NO CHECKLIST WAS required this morning. It took all of a second for my tiny eardrums to recognize the whisper-soft sound of oxygen being pumped into me. As my eyes fluttered opened and focused, I reached up and felt the plastic tubing around my nose. I instantly frowned. My nose was already dry and flaky from the stupid tubes.
Gross.
I hated sleeping like this. It was uncomfortable, unpleasant, and put me in a bad mood, but since my breathing had been a little less than ideal yesterday, I’d been put on oxygen overnight.
The bright side was I at least had machines and monitors on days like these.
Things could be much worse, and when I found myself trending toward the bitter side of the spectrum, I always tried to remind myself of that little fact. I could have been born half a century ago and never made it out of the hospital. In my twenty-two years, I’d done my fair share of complaining. I’d cried myself to sleep more times than I could count. I’d argued with my poor mother. I’d begged and pleaded with her when she brought me back to the hospital for yet another procedure.
But through it all, the rational, realistic part of me knew one very important thing—I was so incredibly lucky to be alive.
I had been fortunate enough to be born in a century with modern technology and in a country with experienced doctors who could treat my condition and help me move from one birthday to the next. Without them, I knew I wouldn’t have made it this far. My life would always be an uphill battle, and even though no one knew what the future held for me, I knew I was blessed for the short life I’d had so far. Longevity wasn’t a guarantee for me. It was a reality I had come to terms with long ago, far younger than any person should, but it was my reality and mine alone.
Being the repeat offender that I was in this medical establishment, I didn’t bother with calling in a nurse to help me. I simply shut off the oxygen myself. Pulling the tubes away, I took a deep breath and wiped my nose, hating the way my skin felt after a long night of the cannulas blowing air on it.
I did a small stretch and quickly glanced across the small room. My mother’s latest book was once again lying on the chair, forgotten along with her sweater. An empty cup was sitting on a nearby table. I searched around for my journal. I’d been writing late into the night.
That was when I noticed it. A single cup of chocolate pudding—with a spoon—was sitting on the tray next to my bed.
I looked around as if the hospital walls would somehow divulge an answer. They didn’t, and I scratched my head in confusion.
How did that get here?
It matched the same snack-sized pudding cup I’d eaten the night before.
I did eat that last night, didn’t I?
My mind wandered back to the evening before.
Lying in bed with my fuzzy slippers on, I’d watched a rerun of New Girl to keep me entertained. Dr. Marcus had made good on his promise of getting me an extra dessert. Not only had two helpings of carrot cake been delivered, but there had also been a little pudding cup as well. I’d saved that little morsel for last.
After my tray had been taken away, I’d realized that I’d handed my spoon over with the rest of my dinnerware, so I’d no longer had anything to use for the pudding. I’d sat there, staring at my pudding for a while, as I’d tried to decide if I really wanted to bother the poor nursing staff with bringing me a spoon, or if I should wait until later. Then, I’d remembered the events of the day and the fact that I was supposed to be snug in my own bed. So, I’d peeled the top off and just decided to go for it.
No one had been around anyway, and I hadn’t been trying to impress anyone.
So, yep, I’d eaten it with my fingers—after washing my hands first, of course.
My little trip down memory lane proved one thing—well, two actually. I wasn’t losing my mind, and this was indeed new chocolate deliciousness perched in front of me.
But from whom?
Dr. Marcus had brought the first one, so I guessed it would be logical to assume he’d brought the second one. A small smile danced across my face. He always did like to spoil me. I made a mental note to thank him when he came in to check on me later.
I got up and readied myself for the day—showering, brushing my teeth, and pulling a brush through my wet hair. Then, I might have possibly eaten that pudding before breakfast.
“Hey, did you, by chance, sneak into my room last night—you know, after I fell asleep—to drop off another pudding cup on my tray for me to wake up to?” I asked Dr. Marcus.
He looked up from the computer screen, his mouth slightly ajar, as he stared at me with a bewildered expression on his face. I really wished I had a camera to capture it.
“Did I what?”
“Sneak into my room? To bring me chocolate pudding?” I repeated, not even trying to hide the grin quickly spreading across my face.
“No, I definitely did not do that. I might be a little unconventional, but sneaking into my patients’ rooms late at night is one thing I haven’t attempted yet,” he answered with a wink.
