“Stop sitting there spiraling and start making calls,” he demands. “You’ve got HR, legal, payroll, half a dozen people whose whole job is knowing how this stuff works.”
He’s right. I hate how much he’s right.
“Stay put at the hospital,” he continues. “I’ll text Daniel too. We’ll start digging from our side. There has to be some route in.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Go do the boring paperwork hero stuff.”
We end the call and I stand there for a second, staring at the muted television mounted above the waiting room chairs across the hall. Some game show runs with captions on and no sound. People on the screen move their mouths and wave their hands like they’re performing for strangers.
I call HR. An answering service picks up. Then a transfer. Finally, a woman named Lexie with a calm voice and no patience for rambling asks me, very directly, what happened and what I need.
For the first time all day, I tell the story in order.
By the time I finish, I have three notes in my phone, two forms being emailed to me, and a possible path that sounds insane when she explains it and even more insane when I repeat it back. It isn’t elegant or clean. It depends on timing, signatures,a benefits manager willing to classify one emergency as an exception worth pushing through to the executive committee.
It also might work.
When I return to Hope’s room, my pulse has dropped from full panic to something I can manage.
She’s still asleep. I take my chair again and reach for her hand. Her fingers are cooler than before. I rub my thumb lightly across her knuckles without thinking.
A nurse comes in, checks the monitor, glances at me, glances at our hands. Leaves.
No one at the hospital seems to question our relationship, which should make this lie easier.
Instead it makes me more aware of the next problems I’ll need to solve. Telling my parents. Facing Hope when she wakes up. I could barely muster up the courage to talk to her before.
How will I explain this to her now?
An hour later my neck aches from the chair and the room has dimmed at the edges. I’m fighting sleep when Hope moves. It’s small at first, a shift under the blanket.
Her eyes open.
They pass over the ceiling, the machine, finally landing on me for a second before slipping again.
I lean forward, slowly. “Hey.”
Her gaze finds me again. Holds a little longer this time.
“You’re in the hospital,” I whisper. “You’re gonna be okay.”
Her mouth opens. No sound. She swallows and tries again. “You’re…here?”
“Yeah.” I take a breath. “I told them I was your husband.”
The words hover.
Her brow tightens.
“I needed them to make sure you were taken care of,” I add. “You didn’t want the ambulance. You kept talking about money.”
She watches me, trying to follow.
“I’m Alek,” I introduce myself for the second time today. “I’ve seen you play at the Market for weeks.”
A flicker crosses her face. Not quite recognition. More like vague understanding.
