by Sybil Smith
To get to Vera.
She practically runs inside upon her arrival. Dante text her the room number so she doesn't stop to ask, just keeps jogging to the elevators. She clenches her eyes closed on the ascent to the third floor and tries to calm herself. If Vera has a room and they're letting people back, she's alive and there's no immediate threat to her life. Evelyn knows this, but she still can't seem to shake the horrible feeling that's shrouding her, encasing her. The doors finally open and she quickly walks down the hall looking for the right room. When she finally finds it, she stops right outside the door.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She tries to convince herself that Vera is fine, that there's nothing to worry about. They'll get through this and everything will be okay. She reaches out and grabs the cold metal doorknob and tries to steel herself as she opens the door.
As soon as she lays her eyes on Vera, her hand grips the door facing to steady herself. Her fingers turn white from clenching so hard and she's breathing quick, shallow breaths. She can't move. Can't blink. This can’t be happening again.
There lay the woman she loves. The woman she had yet to admit her love for. The woman that's supposed to be tough and brave and protective.
Now she looks exactly the opposite of those things.
Her looks pale from the blood loss—cheeks gaunt and circles forming under her eyes. The hospital gown draped around her frail body as she sleeps makes her look even smaller. Helpless.
It looks exactly like Tristan in his final days.
Evelyn can't handle the range of emotions running through her. It’s too hard to cope with something like this again. It’s too soon. Too painful.
So she runs.
She turns from the room and finds herself entering the elevator in a daze. She hits a random floor button just so she can hurry up and get out of here. Her mind blanks from shock as the elevator ascends once more. When she steps out, she realizes a moment too late where her grieving mind has taken her: the oncological floor.
The pediatric oncological floor.
Tristan never went here. Not once did he ever step through the doors of Philadelphia General Hospital. And yet, she still managed to make her way back to the place she never wanted to see again.
Instead of turning and getting back on the elevator, she starts down the hallway for some reason unbeknownst to her. She can hear laughter from some rooms and crying from others. Some children wear masks, others have no hair, and some look perfectly healthy as they roam down the halls talking and trying to make each other feel better.
At the end of the hallway there's a large room—a playroom. The walls are covered in an undersea mural and there are large plush chairs in a reading corner. A painting station, televisions with gaming systems, and a play kitchen area spread out across the rest of the room. She stands in the doorway to watch children of all different ages play and toddle around the room together. Tristan used to play in rooms exactly like this while undergoing treatment. She never anticipated that she would one day miss being inside a hospital playroom with her son.
Her eyes settle on a little boy sitting in the floor by himself. No more than four—he meticulously works to put a puzzle together as quickly as he can. He reaches up to brush some of his brown hair out of his eyes while he figures out what to do with the last piece. He looks around to see if anyone is there to praise him, congratulate him on finishing it, but no one seems to notice him. He takes apart the puzzle to start over again.
Where Tristan was pale with sandy blonde hair and light blue eyes, this child has curly brown hair and brown eyes. His skin looks slightly pale now, but she can tell he would most likely have an olive complexion when healthy. Where Tristan was inquisitive in an outspoken way, this little boy holds a quiet observation. His eyes study everyone and everything around him.
Tristan would strike up a conversation with anyone who would let him. This boy, although still kind, acts hesitantly when anyone tries to play with him. She can't tell if he’s shy or simply afraid.
This little boy acts and looks unlike Tristan in so many ways. But Evelyn still catches herself feeling a sort of fondness towards him. His round, brown eyes and his curly hair on top of his timid nature all pull at her heart. She didn’t anticipate ever feeling this way towards a child again. Not after her son.
She jumps as she feels a hand pat her back. A nurse standing beside her stares at the same little boy. When the boy looks up, the nurse smiles at him. He ducks his head back down quickly.
The nurse regards Evelyn with another gentle smile. "Foster parent?"
Evelyn's eyebrows knit together. "I…no."
The nurse's face falls. "Oh. That’s a bummer.”
"Why?"
"Noah is a foster child. He gets shuffled around more than a deck of cards 'cause everyone always gets tired of spending so much time here ." She turns to look Evelyn up and down. "I was hoping he had actually gotten someone who would care about him for a change."
Evelyn's heart drops. Her child that she loved was taken by this horrible illness and here was this child—alive, surviving and there's no one here to love him. She takes a small breath. "Is he almost done with treatment?"
"I can't tell you that, ma'am." She starts to leave but abruptly turns back. "Maybe you should go ask him how he's doing. I'm sure he'd love the company."
She watches the nurse walk away. When she turns back around, the little boy is staring at her with hopeful eyes. She wants to talk to him, but she can't. It's too soon. The past still feels so fresh in her mind. She can't do this. She can't get attached to someone she may never see again. Not after everything she’s gone through.
Evelyn backs out of the door and turns towards the elevators in a quick panic. She wants to leave and drown her sorrows in the one bottle of alcohol she managed to keep in her house. But she can't. There’s someone she loves who needs her downstairs.
Clara, Vera’s mother, sits in the corner of the room when Evelyn returns. Vera looks just as weak and helpless in the bed as before. She pulls her attention away when Clara pulls out an empty seat for her to sit in.
