Page 81 of Styx & Stones

Walking is still difficult for me, but I’m determined to get stronger and get the hell out of this hospital. Not that it hasn’t been nice being this close to my girlfriend without the twenty-four-hour parental supervision. Stones and I have had plenty of opportunities to make out in the teen lounge, which is often occupied by us alone. Our moms have been pretty good about giving us time to ourselves, but they’re never far away, hovering in the designated parent lounges or the corner of the room, and pretending they don’t notice our lovey-dovey shit.

Today, there will be a serious lack of making out, because I’m taking Stones to the arts studio where she can enjoy the excited shrieks of tiny humans while she paints. It may not be with a spray can, but it beats the coloring books the hospital superhero visitors bring us.

As I turn the corner and walk toward her room, Mrs. Stone is at the other end of the hallway, likely returning from the lounge with fresh coffee in her reusable cup. She glances up, and her shoulders fall ever so slightly, but she smiles anyway. I give her a lazy wave.

Yep, coming to steal your daughter away again. Sorry not fucking sorry.

Someone announces a “code blue” over the loudspeaker. A nurse rushes between us and through Stones’ door, followed by another, and then one more.

I freeze.

A heartbeat passes. We stare at one another.

No!

The coffee slips from her hand. The china shatters. Tawny liquid spills out over the waxed hospital floors as she runs toward her daughter. I move as quickly as my feeble body will allow, stopping in front of the open door. Joanie is in the way, her hands over her mouth, a strange wailing coming from her throat. I push into the room. Alaska is on the ground. She’s not moving. Another nurse begins compressions on her inert frame. “I need a crash cart in here.”

“Stones!” I pitch forward, desperate to get to her, as if I could help, as if I might save her.

“Get them out of here,” the nurse working over my girlfriend says.

A woman grabs my arm and tries to usher me out. “Come on. You can’t see this.”

“No! Stones, wake up. Get up, baby.” I shove the woman away, and a male orderly drags me from the doorway. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Alaska! Honey!” Mrs. Stone whimpers, as a female nurse escorts her from the room. “What’s happening to my daughter?”

“Someone shut that door,” the nurse yells. She leans over Alaska and throws her weight into her compressions. It’s too much. Too hard. She’ll break her. The door closes before me, shutting us out.No!

She can’t go like this. She can’t. It’s supposed to be me. I’m supposed to go first.

I slump to the floor. I can’t breathe. My lungs scream for air and yet I can’t take a breath until I know she is. It’s not supposed to be like this. She isn’t supposed to fucking die. It should be me. I’ve been preparing for this my whole life, and Stones can still get through this.She has to.

Joanie shouts at the staff. “I want to see my daughter!”

“They can save her. They have to save her,” I say to no one at all. “Save her!”

The orderly grabs my wrist but I pull free from his grasp. “You’ve opened your stitches.” He nods toward my chest, which is soaked with blood. “Come on. Let’s go get that looked at.”

“Don’t fucking touch me.” I lean against the wall for support and I watch the door as if I could see right through it, see my girlfriend lying on the floor as a team of medical professionals tries to save her life. I stare at that door as if I can see the future, see her regaining consciousness, see her laughing and calling me loner boy.

“You should see your face,” she’d say, as if this were all some hilarious joke. But it’s not a joke. None of this is a fucking joke.

The door opens as a doctor rushes in. The nurse is still on her knees, but she’s no longer performing CPR.

She looks at her watch. “Time of death—nine twenty-three a.m.”

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