by fallensea
“You can’t blame Olivia for it,” Edna warned her. “It’s not her fault.”
“There are plenty of things that are Olivia’s fault,” Gerty countered. “It should be me on the team.”
Gerty was the antithesis of Mr. Tremblay. She sought to be adored like royalty, and she felt that position most when people crowded around her. Nothing she did was genuine. She waved as she entered the office each morning and told everyone how fabulous they were, but only when there was an audience. It was all a campaign.
Now that I was paying attention, I could see the charade for what it was. Acrimony was spun into many of Gerty’s compliments. She wasn’t happy. There was a desire in her eyes, one that burnt black and scolding. Placement on the super team wouldn’t just make her career. She wanted the accolades that came with it, something that echoed the curbside applause she had grown accustomed to in her youth as a pyrotechnic dancer.
I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t. The pain in my stomach clenched onto me, unannounced and uninvited. Feeling dizzy, I placed a gloved hand on the wall next to the painting and fixed my eyes on the fisherman, trying to breathe through the daggers inside me. I refused to remove the glove, not until the wounds from Monday night healed. Over the week, I’d made it a game of fashion, pairing my outfits with various gloves, some wool, some leather.
A group of new hires passed me in the corridor and turned into the print room. Immediately, Gerty was full of nothing but praise. Listening to her artificial sweetness made my stomach ache worse than it already did, so I tried to drown out the noise by ticking off my to-do list in my head. It worked, until I heard my name.
“Before we walked in, I saw Hayley standing in the corridor staring absently at a painting,” one of the new hires said. “You were right. She is odd.”
“We all think so,” Gerty stressed, sounding triumphant, as if she spoke for the entire firm. “I was only friends with her because I felt sorry for her.”
It was all I could tolerate. I gathered my strength, ready to confront the bitch, but I was saved by a man who had saved me many times before. “Jesus Murphy, does she have to make herself out to be a martyr every time she speaks?” Jean-François asked, his dark hair and heavy eyelashes matching the black of his suit.
I was embarrassed that he had heard them speaking. “I guess you know what’s going on.”
“Gerty and Edna have made it their business that everyone does,” he revealed.
I shook my head, finding my grounding with him near. “People act that way when they’re unhappy,” I reflected. “Most of me wants to slap the designer sunglasses off of Gerty’s snide head, but part of me actually feels bad for her. It’s the only reason I haven’t punched her in the throat. That and my desire to keep my job.”
“The worst thing you could do for yourself is feel bad for her. She’s got to learn you reap what you sow,” he insisted.
“It’s strange how someone once so close can suddenly be a stranger. I have so many photographs I can no longer hang on my wall because I don’t recognize the people standing next to me in them. I should have seen this coming from Gerty, but I’m appalled Edna is involved as well. She’s better than this.”
Jean-François wasn’t as convinced. “Bitches always come in pairs.”
I felt sick again. It hit me like a bus, worse than ever. “I’m going to go get some fresh air,” I said quickly, unwilling to treat the women’s washroom the way I had my bathroom. I didn’t need my illness going public.
“You’re unwell,” he observed. “I’ll lead you down.”
“No,” I insisted. “I need to be alone right now. The fresh air will help it pass.”
“Alright,” he relented. “But I’m going to check in on you.”
I walked away with as much dignity as a woozy girl in stilettos could. I went to my office to grab my coat and satchel. I needed more than fresh air—I needed a doctor. Jean-François could check on me later, but he wasn’t going to find me.
Unfortunately, when I backtracked towards the elevators, the group from the print room passed by. With disdain, Gerty looked down at my coat. “Abusing office privileges already?” she said, tittering lightly for the others, as if she were telling a joke. “I doubt Mr. Tremblay would approve if he knew you were sneaking out early.”
I barely heard her. My malaise forced me to move on. A headache was forming. The sound of my stilettos clapping against the floor echoed painfully in my ears. Outside was like a radio blasting from all sides. Anxious, I hailed a taxi, breathing through the wreckage my body was becoming.
