Chapter Twenty
“Excuse me. I’m Delsie Beaumont. I’m here to see my boy.” Hearing a name I recognized, I looked up from my copy of Ishmael that I wasn’t really reading. My eyelids had become heavy as the hour reached midnight.
The attendant asked, “What’s the patient’s name?” I leaped out of my seat to Mrs. Beaumont’s side at the nurses’ station to lend my assistance and make my presence known.
“Porter Beaumont,” we announced at the same time, me a little too loudly. Despite the late-night hospital setting, I flashed my warmest smile, eager for this long-overdue opportunity to make as good a first impression on Porter’s mother as Porter had with my parents.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologized to Mrs. Beaumont when she looked at me, taken aback.
“Oh, honey, I don’t startle so easily,” she stated.
“Oh, good. Good. I’m so glad you made it. I’m Callie; we spoke on the phone this afternoon.” At Delsie’s lack of recognition, I added, “Callie Steele. Remember?”
“Oh, yes. Porter’s friend.”
“Well, actually, his girlfriend,” I clarified. The burn that she voiced zero recognition of who I was over the phone, and now in person, scorched my skin.
“Mm-hmm,” Mrs. Beaumont intoned, and turned back to the nurse to ask, “Can you please tell me what room my son is in and when the doctor will be by?” Mrs. Beaumont’s Southern accent was like Porter’s but with more elongated vowels, and I had to lean in and watch her lips to understand what she was asking.
“Porter’s in Room 216, and the doctor should be by soon,” I answered before the nurse could, hoping to prove to Mrs. Beaumont that I was on top of Porter’s care.
With a slow blink and a twist of her head, Mrs. Beaumont returned her attention to me. “Callie, is it?”
“Yes, that’s me!” I gushed, desperate for any recognition from the mother of the man I was deeply in love with.
“Don’t worry. I can tell you everything that’s happened with Porter.
So his stomach was really hurting him during and then after the game, and he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but my dad’s a doctor at Weill Cornell Medicine, and he always tells me that if something doesn’t feel right, you need to get help immediately. ”
“Isn’t that something,” Mrs. Beaumont drawled out with extra syllables.
“Yes! Because you know Porter; sometimes he’s so stubborn.” I paused so Mrs. Beaumont and I could connect on a mutually agreed upon characteristic of Porter’s, but no shared familiarity came.
“I finally convinced him to go to the school health center. That’s where I called you from.
And then they started the transfer process to the hospital.
I thought I could ride in the back of the ambulance with him, but apparently that’s not allowed, so I ran back to Porter’s dorm room and got him a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and his thesis materials. ”
“Well, bless your heart.”
I blushed from Delsie’s encouraging words.
“Oh, it’s no big deal. I wanted to. When I got to the hospital, Porter was settled in, and I sat with him but not for very long.
They took him into surgery pretty quickly.
He’s in the recovery room now, and trust me, it’s all going to be okay.
Oh, where are my manners. I forgot to ask you, how was your flight? ”
“My flight was fine, darlin’, and I do appreciate the information, but I prefer to hear from the doctor.”
Mrs. Beaumont stared at me, face slack, for an uncomfortably long moment, and I got the feeling I had babbled on too much, but my mouth kept running even though my brain was telling it to slow down.
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sure the doctor will come check on him once Porter’s left recovery and is back in his room.
I want you to know I really have been trying to make sure Porter is getting the best care. ”
“The patient has returned to his room,” the nurse informed us. “You’re both welcome to go back now.”
“Thank you. Can you direct me?” Mrs. Beaumont pointedly asked the nurse.
“Oh, it’s this way. I’ll show you.” I picked up Mrs. Beaumont’s bag and started walking down the hall, listening for her footsteps behind me.
Mrs. Beaumont was silent as we headed down the sterile pale-yellow corridor. “Here it is. Room 216.” I couldn’t wait to see Porter’s face when his mother entered the room with me.
“Porter may be a little bit out of it, so we should probably go in quietly,” I advised in a low whisper, proving that I was being considerate of her son resting on the other side of the door.
“Thank you for carrying my bag, dear,” Mrs. Beaumont said, retrieving her luggage from me. She cracked open the door to Porter’s room and slipped inside. “You can head on out now. I’ll take it from here.”
Before I could say anything in response, I heard Mrs. Beaumont lovingly call out, “Mah boi!” And the door clicked closed in my face.