by Holly Ryan
That’s strange. It must be from one of my visitors, and maybe it fell out when my mom moved the duffle bag.
My mom reappears at the door. “What’s that?” she says.
I stuff it into my pocket. “It’s nothing.”
She pauses, catches her breath and then walks over to me. She runs her hand along my jaw. I can read her so well that I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s having a moment. She’s thinking, We almost lost you, and now here you are, going home. We still have you.
I do my best to smile. I place my hand against hers. “I’m glad I still have you, too, Mom.”
She shakes her head. “I hate it when you do that.”
I hope I’m not squishing the flower.
Another thing being gravely injured has taught me: life is hard.
And by life, I don’t mean struggling to get good grades and trying to find the time to get your chores done so you don’t get yelled at. You know, the usual simple high school life that everyone takes for granted. That’s insignificant now. I mean every little thing, things you normally don’t think about – that’s what’s hard.
Getting into the van is hard because it’s a struggle to figure out how to do it without falling or hurting myself more. Riding home is hard because every little bump in the road feels like my leg is getting hit with a sledgehammer. Getting out of the van is hard because I foolishly choose to leave my wheelchair behind and even with my mom’s help, I slip and almost fall onto the damp concrete.
But being home … that’s the best feeling in the world. I sink into my bed, curl up, and I never want to move.
My mom removes my arm from her shoulder and kisses my head. “There you are. Rest as long as you need. Alright?”
I grin and nod, then close my eyes. She takes it as her cue to leave me alone, and I hear the door click shut.
I lean over to inhale the scents of my favorite sheets, pillows, and stuffed animals. I tell myself, Yep, this is what I’ve been waiting for. Screw the world – I’m staying right here until I get better.
I don’t mean it, of course. There are places I have to be, school and therapy being the biggest of those priorities. You know, that whole road to healing thing. But, hey, a girl can dream.
I maneuver my body to fish the flower out of my pocket. I remove it carefully, expecting it to tear or be nothing more than a pile of crumbs; but it somehow removes whole, and it’s just as beautiful as it first was. I set it next to my bed.
I hear my mom flick on the TV downstairs. The sound of foggy voices lulls me toward sleep, and my thoughts begin to wander.
Maybe I should call Cole.
No. It’s better to let him worry about me a little longer. Besides, I know I’ll see him when I go back to school.
I let out a dreamy sigh. I replace the heavy thoughts of Cole with the safer, more whimsical ideas of a guardian angel. I then fall asleep, hard, to the sight of beautiful pressed purple and yellow petals.
Ethan
The first time I saw her, I left with no intention of ever seeing her again.
I found the address of the hospital among all the papers. I was shocked. Shouldn’t something like that be crossed out, confidential? I played with the idea over and over, unsure of what to do. Wouldn’t the right thing be to make amends with everything, to tell this girl I was sorry for what my monster father did to her? Or would it be better to ignore her, pretend she doesn’t exist, and deal only with the evil side of things?
When I finally decided to go, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my mother. Especially not my mother. And I was really clever about it, too; I made sure to go later in the day, at a time when I thought she might be asleep, and I made sure to look like I knew what I was doing once I got there. People don’t ask as many questions when you give out a confident vibe. It’s like lying without lying.
I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t need to talk to her.
I just want to see her, to put myself at ease, to see that she is okay and to make sure my father has destroyed only two lives and not three. Sometimes you just have to focus on the positive. And the thought of her making it is my positive.
So I’m doing this for me, but if I can do it for her, too, I will.
The drive to the hospital feels like the same drive I took a few days ago to the detention center. Not similar, no – the very same thing. It’s just as unpleasant, just as drawn out, and just as stressful.
I grip the steering wheel as I drive, twisting my knuckles and then picking at pieces of plastic that are peeling away. This is a bad idea. What if I get caught? Getting caught wouldn’t matter. What’s the worst they could do – lock me up, too? At least I’d have some company.