She gives a small, sympathetic smile when Evelyn sits down. "I know this isn't easy for you, Evelyn. Vera told me what happened."
"She's already woken up?" She glances towards Vera out of the corner of her eye before quickly looking back at Clara. "Did she…did she ask for me?"
"No, she hasn't woken up yet." Clara reaches up and takes one of Evelyn's hands in her own. "I meant she told me what happened to your little boy."
Evelyn quickly pulls her hand back. She's not mad at Vera for telling, she just wishes she hadn't. After everything that's happened today, she can't handle talking about this too.
Clara clears her throat and looks back over to Vera. "When Vera decided to be a cop, I was scared. I remember reading a quote about how there's a word for widows and widowers and orphans, but there isn't—"
"—a word for a parent who loses a child. That's how awful the loss is." Evelyn swallows thickly and looks back up to Clara's face. "I was told that many times at Tristan’s funeral.”
Clara reaches out to take her hand again, and this time she lets her. Clara takes a deep breath and shakes her head as she looks at her daughter in the hospital bed. "Every day I wonder if it's the last day I'll be able to see my girl. It's terrifying. I can't…I can't even imagine what you went through."
After a few minutes, Clara looks up and realizes Vera is awake and watching the scene unfold. She gives Evelyn one last squeeze and then stands to leave. For once, she isn't going to meddle or pry—she's going to give them the time they need.
Confused, Evelyn watches her leave and then turns her attention to Vera. She gasps as she realizes she's awake. Vera gives a weak grin and turns her palm up towards Evelyn. "Hey."
Evelyn stands and walks to the side of the bed, but doesn't take Vera's hand. She simply looks down at Vera for so long that the silence becomes deafening. Vera scans her face, trying to figure out
what she's thinking. "Evelyn…talk to me."
She crosses her arms and looks away. "You could've died, Vera."
Vera reaches up and gently pulls one of Evelyn's arms until she can grasp her hand. "They're letting me out today, Eve. I'm fine. Really. It's just a scratch."
"You were stabbed in your femoral artery! That is not just a scratch."
Vera scoffs. "It was a branch of the artery thing. Not even the main part! I'm fine." She closes her eyes and rubs her thumb across the top of Evelyn's hand. She looks back up at Evelyn, eyes now full of compassion. "I love you, Evelyn. I'm not going to die anytime so—"
"—You can't be sure of that, Vera." Evelyn pulls her hand back down to her side and blinks away a new wave of tears. "You don't know when you're going to die. It could be today, tomorrow….you can't possibly know. Just because you love me doesn't mean you can evade death. Trust me, I know that." She shakes her head and takes a step back from the bed. "I'm in love with you, Vera. But…but I can't be with you."
Vera reaches out to Evelyn but she comes up inches short. She loves Evelyn, she needs her. It can't end like this. "Please, Evelyn. Just…just take a second. I know it's a lot to process, I do. But I love you. Don't throw it all away because you're scared."
Evelyn bites her lip and manages to only let a few tears escape. "I'm not…It would hurt me too much if I lost you like this." She looks down to the floor and her throat tightens. She looks back at Vera and her voice drops to a whisper. "I trust you and I love you, but…you almost died. I can't lose someone else. I just…I simply can't lose anyone else."
Before Vera can reply, she takes her bag and walks out the door. Tears are rolling down her face, but she doesn't even bother to wipe them. She really does love Vera. But she has to distance herself before she gets any more attached. To lose two people she loved in less than a year? The pain would be unfathomable.
She wouldn't make it through that.
She gets in her car and drives home. As soon as she walks inside she tears through every kitchen cabinet, every closet until she finds what she needs. It won't help her in the long run, she knows. But for now—for a few hours, she'll be preoccupied with something besides the pain she's feeling.
She opens the cheap bottle of whiskey and pours a glass, relishing the burn of the liquid rolling down her throat. It's a welcome burn. Anything to distract her—to keep her from feeling so utterly broken—is a welcome feeling.
She pours another and another until the bottle is half empty and she can barely stumble over to the couch. As soon as she lies down, she spots a picture Vera had apparently snuck in and placed on the coffee table.
It's a picture of them. They're helping Clara make the very first apple pie of the season. Flour is covering Evelyn's hands and Vera is struggling to peel the smallest apple they had picked. Clara must've taken it when they weren't looking. They look so comfortable in each other's presence and so…happy.
She rolls and buries her face in the pillow as she cries once more. She loves Vera. She's in love with her.
She just doesn't know how to be with her and not be afraid of losing her.
Chapter 15
The memory of Vera's face scrunching up in an attempt to keep from crying haunts her. It pulls so hard on her emotions that her chest aches. It makes her nauseous and she knows it's from more than just a hangover.
Had Vera ever left her? Made Evelyn beg her to stay?
No. Not even in her darkest hours.
But somehow she still managed to leave Vera in that hospital bed, sleep through eight missed calls, and drink enough to make her own self hurt less. She'd left Vera weak and alone—just like Vera had promised to never do to her.
