Page 102 of To Save Him

Brandon nodded and we both turned away.  We gravitated toward a spot in the lobby where just two chairs rested between an inner doorway and an end table, probably because that space seemed a little more private and out of the way.  There wasn’tanytraffic through there during that time anyway, so I wasn’t sure what we’d been worried about.  In fact, I only heard the reception phone ring a couple of times during the time Brandon filled out the form.

I wanted to ask them what their phone number was but thought better of it.  I instead turned my attention to Brandon.  “Do you need my help?”

He shook his head.  “No.”  While he seemed a little frazzled underneath it all, the façade was convincing.  I doubted the receptionist had any idea how torn up Brandon was inside. Icould tell, because his hand was a little shaky, but from across the room, I was sure he looked as cool as an ice cube on a day in July.

I said, “Okay,” and then picked up one of the two magazines on the table next to me.  It was a thin publication having to do with health and it didn’t seem interesting at all—which was fine, because I wanted to peer at Brandon’s written answers.

And so far, so good.  He wrote downMichael Abbottas his name and, as near as I could tell, everything else seemed correct.

When he finished, even though I’d dropped the magazine, unable to even feign interest in those pages, I at least wasn’t staring at the clipboard.  I was staring out the window beside us, looking at the leaves on the trees in the distance.  They were changing colors from green to a deep red.  They were aging and dying, and I had to push out of my mind the belief that I was as well.

Brandon stood and I asked, “Do you want me to go up there with you?”

He started to shake his head but then said, “Yeah.”

I joined him.  When we got to the reception window again, Brandon had to wait for the woman to come back in the room.  Then she took the clipboard.  “Go ahead and have a seat, Mr. Abbott.  Someone will be with you soon.”

Only someone wasn’t.  We waited and waited and waited.  After an hour and a half, and only one person coming in and being let in the back, we began to suspect that we’d been forgotten about.  Brandon finally went back to the glass-covered desk, and I joined him.  The previous receptionist was no longer there.  This time, a man who looked to be in his fifties with thinning hair sat at the desk and asked what he could do to help.

“I talked to the woman who was here earlier.  I filled out a form so I could access my records.”

He nodded.  “Let me go check on it.”

The man started to walk out of the back of the room, and I saw Brandon tense up again.  He and I were starting to feel that this was more than ridiculous.  But it didn’t matter.  We’d driven halfway across the country, and I knew Brandon needed this.  We would be here until he got the answers he could no longer live without.

Just a few minutes later, an older man with white hair and a round belly opened a door beside the reception area that led into the lobby.  “Michael?” he asked, looking around but then turning his focus to us.

It was strange hearing Brandon referred to asMichael, but he seemed to have no issues with it.  “Yes.”

“Come with me.”  The man held the door for the two of us and, as we walked through, he started to ask, “Is this your—”

I almost cringed, because I could feel the wordmotherready to come out of his mouth.  Or maybe it was just my expectations.  Brandon too felt it, though, because he interrupted by saying, “My close friend.”

Better thangirlfriend, because I hadn’t felt like a younggirlin a long time and not as shocking as the bald truth of the wordloverwould be.  There really weren’t many descriptions that would be accurate and inoffensive, I realized as we followed the man down a wide hallway.  He wore a navy blue sweater over khaki pants and a name badge clipped to the collar of his sweater, but it was turned over so all I could see were instructions for what to do for a “Code Orange” or “Code Blue.”  He began talking before I could decipher the tiny print on the back of his badge.  “We’ll chat in my office.”  We walked through another doorway, one he had to punch in a number code for, and—once through—we were in another hallway, one that reeked even more of the sterile citrus scent.  I also heard voices in the distance.

We turned the corner and then he punched in another four-digit code before turning the doorknob and letting us in his office.  It was a smallish space.  The desk, files, and storage all felt like they belonged in a cubicle instead of an area with four solid walls and, unlike the other parts of the hospital we’d been in thus far, his space felt and looked rundown and old.  He motioned with his hand to indicate the chairs across from the desk, and we sat down in them while he closed the door before joining us.  He tapped on his computer keyboard a little before looking at us.  “So, Mr. Abbott, we can’t find any files on you anywhere.”

Brandon blinked a couple of times as if thinking about it, and then he said, “But I was just here in January.”

“I know.  That’s what you said on your form, but there’s nothing.  I even tried misspelling your name.”

“Would you try looking forBrandonAbbott?”

The man nodded his head.  “Certainly.”  He clicked his mouse and began tapping once more.  “Did they get your name wrong?”

I could sense Brandon’s frustration but he kept his cool.  “Guys like me—from the program—all had generic first names given to us…but I can’t remember if we used those names in the hospital too.”

I refrained from adding my two cents’ worth, but I knew they’d definitely used the nameMichaelinstead ofBrandon—at least once—becauseMichaelhad been the name on his discharge papers.  We hadn’t brought them with us, but maybe we should have.  I’d tucked them away under the silverware tray in the kitchen back at home, just in case I would need them.  “The program?”

Brandon nodded.  “Yeah.  Volunteers from the Marines to participate in the enhancement project.”

The man shook his head and began typing on the screen again.  He was quiet as he scrolled, seeming to scrutinize every line of text on his monitor.  “Hmm.  There’s nothing.”  He glanced back down at the clipboard again.  “You say you were released in January?”

I could hear the frustration in Brandon’s voice.  “Yes.”  He sucked in a breath through his nostrils but said nothing.

In the meantime, I was trying to quell my nerves.  Was it possible that Brandon had never been here?  While it was entirely possible that Brandon had simply stolen someone else’s papers, what was strange was that the hospital could find no record of the person whose name had been on the papers.

What if even those had been forged?  What if this was an elaborate scheme, a gamble Brandon had taken (after all, the nameMichael Abbottmight be a fairly common one for all I knew) that wasn’t paying off? And, if so, what was likely going to be his next move?

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