Visiting Hours

Visiting hours ended at 8. It's 11:40 p.m., and you're standing in an elevator holding grocery-store flowers. The air reeks of hand sanitizer and cleaning products.

You lied to the guard downstairs. You said you were family. That's the first lie you've told tonight, and you don't count it. Your aunt is on the fifth floor. The surgery took longer than expected, and your flight was delayed. You just wanted to see her tonight. Even if she was asleep, you wanted to see her for a second.

You hit the 5 button. Nothing happens. You hit it again, harder. You want it to work. The elevator skips the fifth floor and opens onto the sixth.

You should go back down. You know you should. But you've already stepped out, and the doors close behind you, and you're facing a hallway. A sign points to the nurses' station. They must know where your aunt is.

It's dark in the hospital. Only every other light is on. Monitors beep inside the walls, like crickets outside, you guess. You tiptoe to the nurses' station. No one is there. There's a half-eaten sandwich, a mug with a cartoon cat on it, and a computer glowing with patients' names.

"Hello?" you whisper.

No answer. A door a few feet away stands open, and you can see the light of a TV inside. You'll knock and ask. You'll be quick and leave.

You walk over and lean in.

"Mikey?"

His voice is raspy, like paper rubbing against itself.

You open the door a little more. A man lies in the bed, an oxygen line looped over his ears, his hands resting on top of the blanket. His eyes are hazy but focused on something near you.

"You made it."

As if he wasn't expecting you to.

"I think I'm—"

"Get closer, where I can see you."

You want to tell him you aren't who he thinks you are. You can't. You walk over and sit in the chair next to the bed.

He takes your hand on top of the blanket. It feels so light, like you could snap it in half.

"Did you drive?"

"Yeah."

"In this weather?"

"It wasn't too bad."

He smiles. You lied. It's nice and clear out.

"These are for me?" He looks toward the flowers.

"They're for my aunt." You slip up.

"Your aunt." He chuckles. "Your mother's sister? She never liked my cooking."

"Yeah. That one."

He leans back into the pillow, smiling. You realize what's happening. He's telling you about his life, and you're letting it become yours.

A nurse walks in around 12:30 a.m. She's short, with her glasses pushed up on her head. She looks at you. You freeze.

"Mr. Alvarez. Who is this?"

You open your mouth to speak.

"My son," he says. "He drove all night."

The nurse looks at you. Then at him. Then at the machines, and at his hand around yours. Something in her face softens. Maybe she knows some things matter more than rules.

"It's after visiting hours."

"He's staying the night."

She nods and checks his lines. "If his breathing changes, press this." She hands you the call button. "And don't let him talk you into any ice."

She leaves you alone in the room with this man. You're sitting beside a bed that isn't yours, holding a button that could change everything. No one has stopped you.

An hour later, he asks for water. You pour it from the pitcher on his tray and hold the cup to his mouth with your right hand. He drinks slowly and says nothing.

"Can you tell me something?" he asks at 2 a.m.

"Tell you what?"

"Anything. Something I don't know."

An old movie plays on the TV with the sound off. You could say anything. He'd believe you, and you could walk away from this.

"My dad passed away in March."

You didn't mean to tell him. Your voice sounds muffled.

"I was staying at a hotel in another country. A nurse called me and held her phone up to his face. She told me to talk to him. Said he could still hear me. I don't think he was alive anymore. I told him I was sorry I wasn't there. I was talking to a phone."

The old man doesn't respond for a while. His breathing is getting shallower.

"You held the cup in your right hand."

"What?"

"When you gave me the water. My son is left-handed. We always sat on opposite sides of the table so we wouldn't bump elbows."

Your heart is racing. You pull your hand away. He doesn't let go.

"I'm sorry, I just—"

"I knew you weren't him when you walked in. Mikey stomps when he walks. But someone came, and I thought maybe that was good enough."

"I shouldn't be here."

"No, you shouldn't. But stay. My son is coming. He's always late. When he gets here, I want him to sit in a warm chair."

You stay.

You don't know how long. You fall asleep and wake up. He falls asleep and calls you Mikey, or doesn't. You give him ice chips. It doesn't matter.

At 4:10 a.m., you hear footsteps in the hallway. They aren't a nurse's steps. They're heavy and uneven, and they're running. A man bursts into the room in a wrinkled suit, a luggage tag still hanging from his bag. He looks like he hasn't slept. He sees you.

"Who are you?"

You look down at your hand in his father's.

You want to tell him everything. You want to explain yourself, but you don't. You don't have the right.

The man in the bed is sleeping. His chest moves up and down.

You let go of his hand and set it on the blanket. You stand. Your legs ache from sitting so long. The chair behind you is warm.

"He was asking for you."

The truth. You finally told someone something true.

When you step into the elevator, the 5 button lights up. Of course it does.

You're holding flowers, and this time they're for someone. You will walk to your aunt's room. Stand in the doorway. Watch her sleep. Leave the flowers and walk away. You'll remember this all day: how you held someone's hand, and sat in a chair, and how warm it was when you stood up.