The memory of that little boy's eyes—so big and brown—staring at her, silently begging for her attention is tormenting her, breaking her apart. Would she have let Tristan look at her like that and then just walk away?
No. Never.
And yet, this boy has no one—exactly like herself as a child—and she still managed to walk away. She walked away and left him looking after her as she fled. She made him feel like he was worthless in yet another person's eyes.
How could she have done that?
Her head pounds, sweat-matted hair clings to her forehead, hands shaking from dehydration, but all she can think about is Vera and that little boy.
Vera and that little boy she left all alone in that hospital on the same damn day.
She slowly stands up from the couch—wobbling and slightly off kilter. It feels like her head is swimming and spinning as she makes her way down the hall to the small bathroom. She peels off the clothes that she hastily put on the previous morning and throws them in the floor. She doesn't bother with putting them in the hamper.
How can she possibly care about neatness when she's obviously let so many people down?
Tristan, Vera, her parents…that little boy.
She's let them all down in one way or another.
The water scalds her skin as she sinks down to the shower floor. It feels like someone is sitting on her chest—she's gasping for breath, her heart is pounding, everything is spinning. She brings her knees to her chest and rests her forehead against them.
The pain inside her body grows, hurting, searing her from the inside out. She cries for what she's lost and what she's probably never going to have.
This wasn't how her life was supposed to go.
She wasn't supposed to feel so utterly empty and so utterly filled with pain like this. What did she do wrong? What did she do to deserve this?
The weight that perpetually presses down upon her threatens to crush her. She struggles to take deep breaths, to stay calm as she leans back against the shower wall. Wet hair matts against her face and her skin is a bright pink from the burning hot water. The lack of oxygen getting to her lungs is making her lethargic—her limbs feel so heavy that she can barely move.
She relaxes her legs straight in front of her on the shower floor and the water hits her stomach. She watches as the skin that was guarded by her legs turns a deep red. It gives her something else to focus on while the pain in her chest slowly starts to fade.
Her head spins as she finally works up enough determination to shakily pull herself up. She haphazardly washes her hair before stumbling out of the shower. Her legs feel like jelly and all she wants to do is lay down, but she has so many things she has to do today. So many things she needs to straighten out.
She puts on the first thing she comes across in her closet and only halfway dries her hair before pulling it back in a messy ponytail. As she looks in the mirror and sees the premature wrinkles garnishing the corner of her eyes and the paler than usual complexion of her skin, she debates on whether or not to put on makeup.
In the end she decides not to. She has neither the time nor the patience to go through with that today. She gets in her car and tries to figure out where she should go first. She finally settles on going to the hospital. Vera isn't there now, but that little boy is and she wants to see him—to try and make sure he knows he isn't worthless. Not to her and not to anyone else.
The whole drive she thinks of what she should say to him and how she should act around him. Does she act like she'll see him again? That this isn't just a one-time thing? Or does she not get his hopes up and let him know the finality of this visit?
Her thoughts detach her from reality and she drives to the hospital on autopilot. All too soon, she's already walking inside and onto the elevator. With clammy hands she brushes some stray wisps of hair out of her face as she ascends.
Her mouth feels bone dry when she finally gets to the sixth floor. The halls are just as loud and the children are just as playful as the day before. Right as she gets to the playroom, the same nurse comes out of it and gives Evelyn a wink as she leaves. She was hoping Evelyn would come back.
Evelyn tentatively steps into the room and looks around for the little boy. He's sitting in the same corner with only more puzzles to keep him company. She
watches him work for a few moments before she slowly starts to make her way over.
She wants to run. She wants to run and never look back. She already knows she's going to get too attached. Is she ready for that? Another little boy's face to haunt her in her dreams?
No. Most likely not.
But this is the right thing to do. She doesn't listen to her gut; she knows this is the right thing to do.
She crouches down in front of him and his head quickly jerks up. As soon as he recognizes her, the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly before looking back down to puts together a puzzle. Since he didn't back away, she takes it as her cue to join him.
She sits on the floor and watches as he pops the pieces together with ease. "Do you like puzzles?"
Her voice is soft, quiet. She makes sure she doesn't startle him. He looks at her for a second before reaching behind him and handing her a puzzle he was going to finish next.
Her hands shake when she looks down at it.
Clifford. Tristan's favorite.
She quickly blinks and clears her throat. "I love Clifford. He’s fun, isn't he?"
More confident, he inches towards her and nods. She smiles and turns it upside down to mix up the pieces. When she finishes putting the pieces together, he looks up at her in awe. The first adult to ever play with him and the first person to finish before he could? Amazing.
She sharply inhales as he crawls over to her and settles in her lap. She wasn't expecting it. Certainly not from a child who had yet to utter a single word to her.
It feels so similar and yet so utterly different than all the times Tristan had ever done this. Not better, but certainly not worse. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she simply settles into her fate and watches him piece puzzle after puzzle together.
After the third one, she feels more confident in her ability to contain her emotions. She tentatively runs her fingers through his brown hair and smiles as she sees him smile from it. It's probably the first time anyone had ever given him such a loving gesture.
