. "I miss your quip."

"Thank you."

"Be a dear and do one thing for me."

She waited, only the whirring of the ventilation to be heard. 

"Zahid Abid, the DEA Commander," he drawled, his voice measured and flat. "His wife is ill. I need you to take her to Warshon." 

Guiliana stiffened, recounting the other night she met Serhat Qusbecq, who confided in her – either out of desperation or fury or likely both – that the Lord ordered for Vittorio Lori to endorse his running mate's opponent. Her grip around the railing tautened. "Can't you do it? Won't it be easier?"

"Easier, yes," the lord seconded with a snort. "But inconvenient. It'd look like the Conservatives are trying to get the DEA on their side for the election. I need you to take her and Zahid there before all the staff and patients who can testify my innocence."

"Can't you wait until after the election?"

"I certainly can. But the same can't be said about the poor wife."

The elevator dinged again, opening to a grand hall. On the interior wall before her, Bellerophon Institute of Health was displayed in bold, capital letters of silver under pale yellow spotlights, next to the logo of Bellerophon mounting on the Pegasus. Glossy and bright, everything was meant to offer a peep into the future, the dream of all mankind. Though it had been well after hours, the researchers still buzzed about and paid her no heed. Only the security turned his head to the walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder after darting a glance at her across the floor. 

She wouldn't accomplish anything should she stalk in like this, anything except arousing suspicion. 

"Does the Commander need to know you initiated it?" she asked, while the elevator door closed again before her eyes. 

"Of course not." Another cackle as dry as the crack of the firewood. "A good deed needs no name."

She stifled a snort. "And what's my reason for interfering?" 

"You're Sommer's friend, are you not? Besides," he took a mocking pause, "Warshon won't turn it down if it's you."

Like Zahid, the father seemed to know little about his son. "With all due respect, Sir, I think the contrary holds true."

"He loved you, Guiliana," said the man, dragging out the vowel to torment, if not to slight. 

"And you went all the way to make sure the love was butchered." She sneered. "Why should it matter now?"

"Still bitter about it, eh? That's good," The lord guffawed. Unlike those mirthless cackles he forced out of his throat, this one sounded genuinely amused. "It means instead of transpiring into yet another humdrum deal, it has remained a love. Pure. Pristine, that is. Everything ends in this world, Guiliana, Empires, civilizations, fleeting romances, no less. Only memory is immortal. You should thank me for the immortality."

So vicious were his words that also rang true. Guiliana bit her top lip, savoring the irony that seeped through her like poison. 

"I'll see to it, but in return," she paused, cocking her head. "I want shares of the Bellerophon Health Fund. After Dinc's donation, their stocks are going to fly. I want in, now." 

"Can't you buy them yourself?"

"Do you know how many shares I want?"

"I know your appetite has never been small. But my question is, can you stomach it?"

"I've stomached Taylan Dinc just fine, have I not?"

A baleful laugh echoed. "You're very much fun, Guiliana."

"Three percent."

"That's no small amount."

"Neither is the favor," she scoffed. "As you said, love died, but the bitterness survived, so much so for your immortality." 

The elevator stopped on a lower floor. The door slid aside, ushering in two nurses with their faces masked, their gloved hands ringed with catheters. Guiliana plastered on a smile. 

"Ground floor?" asked the blond one. 

Only then did she realize she had yet to decide which floor she should go to. She nodded and mouthed a thank you.

A hiss of sigh came through her earrings. "You seem distracted, my dear."

"Quite the contrary, Sir. My focus is sharp on where I need it to be."

"The shares, why are you suddenly interested in the Health Fund, if I may ask?"

You may not, she thought, but that has never stopped you from getting an answer. As for how much you'd believe it, she smirked. The Lord had probably never heard a straight answer. It was his job, his talent, his secret quirk to sift out all the lies and find the truth in what was left, like a prospector. The elevator shook to another stop to let out the nurses. As the door closed again, she pressed Sommer's floor. 

"I want to be invited to the shareholders' meeting," she continued. "To be reckoned with by the organization Dinc donated to. How sick is that?"

"Vain, vain woman."

"Do we have a deal?"

"I can sue you for extortion," The Lord smacked his lips. "All I asked, after all, was to take a friend to a doctor."

"Goodbye, Arslan. Godspeed."

"Two."

"What was that?"

"I'll buy you two percent."

"And I'll make the call upon the transaction."

"No, you'll make the call now," the Lord said, his voice final. "Once my men see you take the wife to Warshon, I'll make the transaction." And the line was cut. 

Silence reclaimed the insulated space, sealing her inside like wax. Tears surged while she fell back a step, her hand clamping to her chest. 

It could not be a coincidence that they all knew Sommer wasn't going to live. 

A shudder coursed through her. 

She patted her face dry with the heel of her thumbs, making sure she had not smudged her makeup. When the elevator opened its door again, she sashayed out with an aloof smile. 

She found Zahid back by his wife's side. Through the window, she watched him massaging Sommer's sore limbs while applying lotion on the skin where it felt dry. It left another crack in her heart that had long turned into a stone. 

A nurse passed by. 

Guiliana grabbed her arm. "Can you please ask Mr. Abid to come out for a second? Can you please tell him the doctor wishes to speak with him?" She stuffed a fifty note in her hand. 

It took the man aback when he came out and saw her. But he nodded and followed her to the cafeteria, to the same table where they were at barely half an hour ago. 

