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“Thank you,” I said, taking it and flipping through the chart. There was a name on the chart now. Grayson Thomas. It was just a name, letters on a page, but they morphed the image of the freckle-faced boy in my mind, animating him, making him more than the flesh and bones and billions of cells he should have been.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
“The boy made it through surgery just fine, Dr. Dawson,” she replied. “No complications.”
“Can you tell me which room he’s in?”
A furrow formed between her heavily plucked eyebrows. The dramatic arch to them made it look like she was always a little surprised, but the disbelief she wore on her face now was not due to her grooming habits.
It wasn’t that I’d never come to inquire after a patient, but looking in on them, visiting with them was certainly a rare occurrence.
“Um, of course,” she replied after a momentary pause. “He’s in room four-one-seven; just make a left at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you,” I said as I turned away, then I followed the tiled hallway to the end and made a left. I pushed open the door to four-one-seven, but my patient was not alone. There was a man with the boy, hovering over him with his back toward me.
As I stepped into the room, the man stood up straight and spun to face me. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Something about the scene was making me uneasy.
“Excuse me,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I’m Dr. Dawson; I treated Mr. Grayson in the ER earlier today. Can I help you with something?”
He took a step toward me, away from the boy’s bed, offering me a faint smile. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, about my height, with a neatly trimmed beard and a calm demeanor. There was nothing inherently threatening about him, but an indefinable unease settled in the pit of my stomach.
“Ah, Dr. Dawson,” he replied, his features arranged in a polite expression. “I’m a family friend of Grayson’s. My name is Alex. I wanted to check on him while his parents are away.”
I nodded, acknowledging his explanation. But I’d seen countless friends and family members visit patients in the hospital. Something about this encounter felt different.
“I appreciate your concern for the boy, but I must ask that you leave,” I said firmly, trying to conceal my unease.
Alex’s smile faltered, and his demeanor shifted ever so slightly. “Oh, I understand. I just wanted to make sure Grayson was okay,” he replied.
“I assure you, he is in good hands. Only immediate family members are allowed in patient rooms at the moment.” I glanced at my watch. “And visiting hours are over. If you’d like to visit him, I would recommend coordinating with his parents.”
Alex nodded, seemingly unfazed by my request.
“Of course, Dr. Dawson. I understand the need for precautions.”
He walked past me then and out of the room without another glance at the boy.A friend, indeed.Not that I was an expert. My only “friend” through my teenage years was the neighbor to my last foster family, an old cantankerous Brit who softened a great deal if you managed to work your way beneath the crotchety outer surface.
I looked at the boy who was fast asleep on the hospital bed. He had thick eyelashes, and his lips were parted as he slept. Combined with the mass of freckles on his face, he looked terribly innocent.
There wasn’t really much I could do for him. He was asleep and would likely remain that way for some time. I watched his vitals on the monitor for a moment, adjusted his blanket. I was just about to fluff his pillow beneath him when I stopped.
What on earth are you doing?
I rolled my eyes at myself and left the room. Professional distance wasn’t a luxury; it was a necessity.
But as I retraced my steps back down the hallway, an image of Alex sprung to mind, and the prickling began again at the back of my neck.
“No visitors in Mr. Thomas’s room,” I said to the nurse with the butterfly scrubs at the nurse’s station. “And keep a close eye on him…please,”I persisted, even knowing it was quite ridiculous of me.
I’d never had this type of “radar” before, the sixth sense that others might have called “gut instinct”. Surely, it was only my brief foray into a world that wasn’t my own that had me making specters out of shadows.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amadeo
“Who is he?” I snapped the moment Vito walked into the room.
Cielo and I were sitting in the parlor. I’d been sipping on the same whiskey for the past half hour, waiting for answers.
