4. HOPE AND DISMAY

Chelsea bolted in through the glass doors of the clinic panting breathlessly. 

The clinic buzzed with controlled chaos—rolling carts, murmured diagnoses, sharp footsteps echoing down white corridors that smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee. It was nothing like the small facility she had trained in. Everything here moved faster, expected more, demanded precision.

Smoothing down her scrubs, she followed the elegant woman walking briskly ahead of her.

“Welcome to Still Waters,” Elena, the doctor -in- charge said with a warm smile curving her lips. “You are late though.”

“I am so sorry," Chelsea wheezed. “I had to stop by at the hospital to check on my mum, deliver lunch to my dad at work and wait at the bus station to catch the next bus. It took an hour.”

Immediately concern filled Elena's eyes. “I am so sorry." She smiled again. “But don't worry, you will soon get settled in New York. How is your mum, by the way?”

“Thankfully she hasn't worsened.”

“I wish her a speedy recovery.”

Chelsea wished it worked like that. A wish and all the sickness gone and forgotten. Chelsea returned the smile, instantly liking her. Dr. Elena was kind in a way that felt intentional—soft eyes, gentle tone—but there was a firmness beneath it, the kind that came from responsibility and sleepless nights.

“Thank you, ma'am” Chelsea said honestly.

“You are welcome,” Elena replied. 

They stopped in front of a door at the far end of the ward. The nameplate read ROGER.

“This is your primary assignment,” Elena said. “Mr. Roger. Some of the nurses call him Old Roger, but he rarely responds to either.”

Chelsea glanced at the door. “What’s his condition?”

“Post-stroke,” Elena explained. “Left side weakness, partial speech difficulty. Physically improving, but emotionally…” She paused. “Complicated.”

As they stepped aside to the window to get a view of the bedridden man, Elena lowered her voice. “He’s been here longer than most. Medically, he’s cleared for discharge, but there’s a problem.”

Chelsea listened carefully.

“No family member has come to claim him,” Elena continued. “No emergency contact. No visitors. Nothing.”

“That’s… strange,” Chelsea said.

“Yes,” Elena agreed. “And he refuses to talk about it.”

She hesitated, then added, “I suspect there’s something dark in his past. A reason he doesn’t want to be found.”

Chelsea’s chest tightened. She thought of her own father, working tirelessly, of her mother lying fragile in a hospital bed. Family was everything. The idea of being abandoned—or choosing isolation—felt unbearable.

“If no one comes forward,” Elena said quietly, “he’ll be transferred to a government elderly home.”

Chelsea looked back at the old man in bed. He was staring at the ceiling now, jaw clenched.

“I want you to try to get him to talk,” Elena said. “Learn who he is. Where he came from. Otherwise… this is the end of the road for him.”

She squeezed Chelsea’s shoulder reassuringly. “I believe you can do it.”

Then Elena left, her white coat fluttering behind her.

*** *** *** **** ****

She pushed the door open.

The room was dimmer than the others, curtains half-drawn. An older man lay propped up in bed, eyes tired. His hair was silver, his jaw still strong beneath the sag of age. He looked helpless yet guarded.

Rogers watched her enter like a man expecting bad news.

“Good day, Mr Rogers,” Elena said gently. “My name is Chelsea. I’ll be assisting with your care.”

“You will leave eventually,” he muttered. “Don't worry.”

Chelsea sighed softly. “I’m not leaving, sir. I am your caregiver.”

He glanced at her briefly. “I already told them I don't need one”

“Yes,” she smiled. “But how about a friend? I recently moved down here from Ohio. It will be good to have a friend,” She suggested she went about her tasks, checking vitals, adjusting his pillows, she felt a cautious hope bloom.

For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—recognition, perhaps. 

“Ohio,” he said at last.

 “Have you ever been there?” 

“We should have stayed there,” he muttered mysteriously.

****

Chelsea was growing hopeful. Much hadn't happened since the day she was introduced to Roger, but the little changes were tangible and encouraging. 

Over the next few days, Chelsea worked tirelessly to win Robert's trust. She talked to him about everything from books to music to his favorite foods. Slowly but surely, he began to open up, sharing bits and pieces about his life before the stroke. 

“I am so glad we had you for this part,” she told Chelsea with sheer delight. 

Meanwhile her mother was fighting bravely. The surgery was yet to happen but despite the doctors' fears she hadn't worsened so much. “Your wife is a strong woman, Mr Evans,” Dr Miles mentioned. “If she had made it this far, chances are that she would survive the surgery.”

Mr Evans wrapped his arm around his daughter happily. “Thank you so much, doctor. Soon, I'll be able to apply for an insurance request and in a month's time the money for the surgery will be fully ready.” 

“That's good to hear,“ the doctor smiled.

Chelsea had grown utterly hopeful. In a few months, the surgery would heal. They'd usher Susan home, and they all could finally take a break from the stress. She smiled at herself. Who knows? She might eventually have the boldness to ask the elevator stranger on a proper date.

She hadn't seen him again since that incident. Despite how their meeting went, her thoughts had been with him. His bold smile. His deep voice.

She wondered if he thought of her fondly or flirting was just a thing he did when he was bored. She told herself it was harmless to think about him—a distraction, nothing more.

But hope shattered on a Thursday evening.

Her father came home earlier than usual.

He stood just inside the door, shoulders slumped, lunch pail hanging loosely from his hand. His eyes avoided hers.

“Dad?” Chelsea asked, dread crawling up her spine. “What happened?”

He sighed, “I was laid off today.”