Chapter 3 - Chicago Memorial
The sterile, chemical scent of antiseptic and floor wax hit them the moment the automatic sliding doors of Chicago Memorial Hospital parted.
Unlike the public waiting rooms downstairs, where families sat in rows of plastic chairs wrapped in blankets of anxiety and exhaustion, the private executive wing on the fourth floor was quiet, carpeted in thick gray wool, and smelling faintly of lemon polish.
Dr. Richard Vance—a tall, silver-haired physician who owed his private research grants to Whitmore Capital's philanthropic wing—was waiting by the nurses' station with a clipboard pressed against his chest. When he saw Andrew striding down the corridor carrying a five-year-old child in an oversized dress, followed by an elderly woman in a threadbare coat, his polite medical smile faltered into profound confusion.
"Andrew," Dr. Vance said, stepping forward. "Your office called saying there was an emergency admission, but—"
"Where is she, Richard?" Andrew interrupted, his voice dropping an octave.
"Room 412," Vance replied, pointing down the hall. "She's stable, but she took a heavy blow to the temple when the scaffolding slipped. She's drifting in and out of consciousness from a mild concussion and exhaustion. But Andrew, who—"
"Not now," Andrew said, walking past him without breaking stride.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door of Room 412.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the pale amber glow of a bedside lamp and the rhythmic, soft beep of a heart monitor. An IV pole stood beside the narrow hospital bed, clear saline droplets sliding down the plastic tubing into an IV line taped to the back of a pale, thin hand.
On the pillow lay Mary.
Time had been unkind to her, yet the core of her face remained unchanged. Her light brown hair was streaked with silver at the temples, pulled back into a loose, messy braid. Dark purple bruises shadowed her closed eyelids, and a white gauze bandage was wrapped securely around her forehead just above her left eyebrow. Her breathing was shallow, punctuated by a faint, whistling rattle in her chest—the legacy of too many winters spent in drafty rooms with broken radiators.
Andrew stopped dead in his tracks.
The air left his lungs in a single, silent rush. For a terrifying second, he felt like he was twenty-five again, standing in a cramped apartment on Racine Street, watching Mary laugh as she tried to patch a hole in his only interview suit with a needle and thread.
“You’re going to run Wall Street one day, Andy,” she had told him, kissing his cheek with flour-dusted lips. “And when you do, don't forget where you left your heart.”
He had forgotten. He had traded his heart for a balance sheet, believing that affection was a luxury item reserved for men who couldn't afford ambition.
"Mommy?"
Lauren’s small voice broke the heavy silence of the room.
Andrew carefully lowered the child until her feet touched the linoleum floor. Lauren didn't wait; she scrambled up onto the edge of the hospital mattress, crawling gingerly over the blankets so as not to disturb the IV tubes, and pressed her face gently against Mary’s uninjured shoulder.
"Mommy, wake up. I found the mister. He bought me a pretzel."
For a moment, nothing happened. The heart monitor beeped on in its steady, mechanical cadence.
Then, slowly, Mary’s eyelashes fluttered.
She winced, a soft groan escaping her cracked lips as her hand rose instinctively to touch the white bandage on her forehead. Her dark eyes blinked open, unfocused and disoriented, staring up at the white acoustic ceiling tiles before shifting downward.
She saw Lauren.
And then, standing at the foot of the bed, she saw Andrew.
Mary froze.
The color drained entirely from her face, leaving her skin translucent under the harsh hospital light. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She blinked twice, as if convinced that the concussion had finally caused her mind to hallucinate ghosts from a life she had buried years ago.
"Andy?" she whispered, her voice cracking like dry wood.
May you like
Andrew swallowed hard, taking two slow steps forward until his hands rested on the metal safety rail of the bed.
"Hello, Mary," he said, his voice thick and unfamiliar even to his own ears. "I'm sorry I'm late."
