Page 16 of This I Know
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.Especiallynot 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.
Ishouldleave.
This is wrong.
