What's a Soulmate?

by Lindsey Ouimet

  She walks through the front door, my father a few feet behind her. She smiles at me, hanging her coat up on the rack, and her cheeks are red from the cold and wind. I latch on to that one little fact and stand up so quickly I bang my shin into the coffee table.

  “You know, you always told me my hair was red. But nobody ever said it was so … red.”

  The first half of the sentence is competing with the noise of the table as it scrapes across the floor, and the last word almost gets lost in this weird little laugh-gasp combo she lets out. She covers her mouth with her hand and glances at my father over her shoulder. I catch the quickest flash of pain as it crosses her face when she sees he’s not surprised, but she covers it well.

  She turns to face him completely and shoos him into the kitchen with her purse still in one hand.

  “We need something. Tea, hot chocolate, something!”

  “Mom,” I say, already feeling like the worst daughter in the world before she faces me again. “Mom, I don’t— Can we, can we maybe hold off on the celebratory drinks?”

  She sets her purse down on the floor and crosses fully into the living room. She lowers her voice and glances back over her shoulder. Dad’s already in the kitchen though, probably following through on her order even though there’s no way I can fit anything else in my stomach. There’s already enough Chinese food and anxiety as it is.

  “Is everything okay? It wasn’t like… Your father and I, was it?”

  “No,” I assure her, shaking my head from side to side. “No. It’s nothing like that. He… I’m his match, too.”

  Her shoulders relax and she sinks down onto the sofa. I sit beside her, close to the edge with my hands caught between my knees. I’ve been picking at the skin around my thumbnail again, and know I’ll keep on until it bleeds unless I physically restrain myself.

  “It’s been a really long day and there’s a lot I need to think about. Before I’m ready to talk about it, I guess.”

  I think about telling her how I’ve been thinking about it for a while and still haven’t been able to really, truly process my thoughts. I want to say I’m sorry for not thinking I could come to her with it, but that would only make everything about this moment seem less authentic once she finds out how I’m keeping so much from her still.

  I also kind of want to curl up in bed and go to sleep. Pretend there’s nothing to worry about at all. It’s remarkably easy to settle on this option.

  “I think I’m just going to go get ready for bed.”

  Mom nods and says something about how she’s sure dad won’t mind downing my mug of whatever he’s made. She squeezes my hand when I stand up and smiles at me one last time before I make my way up the stairs.

  That smile is like a kick to the shin. Or maybe it’s the guilt that feels like a punch to the gut? At any rate, I feel like a complete failure as a daughter.

  Another thing to add to the list.

  Ugh. There I go again. Because this is all about me, right? I couldn’t possibly have it any worse right now. It’s not like I’m lying in a hospital bed after being attacked while locked up in a detention facility or anything.

  I fall back onto my bed with a groan. I don’t know if the mattress has ever felt better, but my laptop is practically calling my name from across the room. I manage to avoid it long enough to change into my pajamas, but only just.

  Dad knocks on my door a few minutes later and enters before I have time to minimize the screen. I suppose the local news channel’s website with Officer Jordan’s name typed into the search bar isn’t something I have to hide from him anymore.

  I slide over to make room for him on the edge of the bed. I don’t bother to stop reading or scrolling through the page though. Dad reads over my shoulder and nods along as he goes. It’s more of the same, with the only new information being something about how ‘although Officer Jordan is awake and responsive, questioning regarding the incident has yet to take place’. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

  So I ask him what he thinks.

  “If he’s responsive, what do you think it means that he hasn’t answered any questions?”

  “I think it all depends on what exactly happened, Libby.” He sighs and moves to get up. When he’s almost to the door, he turns to face me as his hand closes around the knob. “I’m going to see what I can find out, okay? But I want you to be careful. Once Drew’s been transferred back to the Center, I’ll let you know where we stand and we’ll go from there as far as visitation and all of that.”

  The impulsive and okay, seventeen-year-old, part of me wants to argue. I’ve been going down this road alone so far, why do I need to wait for permission now? But the rational side—the one that knows my father has a ninety-nine point nine percent better chance of finding out anything that could possibly help and knows he only wants to help and to keep me safe—wins out.

  If Officer Jordan is awake and responsive though…

  I shouldn’t even be thinking about it. I should follow my father’s wishes and stay away until he tells me it’s safe to visit Drew again, or proceed. Or whatever. St. Mary’s Memorial isn’t very big though, and it can’t be too hard to find out a room number, and then find said room, and then… I don’t know. I don’t know what comes after, but I can’t deny the morbid sense of curiosity I feel when it comes to finding out more about Drew’s father.

  ****

  It’s easier than one would think to sneak around a hospital. As long as I don’t walk through any doors marked “Personnel Only”, people tend to leave me alone. They assume I know where I’m headed or will eventually figure it out on my own. I guess they’re all too busy to bother asking questions. With saving lives and whatnot.

  This doesn’t stop me from pretending I absolutely know where it is I’m going and what it is I’m doing each and every time I encounter someone in the hallways. As I pass through each floor, my story changes.

