He stayed several hours that first day.
Then he went home.
He returned Saturday.
Then Tuesday.
At least, those were the days I remembered him visiting.
So when one of the nurses came into my room on Thursday, noticed the yellow flowers beside my bed, and smiled, I didn’t think much of it.
“You have such a devoted husband,” she said.
I smiled.
“He’s a good man.”
“He certainly is. He’s here every day.”
I looked at her.
“Every day?”
She nodded casually.
“Tall gentleman? Gray hair? Usually wearing a blue jacket?”
My smile disappeared.
That description fit David perfectly.
Tall.
Gray hair.
Navy jacket.
But he had not visited me every day.
Or at least, he had not visited me.
I considered correcting her.
Then something stopped me.
Instead, I said nothing.
After she left, I stared at the yellow flowers for a long time.
That afternoon, I called David.
We spoke normally.
He told me he would come see me again in three days.
I didn’t mention what the nurse had said.
Thirty-one years of marriage had taught me that sometimes it was better to understand what you were dealing with before confronting it.
Maybe the nurse was confused.
Maybe she had mistaken another man for David.
Or maybe something was happening that I didn’t yet understand.
The following morning, my doctor told me I was strong enough to walk farther down the hallway.
So I put on my robe, slipped my feet into hospital slippers, gripped my walker, and slowly made my way toward the elevators.
I had almost reached the curve in the corridor when the elevator doors opened.
And David stepped out.
He was holding flowers.
For half a second, I felt relieved.
There he was.
My husband.
He had surprised me.
I opened my mouth to call his name.
Then he turned.
And walked away from my room.
I stopped.
David didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t look confused.
He moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going.
My first instinct was to believe there had to be an innocent explanation.
Maybe he was visiting a client.
A friend.
Someone from work.
Perhaps he had simply planned to see them before coming to me.
But then I remembered the nurse.
He comes every day.
I followed him.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Pushing the walker ahead of me while he disappeared farther down the corridor.
At the end of the hallway, he turned.