He finished my checkup and gave me a bit of good news.
“No oxygen tonight Lailah. Let’s see how things go. I’ll be back to check on you tomorrow,” he announced, with a warm, encouraging smile.
My heartbeat was still irregular, and I wasn’t feeling all that great. Those were two signs that I wouldn’t be busting out of this place anytime soon. All the cozy grins in the world couldn’t distract me from that cold hard truth.
The next two days passed by without much change. The only shift in my mundane hospital existence was the arrival of the new nursing assistant. I’d only seen him a handful of times, but each time he passed by my door, I would find myself leaning forward just to catch the last tiny glimpse of him walking by. He was like a Greek god covered in tattoos—and scrubs.
Or at least that’s what the nurses were describing him as.
Having spent the majority of my life in a hospital bed, I knew that I was a little innocent when it came to the male species, but I understood hot when it smacked me in the face—or walked by my door and the little I’d seen was definitely droolworthy.
He wasn’t just hot. He was different.
Different and hot were a deadly combination for all females, even me, and that made him interesting.
He’d come into my room a few times, checked my vitals even, but he had barely spoken a word. He would only mumble a hello or something as he typed on the keyboard. With his head lowered, he would just do his job, methodically taking my blood pressure—which I was sure had gone wonky in his presence—and then he’d move on to the next task. His touch alone had been distinct, haunting almost. It was something I couldn’t yet comprehend. When everything had been completed, I would get one brief peek into his haunting sea-glass green eyes as he’d give a quick nod in my direction. Then, he’d vanish.
Each time he had come into my room, I’d wanted to talk to him—ask him something, anything—just to hear him speak again, but I’d never really spoken to people my age.
What would I say?
Hey, did you see Jimmy Fallon last night?
Are college parties as crazy as they are in movies?
Do people really say words like totes and fo’ rizzle?
Outside of TV and books, I had no idea what went on in the real world. My life existed in and out of a hospital. When I wasn’t here, I would be at home. So scared of what the outside world might do to my health, my mother had sheltered me from almost everything beyond the safety of what she could control. I’d been homeschooled since I was in kindergarten, I’d never been allowed to do anything outdoors, and I couldn’t remember a single memory of my life that hadn’t involved a doctor of some sort.
Besides the tattooed addition to the staff, the other excitement to my life had been the continuation of my special pudding deliveries. Just like the first day, I would wake up to find a single chocolate pudding cup awaiting me as I rose from bed each and every day.
By the fourth day, I’d created a list of potential suspects. Since Dr. Marcus was out, my list was now reduced to three people—Grace, my overly enthusiastic and recently engaged day nurse; the little girl from down the hall, who would sometimes visit me; and my mother who knew I was in need of some cheering up.
Scooting my broccoli around my lunch plate, I looked at my list. Yes, I’d actually written out a list on paper. I had a lot of time on my hands.
Receiving mysterious gifts in the form of pudding was the highlight of my day.
Okay, it was the highlight of my year so far.
My short pink nail tapped against the wood laminate of my tray table as I studied the list and finally came to a decision. It had to be Grace.
Having just had what could only be described as one of the best moments of her life, she’d naturally want to spread that joy to others. Plus, she would sing show tunes down the hallway, and she loved Hello Kitty, so it wasn’t a hard conclusion to come to.
Why wouldn’t she just deliver the puddings during the day when she was on shift, rather than in the middle of the night?
The answer completely evaded me.
Who needs logic?
I decided to call Grace out on being the pudding stalker the next time she visited my room. Kindness like that couldn’t go unnoticed, and I wanted her to know that I appreciated the gesture. I also wanted to see if she could maybe bring me more—just in case the first one got lost.
That could totally happen.
I didn’t have to wait long. About thirty minutes later, I heard her familiar humming. Within seconds, she was gracing my door, her beautiful smile brightening the fluorescent-lit room like a ray of sunshine from the heavens.
“Still on a I’m-getting-married high?” I asked.
I shook my head at the comical display she was putting on as she waltzed around the room.
“Mmm…yes. In about six months, I think it will change into an I’m-married high, and eventually, an I’m-pregnant high, and—oh!” She froze mid-waltz, covering her mouth, as she realized her words.
