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The surgery went smoothly. By the time Audrey Hepburn was wheeled out of the operating room, both of her sons had already arrived. In moments like this, the warmth of family was something the lonely could never understand.
With her two children at her side, and Robert—her partner in later life—keeping vigil, she was surrounded by voices of love and concern, her family gathered around their one unifying bond.
Knowing his place as an outsider, Henry quietly withdrew from the room and went up to the hospital rooftop for a smoke.
Of course, nicotine had no effect on his Kryptonian physiology. What he wanted was simply the sensation of a warm current filling his lungs, a substitute comfort for a heart that felt cold, for human warmth that also seemed distant.
At the same time, Henry focused his super-hearing, filtering through all the sounds inside Cedars-Sinai, honing in on doctors as they discussed cases and debated treatments.
Anyone working here was undeniably among the best in the field. Their clinical judgments and approaches—when matched with real cases—were things no medical book could ever fully capture.
During the days of seeking treatment with Hepburn, Henry had also made time to browse medical journals and textbooks in the library. But he realized soon enough: this was not a field where reading a few books, combined with X-ray vision, could magically turn him into a great physician.
That was why he had always kept to the role of caregiver, not healer. Audrey's illness was not his to treat.
Still, the sense of helplessness gnawed at him. For someone with a Kryptonian's brain, was it normal to feel powerless?
To fill this gap, Henry tried to approach things as a student—"listening in" on the masters' teachings. If only he had Professor X's telepathy, he might have seen exactly how their minds worked.
A troubling thought began to take root: should he find some unfortunate souls to practice on, just to build up clinical experience?
His musings were interrupted by the buzz and chime of his pager. Glancing down, he noted the number on the tiny screen and jotted it into his notebook.
Henry could not judge for Hepburn which calls were sincere and which were just polite formalities. But one man's concern was unquestionable: Monsieur Hubert de Givenchy.
The silence on the line spoke volumes—part relief, part reproach for not having been told sooner. Then Givenchy asked, "Who is with her there?"
"Besides her two sons, Robert has been at her side constantly," Henry replied.
The designer wasn't asking about colleagues or staff, so Henry omitted himself.
"And who else knows?" Givenchy pressed.
"Unless someone leaked the news, you're the only one outside that circle. Whether to inform others—I'll wait until Ms. Hepburn has recovered a little, and then ask her. That includes the United Nations; they'll have to be told eventually."
"I understand. You're in Los Angeles, then…?"
"Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, Department of Gastrointestinal Surgery."
"Very well. I'll come as soon as I can. Please give Audrey my regards."
"Of course, sir."
Hanging up, Henry realized that meant Givenchy wasn't in Europe, but on the East Coast—New York, most likely.
He was just wondering whether to return to the rooftop for another smoke when his pager buzzed again. Then again. And again.
One by one, Henry responded, taking notes as he went. Most of the time, he gave a standardized reply: Ms. Hepburn was admitted for evaluation. He rarely even mentioned which hospital. For the more insistent callers, he had no choice but to fall back on a blunt: No comment.
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