I arrive at the hospital shortly after dusk. I drive around for a bit trying to find a parking spot, which is harder to do than at the detention center. That was a big place with a big lot; here, the hospital is relatively small, with a decent-sized lot but horrible spots, so unless I feel like sprinting a half mile out to my car to make a getaway when I’m discovered by the security officer, I need to find a good spot.
I find a spot, then rip the keys out of the ignition and shove them in my pocket. I’m trying to get out of this car as quickly as possible, to get this over with as quickly as possible, so I don’t lose my nerve in the middle of the whole thing.
I step out of the truck and slam the door, grabbing my backpack and swinging it over my shoulder. In the shadows of well-lit parking lot I see a pair of women walking toward me, holding onto each other with one woman’s arms wrapped around the other’s shoulders. The woman being embraced is holding a tissue to her face and clutching the woman’s remaining arm.
I feel bad. I shouldn’t have been so loud, and when I go in there, I need to remember where I am. It also reminds me that this is no joke. I may be doing this for my own sake, but it’s for her sake that she’s here, to recover. And the reason that she’s here in the first place is because of my father. I should be more respectful.
By the time I approach the hospital doors, the women have since retreated into their car, and I swing my head around while I pull open one of the doors. They’re driving out of sight.
I enter with care. I can feel my pulse inside my chest, and my hand instinctively wants to clutch along a wall for stability as I walk, never mind the fact that I can see perfectly fine.
There are plenty of people here, even at this late hour, which is a good thing. If I’m careful, I should be able to mix in with the bustle and become invisible. I’m usually pretty good at that, when necessary. I stuff my hands in my pockets and walk the hallway, resisting that urge to stabilize my panicking body, casually looking to the directional plaques on the walls to guide me.
It’s surprising how small this hospital is; this is one of the smallest I’ve been to. Not that I’ve been to a lot of hospitals. I’ve only ever been to a few local ones, each time for the births of my three nieces, and each time realizing that despite such joyous events as births, hospitals are depressing. And this one is no exception.
I’ve always thought hospitals in general to be uncomfortable places to be, but this one is a step above. For one thing, it’s so quiet that it bothers me. It’s even quieter than the prison. I hear the footsteps of every person that I walk past, the whooshing of their scrubs. And what’s with all the white? Seriously, you’d think they’d hire a decorator to come in here to cheer this place up. It would probably do everyone some good.
Everyone I pass looks busy, so they I don’t think anyone notices when I slip into room forty-nine. I do so carefully, by placing my hand slowly on the knob and peering in first to see if she’s asleep or awake or what the hell is going on. I gear myself up for this. Know what you’re going to say, Ethan. And it better be something better than “Hi. I’m your attacker’s son. Mind if I join you for the sake of my own ego?” No. If she’s awake, I’ll say I have the wrong room and beg for forgiveness. That’s all.
I push the door open, completely silent.
/> She’s asleep, her back toward me and her body facing the large window leading to the outside. The curtains are open, and the light of the parking lot streams in and across her.
Slowly, I move inside and take a seat in the padded visitor’s chair next to her bed. And as soon as I take that set, I want to leave.
I should leave.
This is wrong.
It’s weird.
I feel like a creep just sitting here while she sleeps.
I’m going to leave. I place my hands on my knees to push myself up, hoping to exit as quietly as I came, but when I make it half way to the door she turns. In a few swift motions, she flips her body with her eyes still closed and her hands working to keep the sheets in place near her neck.
I freeze and prepare myself for the worst. I prepare for her eyes to shoot open, for a brief moment of confused non-recognition to pass, and then it could go one of two ways: I’ll be faced with a slew of questions, or screaming will commence. It could go either way.
My muscles are tense, ready for it. I’m preparing that getaway. That, “Sorry, I’ve got the wrong room. It’s a mistake that I just so happened to be sitting here watching you sleep like a creeper. I was totally trying to creep on someone else.”
