Translation: indefinitely. Possibly forever.That’s why the new doctor wanted me to think of this place as different, as a home away from home. A home, because I had no other home away from here.
“I’m so far from home here,” I mumbled, staring down at my hands. “I wanted to see Tom before leaving the valley.”
"Lucy, honey." Mom reached out, placing her hand on my shoulder lightly. Her eyes were dry but red-rimmed, as if she'd done her crying earlier on the drive here and now had no tears left. “This is for the best. Brightfield House can give you what we can't. Tom is getting older every day. He’s got more away gamesand demands on his schedule. Knowing you’re here, receiving proper care by wonderful people, will put our minds at ease.”
Translation: this is for us, Lucy. We’re putting you here at Brightfield so we can comfortably live our lives without worrying all the time. Don’t be selfish and make this harder.
"We'll visit soon," Dad promised, his voice cracking slightly. "Once you're settled in. And we'll call every week."
They didn’t even visit monthly anymore. They wouldn’t call me weekly.
It was just another promise that would stretch thin over time, like taffy cooling too quickly and pulled beyond its breaking point. Even if they did call weekly for a while, it would become monthly, then it would change to "when we can." Visits would be planned, then postponed, then canceled completely. Now that I was further from home, out of sight and out of mind, I’d be slowly forgotten except for a holiday call or a belated birthday card.
"Sure," I said, because what else could I say? "Sounds great."
Mom leaned forward, giving me a limp hug that hardly registered through the protective suit. "We love you, Lucy. Never forget that."
Dad nodded, choosing to wrap his arm around mom instead of touching me. "Be good for the doctors. Do what they tell you."
And that was it. Twelve years of parenting distilled into its essence:we love you, but from a distance. Follow the rules. Don't make trouble.
I watched them walk away, their backs straightening with each step toward the van, as if shedding a physical burden. They turned once at their respective vehicle doors, raising their hands in farewell. I lifted mine, hidden behind thick layers of synthetic yellow, in response, a gesture as empty as their promise to call weekly.
I zoned out as someone began pushing me towards the entrance, moving to the left of the stairs and turning onto the wheelchair ramp. My brain vaguely registered details like the front office, reception desk, and bustling community room. The elevator music was soft and soothing as we ascended to the second floor. The double airlock entrance to the large private room made my pulse race and when a nurse arrived fully suited to wheel me inside, part of me wanted to stand up and run away from the change of it all. It was too much, too fast. I wanted my parents. I wanted to be small again. Five, with mom holding my hand. Six, with dad trying to make me laugh through tears. Seven, when we all still held onto a fragment of hope that hospitals wouldn’t be our lives forever.
Inside the airlock, fog hissed down upon us and I flinched.
“It’s just SteriMist, sweetie. Don’t worry. It’s going to kill all the bad stuff on us and the wheelchair, so we don’t contaminate your room.”
“Okay,” I said, voice shaking.
The nurse left me in the middle of the room. A few minutes later, the doctor, now also wearing a suit, entered.
“Would you like to get comfortable, Lucy? It’s safe to take all that nonsense off now. This room has been optimized just for you.” He waved his hand around and talked as if we were in the middle of a marvelous hotel suite, room service only a call away.
I nodded hesitantly, reaching up automatically to try and find the ridge where the helmet met the suit’s body. The doctor smiled, then walked forward to help.
When I was left in only the medical scrubs and bare feet, sitting back in the wheelchair, the doctor walked over to the adjustable bed and grabbed a zipped plastic bag. From it, he brought a pair of slippers into view. He came back to me, dropped to one knee, and pushed the slippers onto my feet.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lucy,” he said, his tone warm and his face bright with a smile. “This is where we'll make you better.”
I couldn't help it—a bitter laugh escaped before I could swallow it back. How many times had I heard those words? How many doctors had promised cures only to deliver more of the same—tests, treatments, and failures. It was all rinse and repeat now.
“You don’t believe me?” He quipped, smile still full and genuine.
"That's what they all say," I replied, meeting his gaze with unwavering resolve. “We’ll make you better. We’ll find the cure. We’ll help you live a normal life. I’ve heard it all, Doc.”
Doctor Emerson didn't flinch. If anything, I think he smiled fractionally wider. "Fair enough. How about this instead: this is where we'll try something new. And, if that doesn’t work, we’ll try something else new. We won’t give up on you, Lucy. No more transfers.”
I didn't know what "new" meant anymore. My life had been a series of new treatments, new facilities, new promises—all leading to the same dead ends. But something in Doctor Emerson's tone made me pause. Maybe I was just desperate enough to grab onto any lifeline, even one I suspected might be already cut clean through.
18
LUCY
{Over eleven years ago}
Young Lucy. One year later.
