15
LUCY
{Over twelve years ago}
Young Lucy.
It was my half birthday.No longer just eleven, six months away from twelve. Stuck in the middle.
I turned my face toward the window again, watching raindrops trace paths down the glass. Each one started alone then joined with others, becoming something bigger before disappearing altogether. I wondered which kind of raindrop I would be. Probably a small one. I’d stay the smallest possible raindrop, simply because there were no other raindrops around to join me.
This window and I had gotten really close the past weeks. I knew every blemish on its aged surface. I had a feeling I’d be saying goodbye to it soon; this facility and its faculty had done all they could for me. Still, I couldn’t stop the little kernel of hope inside that a cure was just a heartbeat away. I liked some of thepeople here, liked them enough to think it wouldn’t be so bad to spend the rest of my, possibly short life, here.
"When do we try again?" I asked the window, refusing to look at the doctor and nurse behind me in the room. They stood there still as stone, barely breathing.
Because that was the only real question. Not if, but when. Maybe not here, with these doctors and nurses trying to stay optimistic in front of me. Maybe in another hospital.
Another hospital room.
Another treatment.
Another promise waiting to be broken.
I pressed my finger against the cool glass, tracing the path of a new raindrop as it raced down the now fogging window. I leaned closer, sucking in air and exhaling sharply. My breath created a small fog circle that expanded then immediately began to fade away. Over a year had passed since I'd felt real rain—I’d gotten so sick last time that mom was terrified to let me go outside if there was even one cloud in the sky.
Somehow, losing my ability to run through the rain, splash in puddles, and spin in circles as I got drenched, felt like a piece of me actually died. Just another joy stripped away, bringing me one step closer to complete isolation.
I waited for one of the medical professionals to respond. Yet, they said nothing. So, I kept waiting.
Lately, I'd been waiting a lot.
When I was sure no one was watching, I slid my hand beneath the mattress and pulled out my calendar. It wasn't much—I’d gotten ahold of hospital stationary and mapped out week by week on the small four by six papers. Last night, I’d marked another X with a purple crayon. Twenty-three days since Mom and Dad's last visit. Before that, it had been eighteen days. Before that, twelve.
I didn't need the calendar to know the gap between visits was widening, but tracking it gave me something to control. If I could predict when they'd come, maybe the hollow feeling in my chest wouldn't expand quite so much between visits.
“That bad, huh?” I finally broke the silence, spinning the little stool away from the window to stare them down. Immediately, each of them averted their gaze.
The doctor, looking down at his gnarled hands holding a clipboard, cleared his throat. “It’s not hopeless, Lucy. I’ve called in a specialist. He’ll be here next week and plans to spend a few months assisting us.”
A specialist. If one of those had the magic answer, I’d have been cured eons ago.
I whirled in the chair, staring at the room as it began to blur. The walls were that weird butter yellow that was supposed to feel peaceful. There were a few drawings taped to the walls, a couple cards from home, a newer photo of my little brother.
Using the windowsill, I spun myself faster. I felt my body begin to slip off the round cushion as the room kept blurring around me.
Books borrowed from the hospital library filled a small shelf along with my one treasured possession: a die cast motorcycle with a little rider attached. A nurse at my last hospital went to a monster truck rally that had stunt performers. He’d given it to me, along with a ridiculous reenactment of the event, complete with him jumping off the adjacent bed and crash-landing onto the floor before miming blood spurting from his head. Apparently, one of the stunt riders crashed mid-performance.
Though I wouldn’t want to crash a motorcycle, I couldn’t stop imagining racing at top speed, careening up a ramp, and flying out into open air. Flying over a line of giant trucks. The crowd roaring at the top of their lungs. Even if I went up in flames after, that brief moment of freedom would be worth it.
Suddenly, I felt like I was going to throw up. The stool was whirling too fast. What a stupid dream, to think I could ride a motorcycle at top speeds. I couldn’t even spin in a chair without feeling incredibly sick.
I slammed my feet flat on the floor to stop the stool from spinning and then leaned over, hands on my knees, as I took a few breaths.
Seconds later, a hand was on my back, a voice was asking if I needed something to vomit into, and a glass of cool water appeared in my line of sight. I took it with one limp hand but couldn’t bring myself to drink.
“Thanks,” I murmured, no longer caring if they answered my earlier question.
“You can’t overexert yourself, Lucy,” one of them said.
