From Loyalty to Divorce

Chapter 3 — Back to the Hallway

I blinked and came back to the present. The hospital hallway was bright and cold. The red SURGERY light was on. I told myself to stay calm and wait.

I needed something to do with my hands, so I walked to the vending machine and bought a coffee. The machine dropped a paper cup and filled it. The coffee smelled burnt. I held the cup anyway because it was warm. I took a small sip. It was bitter, but it kept me standing.

The waiting room was quiet. A TV showed a weather map with no sound. A janitor pushed a cart and wiped the floor. A man in a baseball jacket slept with his chin on his chest. I sat where I could see the red light. I watched the seconds move on a wall clock. I told myself to breathe in and out, slow and steady.

The automatic doors opened. Cold air came in. Voices followed—fast and loud.

“Move. I need a doctor."

I looked up. Harrison was carrying Emily in his arms. He walked fast, eyes sharp, mouth tight. Her head rested against his shoulder. Her cheeks were pink, not pale. A nurse rolled up a wheelchair. Harrison put Emily in it and stood close while they checked her temperature and pulse.

“Fever," the nurse said. “We'll take her to an exam room."

“That's not enough," Harrison said. “Order labs and imaging."

“Sir," the nurse said, “she looks like she has a cold."

Emily gave a small, careful smile. “I'm okay."

Harrison's hand stayed on her shoulder. “Do the tests anyway."

They turned the chair toward the exam corridor. Emily glanced up and saw me. Her face changed for a second. She looked surprised, then pleased. Harrison followed her eyes and saw me too. For a breath he looked unsure. Then he looked the way he always did in public—calm and in control.

He said nothing to me. He walked beside the wheelchair and disappeared into the exam area. I stayed where I was. I picked up my coffee, set it down again, and told myself to watch the red light and wait for news about my daughter.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. I stood, stretched, and sat again. I sent my mother a message that said, “Mia is in surgery. I'll update you." I did not hit send. I put the phone down. I closed my eyes and pictured Mia's face. I told her in my head, I am here.

A volunteer offered me a blanket. I said yes and thanked her. I pulled it over my knees. It scratched a little, but it helped. A nurse stopped to ask if I needed water. I said no. I wanted to keep my seat and watch the doors.

More time passed. A resident with kind eyes came over. “They're moving along," he said. “I'll let you know when the doctor is ready to talk." I nodded. He walked away. The red light stayed on.

The elevator opened behind me. Footsteps came down the hall and stopped. I knew the sound before I turned. Harrison.

He stood there looking at the red sign. He looked back at me. The muscles in his jaw were tight. He had that same clean, sharp smell I used to like. Now it only made my heart beat harder.

“Charlotte," he said.

I did not stand. I kept my eyes on the red light and then back to him. “What do you want?"

He glanced at the doors again. “Why are you here?"

The question shocked me. “Mia is in surgery," I said. “This is the surgical floor."

His eyes flashed. “Where is she? What room?"

“You can't go in," I said. “No one can. You can wait here like I'm waiting."

He took a short breath, like he was catching up with the facts. “How long has she been in there?"

“A few hours," I said. “They're doing it laparoscopically. The surgeon said it was urgent."

“Why didn't you call me sooner?" His voice was low, like he was trying not to draw attention, but every word hit hard. “If she had any pain, you should have told me immediately."

“I called you," I said.

“When?"

“Tonight," I said. “When they took her in." I let the rest hang in the air. He knew who had answered his phone.

His mouth pressed into a line. He looked at the floor, then at the doors, then at me. “You should have paged me through the pack line," he said. “There are protocols."

“I called the number that reaches you," I said. “Someone else picked up."

“This is not the time," he said.

“It's exactly the time," I said. “Mia asked to see you before she went under."

His eyes moved to the red light again. The muscles in his neck shifted. “I'll stand by the doors," he said. “If they allow me, I'll go in."

“You won't be allowed," I said. “But you can stand there."