"Tell me about the transplant," she cut to the chase the moment they sat down. 

When the man looked at her agape, she went forth, "Sommer seemed positive she's getting the transplant. What happened?"

The man wrung his callused hands under his aquiline nose, his elbows outstretched and braced on the table, his pewter-colored eyes closed. "They haven't found a match yet." He opened his eyes, his voice low and uninflected. 

Lie or not, it needed no more explanation beyond that. And anyone would have stopped there. But Guiliana never considered herself an anyone. 

"She has been on the waitlist for a long time," she pushed. "And if it's her turn now, it's hers. How can it possibly change?"

His thin lips jerked in an attempt at a pitiful smile. Zahid lowered his gaze, fixing them on the spotless table top of stainless steel where the overhead incandescent lights glanced off. "I appreciate your concern," was all he said after a long pause of quietness. 

"Don't give me that," Guiliana retorted. "Explain to me why you need my help, and I'll see what role I can play." 

"What she needs isn't something you can buy from a store, Guiliana," said the man with a sardonic chuckle. "The Institute here," he paused, pointing a hand upstairs. "They've been trying to reproduce organs with bio-printing and had somewhat success, but they're not there yet. Where do you think the organs for all the transplants come from?" 

Guiliana held her tongue. A gaping hole of darkness stared out at her from beneath. From its bottomless pit echoed a slur of warning. 

Careful where you tread. 

Careful indeed she should be with her every step. 

She found her hands clasped upon her crossed legs, nails digging into the flesh. "Donation, of course," she said, her voice flat but not flippant, offering the due respect the subject itself demanded. 

"So, there you go," Zahid pursed those parched lips scaled with dead skins, his head inclined. "You never know what'd happen with the donors. What their families would do last minute." 

"Innit," she hummed, her eyes boring into the man while she pored on how far people would go, those who desperately clung on dear life. "Would you coerce a donation?" As she asked, she leaned back in the chair as if distancing herself from it all.

The man hurled his eyes in her direction. 

Air tensed around them. 

She let out a chuckle. "Hypothetically speaking, of course."

"I find it hardly hypothetical given my situation." 

"Do forgive me if I offended you in any way, Commander," she said, her shrug easy, as was her voice, her back tautened. "I was just curious how much people would risk for another chance at life."

"Much, much more than they know."

There, there was the glittering truth – the truth we let slip about ourselves in the false security of talking about others. In the moment, Guiliana tumbled upon the unparalleled thrill of Lord Qusbecq's hobby as a prospector. Without the evidence to warrant her claim, she knew beyond a doubt that Zahid had risked much more than he could take, and it had pushed him to the brink of breaking.

"You really love your wife," she changed the subject. "How did you meet?"

Across from her, the Commander cocked a brow. "No offense, but why is it any of your interest?"

"I supposed you'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Qusbecq as early as possible. A good story there may help."

He blew a sigh. "I might have to disappoint you there. Our story isn't exactly a selling romance." A wry smile flickered in his eyes like light glancing off the sheet of pewter and died. "She was a good girl at college, and I was a thug. When I got her pregnant, I felt kicked in the head and realized I couldn't go on like this. So, I put my streetfights into good use and went through all the rigmarole to enroll in the police school. They agreed to overlook my past if I'd agree to join the most dangerous department." 

"The DEA."

He favored her with a nod. "That didn't play out too well. The job kept me away for most days of the year. I was never there, not even when my son was born. The second time I got her pregnant, she had a miscarriage because she was worried sick about me. I could never forgive myself for that. And it's not fair that everyone blames her now that my son has grown up and doesn't want anything to do with us. I should have been the one responsible." 

Guiliana held the view. In the corner of a nearly empty cafeteria adjacent to the hospital ward, the brawny DEA Commander broke down under the inspection of the sharp white incandescent light, giving in to decades of erosion from his will to survive and thrive. 

"I know I'm an old bloke now," the Commander, hawking up a laugh. "But it certainly didn't feel like that long ago when I was young, younger than you, when I pissed on the old. Should have listened to them when they tried to tell me where I did wrong as they're probably thinking what I'm thinking now. What a curse is this cycle of life, eh? Anyway," He raised his brows, huffing a long sigh. "I'm baffling. And I doubt my dull story helps."

"It does," she mused. "It helps me decide that you're a good husband."

He pressed his lips to a slit. 

"I'll call Warshon after I get home tonight, and I'll let you know when we can take Sommer in for an appointment."

Lowering his head in a gesture of perhaps a bow, Zahid looked her in the eye. "Thank you."

She shrugged in reply. 

On the drive home, she rolled down the window and took out her vape. Her elbow braced on the windowsill, her mind trawling through what she had missed. 

Bellerophon Institute of Health, whatever went up there must somehow relate to organ transplants, a business in the name of science perhaps, of too many underhanded deals and secrets that could sunder the world should they be exposed. And yet Lord Qusbecq agreed to buy her the shares nearly as much as she stipulated. She gulped the chill air ofmid-falll at night. No, she thought, her head shaking. No, he didn't just want her to bring Sommer to his son. He was recruiting. And the two percent was the price to buy in her service. But to what end? What could she possibly have now that Lord Qusbecq wanted, which he'd even risk letting her in on a secret that might very well cost her her own life? 

Drawing in a deep draft, she thought about the number she was going to call, one which she still remembered and always would even when the rest of the world faded into forgetfulness.