Seemed to be a race between the one all the way on the right and the one in the middle.
The center elevator won, and he piled in with the rest of the people, joining the scramble of reach arounds as he punched in his floor and then oriented himself facing the digital number readout above. Bing. Bing. Bing. Doors opened. People shuffled. Bing. Doors opened. More shuffling.
He got out on twelve and did not say anything to anyone at the nurses' station. It had been easy to get this far, maybe too easy, and he wasn't volunteering for any bottlenecks. Hell, it wouldn't surprise him to find a CPD uni outside 1253...but there wasn't. There also weren't any family or friends milling around the closed door.
He knocked softly and leaned in. "Devina?"
"Jim?" came the quiet voice. "Hold on a minute."
As he waited, he glanced up and down the corridor. A cleaning cart was parked in between Devina's and the room next door, and an upright cupboard on wheels was coming down toward him - which given the smell of wax beans and hamburgers as it passed, meant it was lunch. Nurses were walking here, there, and everywhere, and down at the far end, a patient was taking baby steps in his johnny, his hand on his IV pole.
Looked like he was taking the thing out for a walk so it could pee on the doorjambs.
"Okay, come in."
He stepped into a dim room that was exactly as his had been: beige, stark, and dominated by the hospital bed in the middle. Across the way, the curtain that was drawn against the daylight was moving ever so slightly, as if she had closed it - maybe so he couldn't get a clearer picture of her face.
Which was a mess.
So much so, he paused for a moment. Her beautiful features were distorted by swelling on the cheeks, chin, and eyes; her lip was split open; and the purple bruising on her pale skin was like a stain on a wedding gown - ugly and tragic.
"It's that bad, isn't it," she said, raising a shaking hand to shield herself.
"Jesus...Christ. Are you okay?"
"I will be, I think. They held me over because I have a concussion." As she tugged up the thin blanket that covered her, Jim eagle-eyed her hands. No bruising on the knuckles.
Which meant she didn't do this to herself and didn't - or more likely couldn't - fight back.
Staring at her, Jim felt his resolve shift around like it was trying to find level ground. What if...no, Vin couldn't have done this. Could he?
"I'm so sorry," Jim murmured, sinking down onto the corner of the bed.
"I shouldn't have told him about you and me..." She snapped a Kleenex out of a box and carefully dabbed under her eyes. "But my conscience was killing me and I...didn't expect this. He broke off the engagement, too."
Jim frowned, thinking last he'd heard, the plan had been for the guy to break up with her. "He asked you to marry him?"
"That's why I had to tell him. He got down on one knee and asked me...and I said yes, but then I had to tell him what had happened." Devina sat forward and gripped his forearm. "I'd stay away from him. For your sake. He's furious."
Thinking back on the guy's expression when he'd been talking about Devina's blue dress smelling like another man's cologne, it wasn't hard to imagine that was true. But there were parts of this situation that just didn't compute - although it was hard to think like that, looking at Devina's face...and her arm.
Which had a series of bruises that formed the shape of a man's hand. "When are they letting you out of here?" he asked.
"Probably this afternoon. God, I hate that you're seeing me like this."
"I'm the last person you should worry about."
There was a silence. "Can you believe where we ended up?" she said softly.
No. On so many levels. "You got family coming to pick you up?"
"They're due here around one when I'm supposed to be discharged. They're really concerned."
"I can understand why."
"The thing is, part of me wants to see him. I want to...talk this through. I just don't know...And before you judge, I'm aware of how bad that sounds. I should just walk away, put as much distance as I can between us. But I can't let go that easily. I love him."
The defeat in her was as hard to bear as the condition she was in, and Jim took her hand.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so damned sorry."
She squeezed his palm. "You are such a good friend."
There was a sharp knock and then a nurse came in. "How're we doing?"
"I'd better go," Jim said. As he got to his feet, he nodded to the nurse and refocused on Devina. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Can I have your number? Just in case...I don't know..." He gave her the digits, said another good-bye, and took off.
As he left the ward, he felt the way he had on many of his military missions: Conflicting information, incomprehensible actions, unpredictable choices...he'd seen it all before, with only the vocabulary of names and locations changing.
Sifting through what he knew to be true, there were a lot of blanks to be filled, and more questions were raised than solid answers found.
As he got on the elevator and watched the numbers decrease until the readout showed an L, he fell back on training and experience: When you didn't know what was doing, you gathered information.
Back at the help desk, he approached the little old lady and pointed to the double doors he'd come into the building through. "Is this the only way out for patients?"
She smiled in that warm way - which gave him the impression she might make really good Christmas cookies. "Most of them leave from here, yes. Especially if they're getting picked up."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Jim went out and scoped the front of the building. There were a number of places to sit down and watch the exit, but the little benches between the bald trees that ran along the sidewalk didn't have enough cover. And there were no corners to duck behind.
He looked past the overhang of the porte cochere to the parking lot, wishing like hell he could find a spot -
At that very moment, an SUV backed out of a space that was two down from the ones marked with blue-and-white handicapped signs.
Three minutes later, Jim pulled his truck into the empty slot, killed the engine, and trained his eyes on the inpatient center. The fact that he had to look through the window of the minivan next door was the perfect camouflage.
He'd learned long ago that the information you got when you gathered in secret was likely to be the most helpful.
"Are you ready?" Marie-Terese called up from the kitchen.
"Almost," Robbie shouted down.
Checking her watch, she decided a more hands-on approach was needed to get them out of the house on time. Mounting the carpeted stairs one by one, her flats were quiet on the blue-and-maroon zigzag pattern. Like the rest of the decor, the runner was nothing she would have picked, but understandable for a high-traffic area in a rental house.
She found her son in front of his mirror, trying to get his mini-man tie to hang straight.
For a moment, she was overcome by maternal extrapolation: In a flash, she saw him standing gangly but strong on his way to his senior prom. And then proud and tall at his college graduation. And even later, in a tuxedo at his wedding.
"What are you looking at?" he said, fidgeting.
The future, she prayed. A nice, normal future that was as far away as possible from what the last couple years had been like for them. "Do you need help?" she asked.
"I can't do this." His hands flopped to his sides and he pivoted to her in capitulation.
Coming forward, she knelt down before him and loosened the off-kilter knot. While she worked, he stood with such patience and trust, it was hard not to think of herself as at least a halfway decent mother.
"I think we're going to have to get you a bigger blazer."
"Yeah...it's getting tight in the top part. And look...see?" Putting out his arms, he frowned at the way the sleeves rode up halfway to his elbows. "I hate it."
She made quick work of the short strip of navy blue and red, not at all surprised he approved of the jacket's fit. Her son always liked dressing up in suits, and he preferred his shoes, even his sneakers, to be scuff-free. The same was true about everything he had: Open his drawers or his closet and the clothes were all arranged and hanging neatly; his books were lined up on the shelves; and his bed was never unmade unless he was between the sheets.