“Grace,” I said softly, “you don’t have to hide the joy in your life around me. We all have happy moments. Mine are just different than yours.”
“I know. I just…I’m sorry. Here I am, babbling about babies.”
“It’s not a big deal. I’ve known my whole life that I couldn’t have children. It’s not a secret or a big surprise. Besides, it’s not like I have suitors lined up down the hallway, fighting for my hand,” I scoffed.
Her mouth quirked as she joined me and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her silky black hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, and her sapphire blue eyes met mine. She wasn’t just my nurse. She was a friend, my only friend.
“That’s just because they haven’t seen you. You’re like Rapunzel, stuck away in that high stone tower just waiting for your handsome prince to come and steal your heart away.”
I smiled as she went about checking vitals, and I listened as she carried on about some celebrity scandal I’d heard about on the news. My thoughts wandered back to what she’d said about me being locked away, waiting for someone to steal my heart. Usually so hopeful about my condition, I didn’t know why, but my first thought had been that whoever the prince might be, he’d better hurry. I wasn’t sure how long this heart of mine would last.
Grace had surprisingly turned out to be a dead-end as well, and as the week had gone by, my list of suspects had dwindled. My mother definitely wasn’t the culprit since I would see her leave every night at eight o’clock. That only left Abigail, the little girl from down the hall.
She actually wasn’t a patient of the hospital, but I didn’t know how else to describe her, so I always referred to her as the girl from down the hall. I thought she was a granddaughter of one of the patients, and she would sometimes wander into my room when she got bored of listening to her grandfather.
Abigail bounced into my room right around the time I was snuggling into the third chapter of my new favorite book. The book I was currently reading would always be my favorite, and the one I was about to read would always be my next favorite. I loved reading. I’d spent the majority of my life with my nose stuck in a book. I’d inherited my love for the written word from my scholarly mother, and I had managed to teach myself a world’s worth of knowledge within the dusty pages. I’d read everything from Chaucer to Shakespeare to even Anne Rice.
“Whatcha reading?” Abigail asked, her springy chocolate brown curls bouncing behind her as she flopped on my bed.
“It’s actually a book about a girl right around your age, maybe a few years older.”
“You’re reading a kids book?” She ducked down to try to inspect the cover of the worn paperback in my hand.
I’d read this particular book several times throughout my youth, and my copy of it had been well used.
“Anne Frank. The Diary of a Young Girl. Who’s she?” she asked.
“She was a girl who lived during World War II, and this is the diary she kept.”
Inspecting the cover a bit longer, she stared into the black-and-white face of the young Jewish girl looking back at her. “I keep a diary,” she replied.
“You do? So do I.”
“Really? Aren’t you a little too old?” Her noise scrunched up as she looked up at me.
I could see the tiny freckles dotting her rosy cheeks.
“Absolutely not!” I pretended to be offended, but then I added, “But I do call mine a journal just to be safe.”
I tickled her ribs, and she let out a little giggle.
“What do you write about?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Papa gave it to me for my birthday. He told me to write what’s in my soul, but I don’t know what a soul is exactly, so I usually just write what I did at school and stuff I like.”
That’s right.
I now remembered Grace telling me about Abigail’s grandfather. He was a writer and quite the talker. Grace had said she couldn’t make it out of his room without getting hit on or hearing one of the colorful stories of his past.
“Your soul is kind of like your heart. So, I guess your papa was telling you to write what you feel here,” I said, pointing to the place where her perfect tiny heart beat inside her chest. “Here, why don’t you borrow this?” I suggested, handing her the book from my hands.
She hesitantly took it, and her eyes floated up to mine. “Are you sure? You weren’t done with it.”
“I’ve read it enough times to have it practically memorized. It’s your turn.”
Her face lit up with a smile, and she dived into my arms, giving me a hug so big that I had to brace myself from the impact. I laughed and wrapped my arms around her small body.
She reluctantly let go and jumped off the bed before straightening her summery pink dress.
“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks again for the book. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”
“No rush. Take your time.”
She made her way to the door.
I called out to stop her, “Oh, Abigail? Did you by chance leave pudding in my room?”
“Pudding? Like the kind my mom sticks in my lunchbox?” she asked with a curious look.
I huffed out in frustration, “Never mind.” Back to the drawing board I go.