  I’m here to see my grandmother who’s recovering from heart surgery.

  My sister had a baby this morning.

  I’m visiting my cousin who works at the information desk in the ER.

  I’m being a no good busy-body and probably should have kept my ass in bed this morning.

  I even think about stopping by the gift shop to buy flowers so that maybe I’ll come across as more believable, but what would I do with them afterward? Or during. I mean, spying on someone’s hospital room from the hallway in hopes of catching a glimpse of him is going to be hard enough. Doing so while hauling around a floral arrangement? Hospital, or not, that’s just asking for attention.

  It doesn’t take too long to really get the layout of this place figured out, though. Sure, it’s big and there are a lot of hallways, but there are signs everywhere and the process of elimination makes it even easier to figure out where I need to go. Because of course he’s not going to be in pediatrics or the maternity ward. Psychiatric unit isn’t completely out of the question as far as I’m concerned, but I know better than to look for him there.

  I never realized how busy and awake hospitals are so early in the morning. I didn’t think about doctors and nurses doing their morning rounds, or family and friends visiting before they headed into work for the day—each and every one of them putting me more and more on edge. My parents were both okay with me laying out of school today, but I doubt they’d be okay if they knew this is where I would be instead.

  A woman with hair even paler than Beth’s enters the opposite end of the sky bridge and my heart nearly jumps into my throat with panic from the slight surprise. She’s obviously distraught, her head is down and she’s tearing at a wad of tissue in her hands, but my heart starts to race the same as it has passing everyone else in this place today. I don’t slow down, and I try not to seem as if anything is out of the ordinary. The sound of the thick, heavy door closing behind her startles me though, and an involuntary gasp slips through my lips before I can stop it. She looks up and nods like she’s apologizing for surprising me,
and turns her attention back to her hands. My shoulders slump in relief as she passes me by.

  Going with the feeling in my gut, I move quickly to the door she came through. I pause for a moment, faced with not only two, but three choices on which direction to go—right, left, and straight forward. I walk to a map posted on the wall beside the doorway, and pretend to study it. I know each hallway holds approximately thirty patient rooms each, but which one do I want to give a go first?

  “Morning, Angela.”

  Every cell in my body freezes and all of my nerves stand on end. Angela. What are the chances the woman behind me is actually Drew’s mother?

  “Morning, Dr. Cain.”

  Her voice is small, but polite. Mostly it sounds tired.

  Don’t turn around. Don’t turn around. Do not turn around.

  I suck my bottom lip into my mouth and pretend to concentrate more on the map in front of me than the conversation behind my back.

  “How’s our patient this morning?”

  “On my way to see him now, sir.”

  The doctor starts to retreat, his shoes making an echoing, sticky noise as he moves farther away.

  “Good luck. Let him know I’ll be around in a bit.”

  I hear her let out a heavy breath before she softly responds she’ll do exactly that, and then I feel her absence behind me when she moves away.

  I tilt my face slightly to watch as she walks down the hallway to my right. She’s a small woman, her plain gray scrubs nearly swallowing her frame whole. I force myself not to turn and face her completely as she pauses before a curve in the hallway. She pushes the strands of her dark hair that have fallen from her bun behind her ears, and smooths her top down over her hips. I watch as her hands ball into loose fists before she spreads her fingers wide and releases the tension. She nods to herself, and then she’s gone.

  I start off trying to keep my footsteps quiet. It’s odd how, even with so much going on and the constant hums and beeping of medical equipment, the hallways in this hospital are almost eerily quiet. It’s like a library, but with fewer books. And more … well, illness.

  The tiptoeing lasts all of seven seconds before I speed things up a notch and round the curve in the corridor before I completely lose sight of her. Of course, I didn’t think about what to do if she’s just around the curve. Which she is. Of course. Of fucking course.

  Luckily she’s too busy pulling a chart from where it hangs beside the doorway of an open patient room to notice me almost plowing right into her. I sidestep her more quickly than I thought myself possible of and only catch a glimpse of the room’s interior. It’s dark and quiet, with the television mounted on the wall playing a football game on mute.

  And there is no question in my mind the man lying in the hospital bed inside this room is Drew’s father.

  One floor. Officer Jordan’s hospital room is only one floor up from where Drew currently resides inside St. Mary’s Memorial. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

  I only get a glance at him, but that’s all it takes. Gone is the polished man from press release photos, hair artfully slicked to one side to go with the uniform he wears. He and his son have the same bedhead hair, complete with dark, unruly waves and a tuft sticking up in the back from too much time pressed against a pillow. The cleft in his chin is more pronounced and covered in a thicker layer of stubble, but the similarities, now that I see them in person, are disarming.

  I manage to slip past the open doorway right as he lifts his head to spot the nurse I’m now more than sure is Ms. McCormack. When I’m closer to the next room than his, I slow and have to lean back against the wall for support. I thought I might get a chance to see Officer Jordan today, but I never even thought of the chance I’d see Drew’s mother as well. At least I assume this is his mother. Her name is Angela. She’s a nurse here. She’s been damned near holding vigil over Jordan’s bedside since the incident, why wouldn’t she be here after he woke from his coma?

