“Transferred where?”
“I’m not authorized to discuss patient information over the phone. You’ll need to speak with the attending physician.”
“Was my husband there this morning?”
Another pause.
“I don’t see a visitor logged under that name today.”
I ended the call without remembering to say goodbye.
That evening, I waited until Michael had finished dinner.
“When did you last see your mother?” I asked.
“This morning.”
“The hospital said you weren’t there.”
He laughed as though I had said something childish.
“Those nurses change shifts constantly. Half of them don’t know who has visited whom.”
“They also said Patricia isn’t in the rehabilitation wing.”
For one second, something cold flashed across his face.
Then it disappeared.
“They moved her to another section for testing. I didn’t want to worry you until I understood what was happening.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because this is exactly what I was afraid of. You’re already stressed.”
He pulled out the chair beside me.
“Listen to me. The doctors asked me to manage this. You have to trust your husband.”
I looked into the face I had known for more than a decade.
“I do trust you,” I whispered.
It sounded less like a statement and more like a plea.
Three days later, Michael packed a suitcase.
“Conference in Denver,” he explained. “I’ll be gone until Friday.”
“Will you visit Patricia before you leave?”
“I already did.”
“Tell her I love her.”
“I always do.”
He kissed my cheek and left.
That afternoon, while I was folding his shirts, my phone rang from an unfamiliar number.
“Is this Michael’s wife?” a man asked.
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Hensley from St. Anne’s Hospital. You are listed as Patricia’s secondary emergency contact. We’ve been unable to reach Michael.”
My hands went cold.
“What happened?”
“Patricia’s condition has declined. You need to come to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“Is she dying?”
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