I laughed at that; it was a cracked, crazed sound. Overexert myself? How could I do that when I couldn’t exert myself at all? How could something be ‘over’ when it sat at rock bottom and then some?
“Lucy, there really are still options,” another spoke. The doctor again maybe. His tone didn’t match his words. False positivity layered over painful truth. Syllables of saving spoken at the end of the world.
The intercom buzzed before I could respond with words designed to force them all to admit it was over. There were no better days for me around the corner anymore.
"Lucy, your parents are here to visit," announced the receptionist's voice. "They're prepping now.”
Prepping was a lot like scrubbing in for a surgery—street clothes changed into clean scrubs and protective gear added over that, so that by the time my parents entered my patient room, the only parts of them truly visible would be the space between the papery blue masks and the surgical caps. Mom hadsuch pretty hair; it was a shame she had to hide it all away because of me.
“Oh, how nice, Lucy,” a voice floated into my brain, but the words were fuzzy, “your parents are here. We’ll talk more with you later after we’ve updated them on how you’ve been.”
I blinked slowly, only half registering as the staff in my room filed out.
My heart performed its usual complicated routine—racing with excitement then immediately slowing with anxiety. I stood up from the stool, straightened my thin hospital gown, tucked loose strands of hair behind my ears, and practiced smiling in the reflection of the window. Not too big—that made me look desperate. Not too small—that made them worry more.
Ten minutes later, the airlock door hissed open. Mom entered first, her face partly obscured by the protective mask all visitors had to wear. Her arms were limp at her side, large purse threatening to fall from her grip, her fingers were barely curled around the handle. I wondered if the staff knew she’d brought the purse into my room. Surely, it was also riddled with outside germs. Dad followed behind mom, his tall frame made bulkier by the puffy, disposable medical coat. I squinted slightly, trying to imagine them in regular outfits. Mom would have on a blue and white cotton top, a pair of flattering jeans, cute canvas sneakers. Dad would be in a pair of khaki slacks, a button-down shirt with the top two buttons unfastened to reveal a white undershirt. If it were chilly, mom would add a soft cardigan, and dad would wear one of his casual blazers.
I blinked slowly, and the papery coats, gloves, and masks came into focus. I hated the sight.
"Hi, sweetheart," Mom said, her voice muffled. "Sorry it's been a while. Work has been crazy for dad," she hesitated, gaze darting to the side and then back again. Yet, her watery blue eyes didn’t stay on my face for long before she shifted her focus justpast me, as if she couldn’t stand to look directly at me anymore. “And your brother has had a lot going on too.”
“Yeah?” I tried to sound interested. Maybe part of me was… Tom was getting to experience the kind of childhood I was missing out on. “Is he still playing soccer?”
“He’s playing center forward this season for the Leeville Lions. He was MVP last game. Hard to believe he’ll be seven next month,” Dad nodded, as he studied the monitors beside my bed. "How are your numbers today?"
Seven. Tom was about to be seven. When was the last time mom and dad brought him to visit? A year ago? I didn’t understand why. Waiting to die wasn’t contagious. I’d been so excited when mom was pregnant. Being a big sister was something I could be even from a hospital bed. Yet, I rarely saw Tom. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d hugged him.
The hello from mom had seemed so forced. The mention of my brother’s ‘normal’ life fell so easily from dad’s mouth. I wondered how they talked about me when I wasn’t around—which was all the time. If someone asked about their daughter, did they avoid answering, did they make up a cheerful lie, did they tell the truth?‘She’s in yet another new hospital. We’re waiting for the worst.’
A deep, penetrating ache radiated from my chest and seeped into every part of my insides until my body felt like one giant wound.
Yet, I answered with practiced cheerfulness. "Oxygen's been pretty good. Only one fever this week. I think things are looking up.”One truth, one half-truth—I only considered it a proper fever if it went above 101 nowadays—and one outright lie.
“That's good,” he said, though his tone was incredulous. Even if I did miraculously get cured, I wondered if my parents would even believe it? I’d been sick so long, and they were tired… of itall. “Wasn’t there a new drug they were going to try? I remember the doctor here mentioning it when you were transferred.”
"Insurance denied it initially," Mom cut in before I could answer. She lowered herself into the visitor's chair, keeping a careful distance from my bed, releasing the purse so it thudded gently to the tiled floor. “I've been on the phone with them every day. They need more documentation proving conventional treatments have failed. I can’t do anything more. The hospital has to do their part now to appeal and get the pre-authorization.”
“There’s always so much goddamn red tape,” dad breathed out. His words weren’t angry; they were resigned.
“They’re having a specialist come in next week. He sounds impressive.” I licked my lips after speaking; they were dry and ached.
Mom suddenly picked up the purse she’d set on the ground, unzipped the top, and began rifling through. Eventually, mom pulled out a lip balm. Hands shaking, she uncapped it and stood up, the purse falling to the floor, contents spilling.
Dad, expression slack, automatically moved to the mess and began picking things up. As he cleaned, I couldn’t help but glimpse the normal contents—envelopes sporting bright red overdue stamps, mom’s anxiety medication, crumpled hospital forms, a lipstick, the tiny St. Raphael medallion she’d gotten at church—the patron saint of healing—and Tom’s inhaler. Exercise-induced asthma. God! What I wouldn’t give to have my problems helped by a three-inch medical device! Before I’d gotten sick, mom was a teacher. She’d left her job to take care of me. Forever ago, mom’s purse would have contained sweet notes from her students, a few hard candies, maybe a folder of ungraded papers.
I’d changed everything for my parents. I wondered if they ever regretted having me.
“Your lips are so chapped, Lucy," she said with a thin smile, pressing the end of the fruity balm to my dry mouth and spreading a thin layer over the cracks. She re-capped it when she was done and handed it to me. “You keep this one. I’ll bring you more next visit.”
Why did the words ‘next visit’ make my stomach hurt?
16
LUCY
{Over twelve years ago}
Young Lucy. Two months later.
