“Filed for divorce that morning. Apparently, she told the intake nurse she’s too young to be a caretaker.”
Something cold slid down my spine. The words felt strangely familiar.
“Do we have background information?” I asked quietly.
She handed me the chart. “Not much family listed.”
“Wife dropped him at the hospital entrance and drove off.”
I opened the folder.
When I saw the patient’s name and birth date, my hands froze.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Because the name on the chart was one I hadn’t spoken to in years.
***
I stood outside Room 304 for a moment before pushing it open.
The man lying there looked older, with gray hair and sunken cheeks.
One side of his body lay stiff beneath the blanket.
The name on the chart was one I hadn’t spoken to in years.
When he saw me, panic flashed across his face. Recognition followed, hitting him like a physical blow. His left hand began violently trembling under the hospital blanket while his mouth struggled to form words.
“Ke… Kelly…”
I walked closer to the man I once called my father.
My chest felt tight.
He stared at me as if I were the only solid thing left in the world.
Panic flashed across his face.
Then he forced the words out. “Don’t… leave… me.” His shaking hand fumbled under the blanket.
He pressed something into my palm that he had been clutching since admission.
“Please. Take this.”
I looked down. And my breath left my body.
It was his Rolex. The exact one he adjusted the day he abandoned me, us.
But the back cover was open, and inside was a tiny hidden compartment.
He pressed something into my palm.
Folded into it was a picture of Jason and me sitting on the living room floor. The photo had been taken the day before Mom started chemotherapy. Jason held a toy truck. I wore my soccer uniform.
Leave a Comment