It would pursue him every night for the rest of his life: his utter impotence in the situation.
He sat by her bed every moment of the first week. Until the nurses insisted that he shower and change his clothes.
Everywhere they looked at him with sympathetic stares and expressed their “condolences.”
A doctor came in and spoke to Ove in an indifferent, clinical voice
about the need to “prepare himself for the likelihood of her not waking up again.”
Ove threw that doctor through a door. A door that was locked and shut.
“She isn’t dead,” he raved down the corridor. “Stop behaving as if she was dead!”
No one at the hospital dared make that mistake again.
On the tenth day, as the rain smattered against the windows and the radio spoke of the worst storm in several decades,
Sonja opened her eyes in torturous little slits, caught sight of Ove, and stole her hand into his.
Enfolded her finger in the palm of his hand. Then she fell asleep and slept through the night.
When she woke up again the nurses offered to tell her, but Ove grimly insisted that he was the one who would do it.
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