Speechless(170)

                But that was in a different hospital, not this one. The last                     time I was in this hospital, I was eight and fell                     off the jungle gym, and Mom was convinced I’d broken my arm from the way I was                     screaming my head off. Turned out to be only a bad sprain. The nurse wrapped it                     in an Ace bandage, presented me with a lollipop (which shut the tears off                     instantly) and sent me home with an ice pack and a recommendation for Children’s                     Tylenol.

                I don’t have any traumatic memories associated with hospitals,                     really, and I’d like to keep it that way. As Sam and I step into the elevator in                     Van Buren Memorial, somehow I’m not so sure that’ll be possible.

                Sam knows where he’s going, of course. I follow him out of the                     elevator, down the squeaky linoleum hall, and to the nurses’ station.

                “We’re here to see Noah Beckett,” he says to the woman at the                     desk. She smiles and gives him a room number.

                I know I suggested coming here, but I’m still numb with fear as                     we walk down toward some rooms. Am I really ready for this? I’m about seventy                     percent committed in my head to spinning on my heel and fleeing the hospital                     when Sam reaches for my hand.

                “It’s gonna be fine,” he says, and squeezes, and it helps, a                     little.

                A short blonde woman stands outside of Noah’s room, talking to                     a doctor in hushed tones. Sam and I hang back until the doctor says a final word                     and walks away. The woman stares after him, and Sam says, “Mrs. Beckett?”

                When she turns at his voice, the woman’s distracted look is                     replaced by a genuine smile. “Sam,” she says warmly. “It’s so good to see                     you.”

                He drops my hand and hugs her, and she pecks him on the                     cheek.

                “How is he?” he asks softly.

                “He’s improving,” she tells him. “They’re saying we can take                     him home next week.”

                “That’s great news.” Sam squeezes her shoulder. “And how about                     you?”

                “I’m holding up all right.” Her smile is a little wobbly around                     the edges. She looks over his shoulder at me. “Who is your friend?”