"Real places," he confirmed. "And someday, when we get you healthy, you'll see them all for yourself."
I didn't point out the white lie in his statement. After two full years at Brightfield House, with no cure in sight, "someday" existed in the same realm as unicorns and pain-free blood draws—theoretical but improbable. Still, once I had it in my clutches, I pressed the second book to my chest, the weight of it solid and reassuring. This room, this building, this life, wasn’t the real world.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it more than the simple words could express.
Doctor Emerson nodded, understanding the unspoken. He pulled out his tablet and launched into my daily health assessment with his usual mix of medical precision and terrible jokes. When he left, the book remained—a talisman against the emptiness of isolation, a window to places beyond sterile walls.
At lunchtime, Nurse John arrived with my tray and, as promised the day before, an extra cup of cherry gelatin.
"I had to sneak this out like a spy,” he whispered with exaggerated secrecy. “Don’t tell the cafeteria gals.”
I grinned, shoving things closer together on my tray to make room for the bonus. "Your criminal activities are safe with me. My silence can be bought with sugar and artificial coloring."
He adjusted my IV as I began eating—dessert first, obviously—his movements efficient but gentle. “Checked your numbers earlier. Things are looking pretty good still.”
"Good enough to reduce the isolation protocols?" I asked between bites, already knowing the answer but asking anyway. Hope was a bad habit I couldn't seem to break.
He narrowed his eyes at me. "Not yet, troublemaker. But we're moving in the right direction.”
I nodded, swallowing the disappointment along the cherry Jello which now tried to stick in my throat. Two years of "notyet" had taught me to make the question sound casual, to accept the answer without visible reaction. To pretend each negative response didn't chip away at something essential inside me.
The day continued as it always did—vitals, snack time, the ‘changing of the guards’ as the day nurses gave way to the night staff. When it was nearly dinner time, my neighbor patient across the hall appeared on the other side of my airlock.
Skip was a year younger than me and had a variant of my own disease, though far milder, more easily managed. I envied him. He could walk in the garden. He didn’t have to stay in a bubble all the time. Yet, he was still here. Just like me. So, we shared misery.
The intercom buzzed when Skip pressed the exterior button. “Hey, Lucy! Did you hear the news?”
I smiled, standing up and walking slowly over to the airlock. It wouldn’t open without a key card, so there was no risk being close to the entrance.
When I got to the button on my side, I pressed it to respond. “What news?”
I wondered what had him so excited. Maybe we were getting a new flavor of pudding. The little gelatin or pudding cups were a highlight, considering I mostly lived off curated, bland foods because of my illness.
“I’m so stoked I get to be the one to tell you!” He grinned from ear-to-ear.
Something in his tone made my stomach clench. "Tell me what?"
"I'm getting out! The new treatment worked. I can go home next week!"
I fought like hell to keep my face from betraying my feelings. I forced myself to smile wider, until my cheeks ached. The words came out mechanically, but Skip didn’t seem to notice. “That's... that's amazing, Skip. I’m so happy for you.”
“You’ll get out soon too, Lucy. I just know it!”
He said goodbye and practically ran down the hallway, maybe to share the news with others.
In his wake, he left me alone in the misery we once shared.
20
LUCY
{Over seven years ago}
Young Lucy. Two years and four months later.
“Happy birthday to you!Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Lucy! Happy birthday to you!”
It was after lunch. About a dozen Brightfield staff sang to me on the other side of the airlock. Doctor Emerson held a small cake, two numbered candles—a one and a six—sticking from the top, unlit because of safety regulations.