I’ll be okay, I assured myself. Don’t be scared.
I never thought the sight of a hospital could bring reprieve, only worry and sorrow, but I nearly cried with relief when the taxi pulled up outside the ER. I was scared. Very scared. The pain was beyond measure, and I was close to passing out. I threw my fare at the driver then rushed inside, convinced I’d be okay once I was in the care of doctors and their medicines, that I wasn’t about to die. That was what the pain felt like—that my body was shutting down, depriving me of years promised to me upon birth.
Several people stood in the queue at the check-in desk. I took my place behind them to wait, but a male nurse set a strong, caring hand on my arm. “You okay?” he asked, his voice deep and unrehearsed.
“No,” I said, letting my fear show. “I think I’m about to faint.”
“You look it,” he said, and he grabbed a wheelchair from nearby. “Have a seat,” he directed. “I’ll wheel you to a bed. We can finish checking you in once you’re settled. What’s your name?”
“Hayley.” I sat into the wheelchair. It was good timing. The walls around me were blurry. “Hayley Leighton.”
“I’m Bronco. I’ll be taking good care of you,” he vowed, right before the walls disappeared completely.
***
The room was dark—dark like my fear and my confusion and my denial. I clenched the sheets of the bed I was tucked into, sweaty and nauseated. I was glad to have a private room, but it was lonely waking up after sundown in a hospital, knowing something was terribly wrong. I could feel it invade my body, but the pain was gone. The drugs hooked into my IV had taken care of the pain. To distract myself from the dark, I looked out the window and counted the stars.
“Ever wonder if they’re counting back?” Bronco asked, entering the room. Dressed in scrubs that matched his bright blue eyes, he came to my bed to check my blood pressure. His hair, the color of wet sand, hadn’t been brushed in a while, giving away his long shift.
“You still here?”
“I’m on a double.”
“I’ve pulled many of those,” I told as the blood pressure cuff buzzed then squeezed my arm. “I’d still be at work if I wasn’t here.”
“So you’re a nightwalker, similar to myself. We go to work when it’s dark, and we come home when it’s even darker.” He laughed. I enjoyed the sound of it. He was an everyday man with everyday speech. I imagined that when he wasn’t in scrubs, he wore flannel shirts and trucker caps, drank beer and arm wrestled with his friends, but there was a chivalry to him, like a misplaced hero.
“Bronco is an unusual name,” I stated when he was finished with my blood pressure.
“It was my dad’s dream to be a bull rider, but he never quite made it into the pit. I think he thought that by naming me Bronco, I’d follow his dream, but the trophies on my wall have nothing to do with rodeos.”
“What are they, Mr. Congeniality?”
“Maybe so,” he said spryly, unashamed.
His hands were brawny, but they glided as he spoke. He changed my IV bag, working with the focus of a mechanic. I guess in some ways he was a mechanic. The machines I was hooked up to, including the IV, were an extension of my body, and they needed maintenance. I needed maintenance.
“As soon as I’m done filling out your medical history, I’ll let the doctor know you’re awake,” he said. “Be warned—now that you’re all peppy-eyed, I’m obligated to
come check in on you every hour. You might get tired of me.”
He’d already been checking in on me. The bandage on my arm told me blood had been drawn while I was sleeping. “When will I be able to leave?” I asked. “I have an important meeting to make in the morning. I already missed one because of this. I can’t miss another.”
“You’ve missed more than one. You’ve been asleep for twenty years.”
“What!” I cried, distraught.
Bronco threw his hands in the air. “Sorry. Sorry. Bad joke.” He apologized, but his cheeky grin wasn’t at all sorry. “You’ve only been out for about half a day. See, I’m still the same age I was when I met you this afternoon, and I’m wearing the same scrubs.”
