It was only for a second, but I caught it.
So did Marlene.
Mom’s face drained so fast it looked almost theatrical. Her mouth opened. The stranger did not move toward her. He simply looked at her, calm and unsmiling.
Then my mother grabbed Valerie’s arm and hurried toward the elevators.
That was the moment I knew the stranger was not a stranger to everyone.
That night, I could not sleep.
The ICU was never truly dark. Light glowed under doors, monitors blinked, nurses murmured. Every so often, I heard wheels rolling down the hallway, the soft squeak of rubber, the coded language of hospitals.
At 2:13 a.m., I turned my head.
The man was there again.
Not at the end of the hall this time. Outside my glass door.
He sat in the visitor chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped, looking down as if in prayer.
I pressed the call button.
Marlene came.
“The man,” I whispered. “Who is he?”
She looked through the glass. “He signed in as Thomas Hale.”
The name meant nothing.
“He says he’s your visitor,” she added carefully. “But he hasn’t asked to enter without permission.”
“Why?”
“That’s a question for him.”
“Can he come in?”
Marlene studied me. “Are you sure?”
No.
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