Page 62 of The Beautiful Collision
Seven years old. He was seven fucking years old.
The hallway is mercifully empty, the rest of the ward continuing its rhythm of controlled chaos. Somewhere, another child is crying about wanting to go home. Somewhere, another parent is getting good news. Somewhere, another nurse is holding another small hand and lying about angels.
I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the grief that’s threatening to crack my professional composure wide open, mixing with anger—at the world, for not figuring out a cure yet, at God, for taking this kid from the world, and at my parents, for thinking my profession islesserortrivialand disowning me for it.
Well, fuck them.
Because I feel like I’m doing the most important job in the world.
And I’ve given a part of myself to it every day.
In the darkness behind my eyelids, I see Ethan’s face from last week, animated and bright as he explained the difference between a Triceratops and a Styracosaurus. I see his gap-toothed grin when I snuck him an extra pudding cup. I see?—
“Nurse Hayes.”
Dr. Harrison’s voice cuts through my spiral like a scalpel. I open my eyes to find him standing there, his white coat pristine, his expression carved from ice. He takes in my state—shoulders shaking slightly, red-rimmed eyes, the very picture of unprofessional emotional compromise—and his lips curl into a sneer.
“Pull yourself together.”
The words land like a slap. I stare at him, waiting for something else, some acknowledgment of what just happened in that room. Some recognition that a child just died, that parents just had their world obliterated, that maybe, just maybe, it’s OK to feel something about that.
Instead, he decides now is a good time for a lecture. “Loss is part of the job. If you fall apart every time a patient codes, you won’t last a year.”
“He was seven,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper, even though I know it won’t change his mind.
“And tomorrow there will be a six-year-old, or an eight-year-old, or an infant.” His tone is clinical and matter-of-fact, as if we’re discussing lab results instead of dead children. “The family needs professionals right now, not more mourners, so your emotional indulgence helps no one.”
Emotional indulgence.The words echo my father’s voice so perfectly I almost look around to see if he’s materialized in the hallway.
“Clean yourself up and get back to work,” Harrison continues, already turning away. “There are living patients who need care.”
His footsteps echo down the hallway, each one a condemnation. I stand frozen, his judgment ringing in my ears like a death knell for everything I thought made me good at this job. The empathy I brought to Ethan’s bedside, the humanity I offered his parents, the tears threatening to fall.
Apparently, these aren’t strengths.
They’re weaknesses.
Flaws to be corrected.
Failures to be hidden.
Just like Mom always said.
The tears I’ve been fighting finally win.
The apartment door takes three tries to unlock because my hands won’t stop shaking. The fluorescent lights in the hallway blur through tears I refuse to let fall here, where someone might see. I finally manage to get the key in, turn it, and stumble inside.
Silence.
The kind of silence that presses against my eardrums like I’m underwater. No ESPN blaring from the living room. No sound of Maine singing off-key in the shower. No smell of Pizza Plus grease clinging to his work shirt. No comfortable presence of him.
Just nothing.
I should be relieved. I need the space to fall apart without an audience.
But the emptiness feels wrong.
Pull yourself together, Dr. Harrison’s voice echoes in my skull.
