***
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!”