Of course he was. I sat back, realizing I needed to take the edge off. “You’re lucky I don’t have a heart condition.”
“Well, you have a condition of some sort.” He sat at a computer across from my bed. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“Missing work. And eggs.”
“Eggs…” he said as he typed. “What about any medication?”
“Only the type that prevents me from work.”
Bronco twirled around in his chair, patient but steadfast. “Listen, it’ll be tomorrow before there’s any chance of your test results coming back. You can’t leave until you get your test results. You’re in bad shape, Hayley. We need to figure out what’s wrong with you, that way we can fix you up. Let us do our job, and then you can go back to wasting your good years making someone else rich.”
I couldn’t oblige. “What if I don’t want to stay? How do I discharge myself?”
“It’s ill-advised.”
“I promise to come back in the evening.”
I wore him down, but not enough. “You have to sign a waiver form acknowledging that you’re leaving against medical advice. To get the form, you’ll have to fight your way around the Keep. Louise, the woman supervising this floor, will likely be giv’n you strong words.”
“It’s okay, I can handle her,” I said.
Bronco laughed. “I’m sure you can, but stay until sunrise, eh. So we can observe you. That’s when my shift ends. If you stay until sunrise, I’ll personally bring you the waiver form, but only if you swear to the stars that you’ll actually come back in the evening.”
“You’re only saying that because you’re certain I’ll sleep past sunrise.”
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take if you are.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “I’ll stay until sunrise.”
He turned back to the computer. “Good, now let’s fill this medical history out, little runaway.”
***
I was barely on time. To me, it was the same as being late. Jumping out of a taxi, I hustled through the courtyard outside the firm, but I had to stop at the fountain to catch my breath. Once again, the morning light reflected brightly off Eos in a way that was unfamiliar and engulfing, as if she spoke to me within the light.
“Hayley!” Jean-François called out behind me.
“Please no,” I murmured. I didn’t want to face him. I didn’t trust myself. His arms were too inviting, his scent too soothing.
“What the hell is happening?” he asked when he met me at the fountain.
I straightened my shoulders. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He grabbed my wrist and held it up, exposing the thin hospital bracelet that hung there, giving me away. “Explain this.”
“I told you I was feeling a bit ill yesterday. I thought I’d go check it out.”
“You don’t go to the hospital if you’re feeling a bit ill. This looks serious, Hayley. What’s wrong?”
As a general rule, I didn’t cry. I especially didn’t cry at work. I got angry before I cried. I wanted to cry now, but I didn’t. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”
“Hayley...”
“I don’t know!” I screamed. Then, embarrassed, I looked around, but barely anyone noticed. Being midmorning, those running past us were too busy hurrying to their offices to care about a meltdown in the courtyard. “I don’t know,” I repeated softly. “Can you please just leave it?”
Jean-François backed away. “Okay,” he said, reluctantly giving me my space. “But I’m here for you, you know that. Why don’t you come over and have dinner with me and Diane tonight?”
Diane was his new girlfriend. I wasn’t sure if it would last, but I liked her. Any other day, I’d jump at the opportunity, especially with so few friends around me, but I looked at the plastic on my wrist and was reminded of the promise I’d made to Bronco. “I have somewhere I need to be after work,” I said.
“Do you want me to go with you?” he asked, guessing where I meant.
“No, but I’ll call you if I change my mind.”
It was enough for him. It had to be. He knew how stubborn I was. Wisely, he left me to my day, but I did notice him straying close to my office during lunch, and I found unsolicited cups of tea waiting on my desk after each meeting.
When work finished, I did not return to the hospital. I went home. I needed my own bed more than I needed needles. Undressing as soon as I was in the door, I filled my bath with water hotter than I normally liked it, convinced I could sweat the illness out of me, and I turned on the radio, hoping it would compete with the sounds of the waterfront below. As I slid into the bath, the burn of the water was painful against my skin, but there were worse pains I’d bore that week.