He took two steps closer. “Is anyone at the house?"

“Yes," I said. “I arranged help before I left."

He looked me up and down, as if he needed proof I was telling the truth. “Does she have a fever? Was there vomiting before this?"

“No fever. No vomiting. It started fast," I said. “The doctor thinks it was a twist. They're fixing it."

He nodded once, slow. Then the mask came back. “Next time, you need to keep a log. Symptoms. Times. Food. I've told you to do that. That's why you have staff and a driver and—"

“And I used all of it to get her here," I said. “I carried her into triage. I signed the forms. I answered the questions while she was scared."

“Don't be dramatic," he said. “I'm trying to make sure this doesn't happen again."

“You can't stop bad things by making more lists," I said. “You can only show up."

He stared at me, then shifted his weight like he was done with the argument. “Fine," he said. “I'll be by the doors." He took a step, then paused and looked back at me. “How long has it been, exactly?"

“Since they took her in? Three hours," I said.

He made a small sound in his throat. He looked at my blanket, my cup, my face. He seemed to think of a lot of words and then choose none of them. He turned and went to the double doors and stood there, hands on his hips, eyes on the red glow.

I watched the clock. I watched him not move. The hallway breathed. People came and went. I stayed. I did not speak to him again. I did not ask him why he had carried Emily through the entrance like a hero. I did not ask him why he had looked at me like I was a stranger.

After a while, my coffee was cold. I threw it away. I folded the blanket and set it on the chair next to mine. I rubbed my arms to stay warm. I thought about the first time he had sat with me in a hospital and told me to breathe. I pushed the thought away and looked at the doors.

The elevator opened again. Two nurses came out with clipboards. They walked past me and nodded. I nodded back. Time felt heavy. The red light stayed on.

Harrison's phone buzzed. He checked the screen and answered without moving from his spot. “Yes," he said. “I'm at the hospital. No. Later." He hung up.

I stood and walked a small circle to keep my legs from going numb. When I sat again, he left the doors and came back to me.

“How long have you been here?" he asked.

“Since they took her in," I said.

“You should have told my assistant," he said. “He would have cleared the floor."

“The floor doesn't need clearing," I said. “It needs doctors and quiet. They have both."

He put his hands on the back of the chair across from me and leaned in a little. “Why are you in this building? This is the surgical floor. Emily is downstairs."

“I'm here for Mia," I said.

He frowned. “And Emily?"

“She has doctors," I said. “So does our daughter."

He looked at me like I had missed an obvious rule. “I asked a simple question," he said. “Answer it."

“I did," I said. “I'm here for Mia."

His jaw flexed again. He looked at the clock, then at me. “What time did you arrive?"

“Right after triage," I said. “I haven't left."

He stared, as if the idea of me staying in one place without instructions annoyed him. “Charlotte," he said, “why are you actually here? It's the middle of the night."

I kept my voice level. “Because our daughter is in surgery."

He leaned closer. His eyes were hard now. “No," he said. “Tell me the truth. Did you follow me?"

I blinked. “What?"

“You heard me," he said, each word clipped and clear. “It's late. You're on my floor. You're watching me. Are you following me?"

I looked at him a long second. The red light washed his face. The hallway hummed. I felt very calm.

“No," I said. “I'm waiting for my child."

He did not look convinced. He waited for me to say something else. I didn't.

He straightened. “If you are here to make a scene, don't," he said. “If you're here for Mia, sit and wait."

“I have been," I said.

He opened his mouth again. The elevator dinged. A nurse stepped out. “Ms. Hale?" she called. “The surgeon will see you now."

I stood up. I met Harrison's eyes once, not long enough to say anything that would turn into a fight. Then I followed the nurse down the hall.

Behind me, Harrison said, low and sharp, “This isn't over."

I kept walking. The red light stayed on behind my back. The hallway smelled like lemon cleaner and cold air. My steps were steady. I was going to hear what the doctor had to say about my daughter. Everything else could wait.