Chapter 7 - The Recovery Ward
The morning sun over Hartford was crisp, clear, and uncharacteristically warm for late October.
When I walked through the doors of St. Matthew’s Hospital at nine o'clock, the lobby was quiet. The receptionist at the front desk didn't even check my visitor pass; she just smiled and pointed toward the elevator.
"Room 412," she said. "Fourth floor, end of the hall. He’s been asking if you brought his slippers."
I laughed, my heart feeling lighter than it had in years, and took the elevator up.
When I pushed open the door to Room 412, the room was flooded with golden morning light streaming through a wide window that looked out over the maple trees lining the hospital courtyard.
Edward was sitting up in bed, propped against three stiff white pillows. The oxygen cannula was gone, replaced by a simple nasal tube that wasn't even turned on, and the heavy bruising along his temple had faded into a soft yellowish-purple tint.
He was wearing a clean flannel shirt—the exact one Brianna had tried to throw away in the garbage bag two days ago.
As soon as I walked through the door, his eyes lit up.
"Well," Edward said, his voice stronger and clearer than it had been in the ICU. "Look what the cat dragged in. Did you feed the dog?"
"We don't have a dog, Grandpa," I said, walking over to the bedside and leaning down to wrap my arms around his shoulders, careful not to jostle his healing ribs.
"We should get one," he grumbled, patting my back with a steady, warm hand. "Something big and loud. Preferably one that bites tax attorneys and real estate agents."
I pulled back, laughing through my tears, and dropped a paper bag onto his bedside table.
"I brought your slippers," I said. "The old ones with the frayed heels."
Edward’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. He reached into the bag, pulled out the worn wool slippers, and inspected them as if they were made of solid gold.
"Good leather," he nodded sagely, slipping them onto his feet right there beneath the hospital sheets. "Has character. Never throw good leather away, Em."
"Never," I agreed, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside him.
May you like
For a long time, neither of us said anything. We just sat together in the warm morning light, listening to the faint hum of the hospital outside, knowing that whatever came next—whatever storms might try to roll in from the outside world—we were safe.
The house was standing. The past was buried. And the front porch swing was waiting for us to come home.