It almost happens. It comes this close to happening, and in that moment I pray to whatever god, wondering what I did so right that I deserve not to be totally exposed right now.
Because what happens is she creaks open her eyes.
And I’m sure I’ve been caught. The thoughts running through my mind include I’m done and Damn it, followed by a string of more severe obscenities, and then a stoic resignation. Then come those prayers of thanks when I see the blankness in her eyes, the sleepiness and the lack of full consciousness that’s required for her to register that I’m even here.
Seeing this, I keep my eyes on hers. It’s obvious she’s still asleep. She sees me, but she’s not processing who I am or what I’m doing. She’s somewhere else, probably dreaming. I walk back to the chair and place my hand on it, then I cautiously lower my body down and lean back … all the while holding her invisible gaze.
She finally closes her eyes and sighs, then becomes peaceful once more.
I tip my head back against the chair and sigh with her. That was way too close. My father has called me stupid plenty of times, and now I guess I’m showing my true colors. This wasn’t a smart thing to do.
As my resting heart rate returns, my eyes wander to the clipboard hanging near her bed. It’s filled with handwritten notes and they’re close enough to make out from where I’m sitting. It doesn’t contain any information about her injuries, but it does list times and dosages of medications in milligrams. The bottommost addition reads 7:22 p.m. and is initialed by N.L.
The round clock on the wall, ticking loudly in the light of the window, says it’s 8:15.
Well, that explains why she’s sleeping so deeply at 8:15. She must be drugged. Poor girl.
I only stay for ten minutes. I set myself a time limit because I know every minute that ticks past on that annoying, classroom-like clock means another minute of stupidity on my part and more risk added on. Someone can walk in at any time, be it a family member or a nurse or a doctor, and I’m not prepared for that. I know in the end I’ll most likely get caught and be in some kind of trouble. But I weighed all that before I left my house to come here, and I’ve accepted it. And I’m so glad I did. Because after I thought I was caught, when she first semi-looked at me deeply with her dark, sleepy eyes, all those cares disappeared. She was so peaceful lying there, and in that moment it was as though all her peace invaded all my chaos, and an intoxication almost as strong as the physical one she was on overcame me, and I was drugged.
I reach into my backpack and pull out one of my schoolbooks. Inside is a single pressed flower. It’s nothing special, and it didn’t take much effort to press; I’d made it years ago and it means little to me, but I’d read it can be therapeutic to do something like this. So, I do. I set it on the cheap, fake-wood hospital nightstand only a few inches from where she’s sleeping. Maybe that’s not the best place. I pick it up again and walk over to her nearby collection of cards, balloons, and other gifts that are resting on her dresser, and I set it among them, making sure it’s well blended among everything else.
I take a step back, evaluating what I’ve just done. Then I lunge my hand forward and take the flower back.
No. No fucking flower.
Respect, Ethan: you’re supposed to be showing it, not flaunting a lack of it all over the place like an idiot. I’m trying to not stand out, and leaving a unanimous, strange calling card isn’t the way to do that. This is just supposed to be symbolic, after all; I don’t want to freak her out. And I certainly don’t need a police report on my hands.
I’m in the middle of putting the flower back where it came from when I jump at the sound of an alarm. It breaks through the previously silent room, ringing out loud in a steady, beeping rhythm.
I panic. My resting heart rate? It’s not resting any more. It’s back up to a hundred and twenty beats per minute.
I slam the book shut and throw it in my backpack, then leave as quickly as I can without even bothering to zip it up. I’ve made a ruckus, but I don’t care. I just hope I’ve left in time for her to not have seen me.
In the hall, I reach a corner and stop behind it, catching my breath. I dare to peer around when I hear someone approaching the girl’s room. It’s a nurse, walking with a smile on her face and holding something. She opens the door.
“Good morning, Avery,” the nurse sings.
