The Boy in the Gray Hoodie

21...

21…

Portland, Oregon

Providence St. Vincent Hospital

January 12, 1998

James stood near the window of the waiting room, overlooking a grassy lawn with picnic tables. He frowned. Who had picnics at a hospital?

            “We should be doing this at the lab.” A feminine voice drifted through the wall of his thoughts. He turned.

            “We aren’t equipped to deal with this kind of complication.” He responded, adjusting the collar of his polyester shirt and tie. The shirt was white, the tie a dark shade of green. Meredith had picked them out this morning, before he left for work. Normally she had his clothes laid out for him before he went to sleep the night before. They’d gotten a little bit distracted last night, however. He’d thought the distraction would be worth being a few minutes late to work. He hadn’t realized work wouldn’t wait.

            “Caesarean sections are messy, but they aren’t that complicated. We could have brought in a specialist. We had someone on call—”

            “I didn’t want to risk it, Marilynda.” James replied, running a hand through his dark brown hair. A few gray hairs had started to grow in near his temple, adding a bit of maturity to his still boyish face. He was past thirty, but he didn’t look it. He’d even gotten carded the month before when he’d tried to buy wine for his and Meredith’s second wedding anniversary.

            “There’s nothing to risk. We have other hosts and multiple fetuses to choose from. Probably less troublesome ones.” She replied.

            James turned away from the window to get a look at her. Marilynda sat straight-backed on the sofa, her legs crossed at the knee, a tight pencil skirt hugging her thighs. She wore a pink satin blouse, three buttons undone at her neck to reveal several inches of cleavage. She caught him looking and narrowed her eyes. “Hungry?” she asked in a low voice.

            James clenched his jaw. “Stop it.”

            She raised an eyebrow. “I just asked if you were hungry.”

            “I told you, Marley. It’s over.” He snapped, crossing his arms and turning back to the window. “Meredith and I are married now. I’m not that kind of man.”

            “What kind of man?” she inquired, the worn-out couch giving a small squeak as she rose.

            “The kind that cheats on his wife.” He responded tightly.

            “Fine. Good.” She said, pressing her lips together. They were stained red with lipstick, her green eyes framed with thick, dark lashes. “It’s nice to finally work with a man who has morals, not just pants.”

            James scoffed, shaking his head. “Nice one,” he sent her a sideways glance. “Did you come here just to compliment me, or were you intending to do your job?”

            Marley shrugged. “Both?”

            Before James could respond, a man in blue scrubs entered the waiting room and called out for a Mr. Whitman.

            “I’m James Whitman,” James said, coming forward to shake the man’s hand.

            “I’m Dr. Peterson. I’m the surgeon who worked on your wife this morning.” The man said, relinquishing his grip on James’ hand. “Everything went really well. The baby is healthy as far as we can tell. Apgar’s about a nine, and that’s really good. We’re weighing him now.”