  Deep breaths, Libby. This doesn’t change anything. I just … need to get a feel for the situation. Maybe for nothing but my own morbid curiosity, but it feels important to do this.

  Keeping my back to the wall, I slide in the direction of Jordan’s room, working to make as little noise as possible. For the first minute or so, there’s nothing to hear other than the sound of someone—probably Ms. McCormack—shuffling around, fussing with papers and refilling the water pitcher in the sink, along with the sounds of hushed conversation. There’s a thud and what sounds like water hitting the floor, followed by silence, and my body stiffens.

  “I was watching that.”

  His voice is deep, gravelly, and a lot more apathetic sounding than I expected it to be. Like he’s bored with the whole situation. Like he’s above it all.

  I lean my body forward and crane my head up to see the television has been turned off.

  It’s actually a great way to see what’s going on without being seen. The reflection in the now darkened screen shows everything perfectly.

  “We need to talk about this, Benjamin,” Ms. McCormack hisses, but even though her tone is sharp, her body language is the same as in the hallway. Her are shoulders are slumped forward and her hands hang in loose fists at her sides. “Please.”

  Officer Jordan struggles with pulling himself into a more upright position. I watch as Ms. McCormack darts forward to help him, only to rock back onto her heels when he shoots her a less than polite look. I don’t like how instantaneously she moves away from him. Or how he still manages to seem intimidating despite the fact he’s wearing a gown that ties in the back. Even through the reflection I’m watching, I can see how his forearms stiffen and how pure aggression rolls off him in waves.

  “So talk.”

  Almost like making direct eye contact with him is too much for her, she turns away from the bed and grabs a wad of paper towels from the nearby sink. She speaks as she works to clean up the water dripping onto the floor from the upended pitcher. It still lies on its side from where I assume Jordan shoved his tray away in a huff when she turned the television off. I can hardly make out anything she’s saying, her voice barely more than a whisper I can only catch every few words.

  “I need to … you had anything … to Drew…”

  She waits for a response Jordan clearly has no intention of giving, and finally stands back up, her head still hanging down.

  “Did you? Have anything to do with it—did you?” She speaks up, taking an involuntary step toward the bed when Jordan leans closer and beckons her forward.

  The knot in my throat gets bigger and I have to swallow around it or I feel like I’ll pass out. He takes her hands in his, letting out a sigh that’s laced with the slightest of laughs as the IV cord gets tangled in the sheets, and leans closer. How can she let him touch her like that? How can she be so close to him without wanting to spit in his face? He slides his thumb along her wrists and his eyes look … almost soft as he places a kiss on her forehead.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he says in a voice barely loud enough for me to hear. “It’s already done. It doesn’t matter.”

  A chill washes through me and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  I can’t watch or listen to this anymore. Taking my time walking to the end of the hall, I take one deep breath after another. I stop near the emergency exit stairwell, and stare out the tall windows overlooking a parking lot. I think of the view from Officer Jordan’s room, and how it faces the opposite direction. He has a clear, unobstructed picture of the outside world.

  Even his damn hospital room is better than Drew’s.

  I turn back in the direction I came from in time to see Ms. McCormack disappear around the bend in the hallway, her eyes on the floor and arms hugging her torso.

  I’m outside Jordan’s room again before I can think better of it. The television is still dark, but the reflection shows his upturned face staring in its direction. I cock my head to the side and an awful mixture of heat and nausea bubbles up in
my throat when he raises his hand in a wave.

  Shit. Can he see me? Could he see me the entire time? Shit, shit, shit.

  “You can come in, you know.”

  Well, it’s not like I can continue on about my merry way now, can I? Every inch of my body feels hot with embarrassment and nerves as I take a step around the corner and into the open doorway. My sweaty palms immediately seek out the folds of my skirt and I idly wonder how ridiculous I look rubbing my hands against the fabric over and over. Maybe I should have gotten those flowers after all. At least then I’d have something to do with my damn hands.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat.

  “I’m sorry, I … I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Eyes the exact same color and shape as Drew’s, but don’t leave me with the same feeling at all. Drew’s give me a feeling of warmth and sunlight. Jordan’s are cold and almost … empty. I take a step back and my shoulder collides with the mostly open door behind me. It hits the wall with a thud and I jerk forward again. When I’m finally finished floundering about like some kind of over-sized marionette, I look back to where he lays.

  His smile thins out as soon as we make eye contact. His mouth flattens into a straight line that leaves no question to whether or not he finds my antics, if they can be called that, charming. Or even tolerable. It only lasts a second, and then he’s smiling again, but it’s enough to give me the creeps.

  “Something I can help you with, sweetheart?”

  Well, that certainly doesn’t detract from the creep factor. Sweetheart? Really?

  “No, no … I, um, I guess I got a little turned around,” I offer, taking a step back and closer to the door.

  He nods, but doesn’t offer help. He doesn’t seem to believe me either.