For a moment, my parents’ faces softened, remembering a life beyond hospital rooms and medical bills. It seemed like a lifetime ago—when I visited hospitals instead of living in them. Dad launched into a story about a family of raccoons who recently decided the old shed was their new home, his hands animating as he described the mayhem. Mom laughed, a genuine sound I hadn't heard in months.
In that moment, I could almost pretend we were normal—just a family sharing stories on a rainy afternoon. Almost.
17
LUCY
{Over twelve years ago}
Young Lucy. Three weeks later.
Welcome to Brightfield House.
The sign was huge. A smiling sun replacing the circle at the top of the oversized caduceus. White, various shades of blue, bright yellow.
The sealed medical file on my lap was thick enough to double as body armor. Almost twelve years of treatments, failures, and false hopes compressed between sterile manila covers, labeled with barcodes instead of my name. Mom said she’d copied everything for me to keep. Strangely, the documents looked like the originals.
Creased from worry.
Stained from dripped coffee.
Stamped in bright, smeared ink.
I sat in the hospital's transfer bay. The wheelchair was locked in place, wheels unable to move. I felt uncomfortable sitting inthe environmental suit, mask fogging as I breathed too quickly, my nerves frayed to shreds. The oxygen tank behind me hissed softly, and even though I was used to the sound, it made my skin crawl today. Outside the hospital, fifty or so feet away, an ambulance waited to claim me. Its back doors stood wide open, giving the impression of a predator waiting for prey. An EMT was inside, checking supplies and readying for the trip to Brightfield House. The driver was standing nearby holding a clipboard.
I scanned the area, spotting my parents beside an older minivan. It wasn’t familiar, and I wondered why they weren’t driving the sleek SUV they’d bought only a couple years ago.
Mom leaned against dad, and he wrapped one arm around her shoulders.
They seemed so far away, and they looked so small from where I sat.
The distance between me and my family had been growing wider every day. Now the gap was no longer something I could bridge.
The sound of sliding doors drew my attention to the right. A nurse was striding outside holding a banker’s box labeled in bold red lettering—Personal Belongings. Patient: Graves.My entire existence whittled down to one box: pitiful homemade calendar, books, tiny treasures, even Hoppy—the threadbare, tattered, and faded rabbit—was somewhere inside sealed in a plastic bag.
I watched as the nurse went to the ambulance and handed the EMT my things, then she strode to my parents and said something. Soon after, the trio was moving in my direction. They entered through the door the nurse had exited from, then looped around to join me in the elevated bay.
"You look good today, Lucy," Dad said, his eyes skipping over the suit and mask and wheelchair and oxygen tank. Hedeliberately avoided directly locking gazes. His hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Strong.”
“I look like a banana,” I tried to be funny, tried to say something that would give us a heartbeat’s break from this shitty situation.
Dad just looked confused for a moment.
“She always looks strong,” my mom suddenly spoke, her voice trembling slightly. “Our strong Lucy.” She moved around the wheelchair and stared down at me. “I know wherever you are, you’ll be okay because you’re so brave, Lucy.”
Why did that sound like a goodbye? We hadn’t even started the drive to Brightfield yet, so why was mom acting like we’d already arrived and they were leaving me behind?
“So damn strong,” Dad seemed to repeat himself in a daze.
“Yes, honey. She’s strong.” Mom shifted her focus from me to my dad. He looked like a lost little boy right now. I suddenly felt like I was missing something important, and if I realized it too late, something terrible might happen. This wasn’t their normal sadness or joy. This wasn’t hope. It was… grief? Resignation? I wasn’t sure.
What was strong anyways. What did ‘strong’ look like to my parents.
Was it the way I held myself upright in this stupid wheelchair despite the fatigue weighing down my limbs? Or was it just the fact that I wasn't actively dying at the moment? The bar for “good” was sea level these days.
“They’re backing the ambulance up,” the nurse interjected, “the guys know you’ll be following them, so they’ll try to make sure you don’t fall behind. If you do lose sight of them, don’t worry. Just keep following the directions. You’ve got navigation, right?”
“We’ll use our phone.”