I don’t hear Avery. I don’t hear anything anymore, because I get the hell out of there. I slip out of the hospital, much more stealthy than how I left Avery’s room and just as silently as I came in. Another clock hangs above the exit, and I see it strike 8:25 the very second I leave.
It’s been two days. Two days since I first saw Avery, sat beside her and looked into her eyes. And today, I’m going back. If someone were to ask me why, I wouldn’t have an answer. The only explanation is things still don’t feel right, and maybe going back can fix that.
“You’re off again?” my mother shouts at me through the house just as I’m coming down the stairs. It’s morning. She must have heard me getting ready.
“Yes,” I call back.
Today is Sunday, so it’s no surprise she thought it odd to hear me moving around up there so early. A guy like me wouldn’t be active at this hour unless I was heading somewhere.
I make my way downstairs and step into the kitchen. She’s busy cooking already. There she is, blotting her hands on the apron tied around her body. Her hair is a mess, and she only leaves it messy like that when she knows she’ll be in the kitchen all day.
“Are you going to tell me where to this time?”
“It’s not like it’s a secret,” I say as I open the cabinet and grab some food. I’m not lying, but I’m not entirely telling the truth. “I’m going out. I’ll be back later.”
She glares at me. Her hands are still tied up in that apron. “You know, it’s always nice to communicate with your mother once in a while. That’s all I’m saying.”
I can hear in her voice that she’s half-joking. My mom doesn’t get mad at me. I think that’s a byproduct of having a lousy dad. You’re sometimes left with a guilt-ridden mom.
“Actually, you’ve never said that before. But I’m an adult now, you know.” I pull a granola bar out from the shelf. “You still want me to tell you every little thing I do? What about the nights when I won’t be coming back from a girl’s house? I know that would make you squeamish.”
“Really?” She laughs. “I’m your mom, Ethan. There won’t be a day when I stop wanting to know where you are.”
“I know.” I sigh, a smile playing on my face. “Unfortunately.”
She lifts her finger at me. “And what you just described better not happen for many years. As in, many, many years.” She waves her hand. “Actua
lly, you’re right. Please never tell me.”
I laugh, then pour myself a glass of milk and down it in a hurry. I unwrap the granola bar and eat it in three bites. “Don’t worry.”
We joke like this all the time, our own little way of coping with things. With me being essentially fatherless and having to move on with the burden of everything he’s done, and with her losing a husband, someone who was once her best friend, who has betrayed us both in a horrible way. You’ve got to laugh sometimes.
I look at her as I finish chewing. There’s a sadness in her eyes, but there’s hope, too. She’s a strong woman. She has strong eyes. She’ll be okay, in the end. Me? I’m not so sure. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move past the dreaded but so accurate title of Serial Killer’s Son.
“You know I’ll be back,” I say giving her a sly smile. I leave, closing the door gently behind me.
It’s a beautiful day. The sun is out, and I strip off my outermost shirt before starting my truck. I toss the unneeded shirt in the back, then I get comfortable and prepare myself for the drive ahead. I check that I have enough gas. It looks good. I place my hands on the steering wheel and take a deep breath. I can do this again.
I want to do this again.
If she wakes up this time, I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll tell her who I am. And if she’ll stand to let me explain, I’ll let her know I was there the other day, too. Because after seeing her yesterday, I realize now that she deserves to know the truth so much more than I deserve to feel comfortable.
It’s easier to find a decent getaway parking spot today. I pull into the first available spot, which turns out to be only a few yards from the hospital entrance. I look around when I slip my truck into park. There are fewer people here today. This time, there’s no heartbreak and no tears before I can even step inside. In fact, the only person in sight is an elderly woman who’s walking slowly toward me, holding her keys out to enter her car, which I’ve apparently parked next to. I get out of my truck, then wait for her to pass before continuing. Our eyes lock; her face is weathered and grey, and her hair is splayed this way and that as if she doesn’t give a damn anymore.
