It wasn't concern. It was observation. Elliot seemed tired, therefore Elliot wasn't maintaining proper standards.
"Long flight.”
"How's the assignment?"
There it was. The inevitable pivot from his mother's cancer to Elliot's career performance, because apparently a hospital room was as good a place as any for a professional evaluation.
"It's going well," Elliot said. "We've been running joint exercises with?—"
"I read your last performance review." His father's tone was neutral, but Elliot knew it well. "Your CO speaks highly of your tactical planning skills. Says you have strong potential for advancement."
Strong potential. Not exceptional. Not remarkable. Which meant there was still distance between where Elliot was and where he should be.
"I appreciate that," Elliot said.
"He also noted you tend to work independently. Difficulty delegating."
"I'm working on it."
His father nodded. "See that you do. Leadership isn't about doing everything yourself. It's about making others capable of meeting your standards."
Elliot folded his hands in his lap, fingers laced together to keep them still. An old habit. His father had taught him that fidgeting showed a lack of discipline. He'd gotten very good at being still.
"How long is your leave?" his father asked.
"Two weeks."
"You'll stay at the house."
Elliot's stomach plummeted—the childhood bedroom, his trophies gathering dust, eating breakfast with his father while being found wanting in ten different ways before the coffee finished brewing.
"I was thinking of getting a hotel," Elliot said carefully. "So I'm closer to the hospital."
"That's unnecessary. The house is fifteen minutes from Walter Reed."
"I know, but?—"
"You'll stay at the house." His father's tone shifted—not quite an order, but close enough that arguing would be insubordination. "Your mother will want to know you're there when she wakes up. It will give her peace of mind."
"Yes, sir."
His father checked his watch. "I have a conference call at 1900." He looked at Elliot's mother, expression unreadable. "Call if there's any change."
"I will."
The door clicked shut.
Two weeks of this.
Another hour went by without his mother waking. The nurses assured him, again, that she was stable, that he should go get some rest, that there was nothing more he could do tonight.
But he didn't want to leave. The hospital room felt safer than what was waiting for him fifteen minutes away.
Elliot reached into his duffel and pulled out a book. Small, worn, the cover soft from decades of handling. It was his mother's copy. Her handwriting scattered through the margins in faded pencil, little notes he'd read so manytimes he knew them by heart.Comme c'est vrai, she'd written next to one passage.How true this is.
He flipped to the first page and read aloud, voice low."Toutes les grandes personnes ont d'abord été des enfants, mais peu d'entre elles s'en souviennent."
All grown-ups were once children. But few of them remember it.
