“I’m managing, Raymond.”
Something about the way he said it made my coffee taste bitter. I couldn’t put my finger on why.
“That’s kind of you, Raymond. I have to run. My shift starts soon.”
I hung up before he could stretch the call any longer.
***
The hospital hallway smelled the way hospital hallways always do: of disinfectant and quiet human worry. I pushed my cart down the corridor, checking room numbers, tired already, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m.
“I have to run.”
Room 220. New admission. Long-term care.
I pushed the door open, stepped inside, and opened the chart the way I always did. My eyes skimmed the top line, then stopped.
Thomas.
I stared at the last name printed beneath it. My mouth went dry. It couldn’t be. There had to be a thousand men with that name in this state alone.
I pushed the door open.
When I lifted my eyes to the man in the bed.
I knew him the instant I looked up from the chart.
Fifty-six years hadn’t erased that face. Thomas was thinner, paler, hollowed out by whatever was eating him from the inside, but those eyes were the same eyes that had begged me to stay when we were teenagers.
He smiled as if he’d been waiting for me.
I knew him the instant I looked up.
“Hello, Nancy,” he said, as soft as a Sunday morning.
I couldn’t speak for a moment. I just stood there with the blood pressure cuff in my hand, feeling my whole life catch up to me in one hospital room.
“Thomas,” I finally managed. “My goodness. Thomas!”
***
After that, I found reasons to check on him every shift.
I couldn’t speak for a moment.
My high school sweetheart told me he’d never been married either.
We laughed about our gray hair and our bad knees, and sometimes we didn’t talk at all. We just sat together.
“You still take your coffee black?” he asked one afternoon.
“Still do.”
“I knew it.”
There was something odd about how calm he was. Most patients in his condition were angry, scared, or numb. Thomas seemed almost peaceful, like a man who’d been holding his breath for a long time and could finally let it out.
He’d never been married.
***
One morning, Thomas asked me, as carefully as a man stepping onto thin ice, “Do you have family nearby, Nancy? Anyone looking in on you?”
“Just a distant cousin. Raymond. He’s been calling more lately.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened, just for a second. Then it relaxed, and he changed the subject to the weather.
I didn’t think much of it at the time.
“Do you have family nearby?”
***
Raymond’s calls got stranger that same week.
“Are you seeing anyone, Nancy? At your age, you shouldn’t be alone. Family should have each other’s backs.”
“I’m fine, Raymond.”
“Have you thought about a will? God forbid, but you know. Somebody responsible ought to be listed.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He asked about my bank and the apartment. He mentioned Aunt Margaret again and how he’d “helped her with everything” at the end. I remembered Margaret dying alone in a rented room, and I couldn’t figure out why that sat so wrong in my stomach.
