There was no reason for riddles in a hospital room, not when we were dealing with something as heavy as Ben’s final weeks. I looked at Ben, his chest rising and falling beneath the white hospital blanket, and wondered if she was simply confused.
An hour passed, marked only by the periodic hiss of the blood pressure cuff inflating on Ben’s arm. The sound was like a heavy sigh, repeating every thirty minutes to break the silence.
At a quarter to eleven, Ben stirred, grunting as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Dearest,” he mumbled, rubbing his left temple with his thumb. “I need the restroom.”
“Do you want me to call the orderly?” I asked, rising to help him.
“No, I can manage the walk,” he said, his voice thick with sleep. He did not look at me, his eyes fixed on the linoleum floor.
He shuffled into the small bathroom and clicked the lock, the fan starting up with a dull, rattling vibration.
The whisper from the nurse kept echoing in my mind, sounding more like a warning than a piece of advice. I looked at the bed, then at the locked bathroom door where the yellow light showed beneath the crack.
I stepped closer, my heart giving a strange, heavy thud against my ribs. I had never been a suspicious woman, but the silence of the hospital at night made everything feel magnified.
I slipped my fingers under the edge of the mattress, right where his shoulders usually rested. The fabric of the mattress was rough and cold against my fingertips.
My hand brushed against something smooth and stiff, hidden deep between the metal frame and the blue vinyl mattress cover.
I tugged at it, my breath shallow, until a corner of green vinyl slid into the dim light of the bedside lamp. It was a heavy medical folder, completely unmarked on the outside, its surface slightly dusty.
The bathroom door handle clicked, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