Tomorrow was Sunday. That was remedial. I could rest in bed, deny the world a chance to crumble around me. Bed would fix everything. It’d be my chance to heal.
When the water of my bath cooled, I crawled out and put on a terrycloth robe. I had robes more luxurious, but I didn’t want luxury. I wanted comfort. In the kitchen, I made a hot lemon water and looked out upon the waterfront. The sky blushed against a fading blue. In the twilight, I imagined the Birds of Paradise around the city preparing to come out, to be set free by the night, giant flowers against a giant city.
The phone rang. It was an unknown number.
“Hey, little runaway,” Bronco said when I picked up. “You broke your promise.”
I returned to the window, the Birds of Paradise still within my mind. “I promised to come back in the evening. I didn’t say what evening.”
“Are you a lawyer?”
“No, but my father is.”
“Well, you can’t use clever words to get yourself out of this. You need to come back, Hayley. We have your test results.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Breaking Cars
A boy cried, but I couldn’t see where he was or to whom he cried. The lights of the ER were too harsh for my eyes, which saw in a way they never had before. Nothing was the same.
A hospital gown—the uniform of the sick and the deranged—had replaced my terrycloth robe. I didn’t know how I’d arrived in the ER. My consultation with the oncologist had ended, but instead of returning to my bed, I’d found myself here. People were bleeding. Doctors were yelling. And a boy cried. But I couldn’t see their pain, and I couldn’t see my own. The light was too harsh. It distorted even my hands, which I held up in the middle of a busy corridor, mesmerized by how transparent they seemed.
Bronco found me. “There you are. Trying to run away again?”
“No,” I said solemnly, my hands still raised towards the florescent light, like watching a butterfly flap against the sun. “I have a feeling I’ll never get away from this place.”
“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me. There’s hope. There is always hope.”
I dropped my hands. “You’re right. There is hope. Exactly five percent of it. That’s it. Only five percent.”
“You can be that five percent,” Bronco insisted. “Pancreatic cancer is not a death sentence.”
I stared at him in disbelief, the familiar anger forming. “Isn’t it? Isn’t that exactly what it is?”
“There’s chemo and radiation.”
“I won’t do chemo,” I to
ld him.
My choice disturbed him. “Hayley, you have to. If you don’t, you’ll die. Forget the five percent. There’ll be no percent.”
It meant nothing to me. “I’m already going to die. You’re a nurse; you understand that.”
“I became a nurse to help people fight, not to watch them give up.”
I heard the boy cry again. I wanted to go to him and take him away from this hell, take myself away. “I’m not giving up. I’m confronting reality. The universe is an asshole.”
It was the first humorous thing I’d said in front of him, but Bronco did not laugh. “Cancer is the asshole. Don’t let it take you without a fight. Do the chemo and radiation.”
“There’s no point,” I asserted. “The cancer has already spread. All the chemo might do is prolong the inevitable. In the process, I’ll suffer, more so than I already do. You know what chemo does to people—the hair loss, the memory loss and confusion, the swelling, the headaches, and the constant sickness. I’d rather enjoy my last days than die withered.”
“Coming through!” a paramedic bellowed as a trauma unit wheeled a gurney by. A man with a bruised, swollen face was strapped to it beneath blood-soaked sheets. He didn’t look like he would make it.
See you soon, I thought.
Bronco read my expression. “Don’t,” he said. “If you start thinking that way, you really will wither.”
“I’m scared,” I admitted. “I wish I was still in denial. I wish I was numb, but I’m not. I can feel everything. I don’t want to believe this is true, but it is. I’m dying, and it scares me.”
“Of course it does,” Bronco said, and though I was sure it went against all protocol, he took me in his arms and comforted me. Finally, the tears came, drops of my life force falling away from me.
***
“There you go,” the patient liaison said from her desk, handing me my discharge papers. “You’ll receive a letter later this week for your next appointment with the oncologist.”
