“Absolutely.”
He didn’t push. He understood.
Her mom understood, too, though she worried. She called every day, asking about her classes, her friends, what she was eating.
“Are you eating properly?”
“Mom, I’m not a little kid anymore.”
“You’ll always be my little kid. Answer the question.”
“I’m eating fine. I promise.”
Molly made friends—a few people she grew close with in her first year. There was Anna, a future pediatrician, cheerful and kind. And Steve, a future surgeon, serious and quiet. They studied for exams together, went to the movies, and talked late into the night about life and death, medicine and meaning.
“Why did you go into medicine?” Steve asked one day. They were sitting in the park after a particularly tough class, eating ice cream.
“I want to help people.”
“Everyone says that.”
“I know. But I have a… personal reason.”
“What is it?”
Molly thought for a moment, wondering whether to tell him. She rarely told this story to anyone—it was too personal, too important. But Steve was a friend, so she decided to risk it.
“When I was seven, I saved someone’s life. A man fell through the ice on a pond, and I pulled him out. Well, not exactly pulled him out, but helped him get out.”
Steve whistled softly.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And that man… he became part of my family. He helped my mom when she got sick. He’s my stepfather now.”
“That’s like something out of a movie.”
“I know. Sometimes I can’t believe it really happened.”
Steve was quiet for a moment, then said:
“You know, that explains a lot.”
“What does it explain?”
“You. The way you are.”
“How am I?”
“Decisive. Like you always know what to do.”
“I don’t. A lot of the time, I have no idea. But you have to do something anyway.”
“That’s what being decisive is.”
Molly thought about that. Maybe he was right. Maybe that moment on the ice had taught her something she hadn’t consciously realized. It had taught her to act, even when she was scared. It had taught her to believe that her actions mattered.
In her third year, something unexpected happened. Molly was doing a rotation at the local hospital when a patient was brought in—a middle-aged man having a heart attack. She assisted the doctors, doing what she was told, trying to stay calm. They saved the man. When it was over and he was moved to a recovery room, Molly stepped into the hallway to catch her breath. And there she saw a woman sitting on a bench, her face as white as a sheet. The woman was beautiful, or would have been if not for the look of terror on her face. Dark hair, expensive clothes, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Something about her seemed familiar.
Molly moved closer and recognized her. Kira. Older, less vibrant than before, but still her. David’s ex-wife. The woman who had tried to destroy her family.
“How is he?” Kira asked in a hoarse voice, not recognizing Molly. “My husband. How is he?”
“He’s stable,” Molly answered automatically. “The doctors did everything they could. The prognosis is good.”
Kira buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Not prettily, like in the movies, but with real, ugly, gasping sobs—the kind that come when someone is truly terrified. Molly looked at her and didn’t know what to feel. Anger? It was long gone. Satisfaction? Not even close. It was more like… pity. This woman, who had once seemed like the embodiment of evil, was just a person. Scared, miserable, and in love—yes, in love, because people only cry like that for someone they love.
“Thank you,” Kira said, raising her head. And then she recognized her. Her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. “You?”
“Yes,” Molly said calmly. “It’s me.”
They stared at each other—former enemies, strangers bound by a strange history.
“How is David?” Kira asked finally. “I heard he got married. To your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Are they happy?”
“Very.”
“That’s… good.” She looked away. “I was awful.”
“Back then…”
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