Page 17 of This I Know
It’s weird.
I feel like a creep just sitting here while she sleeps.
I’m going to leave. I place my hands on my knees to push myself up, hoping to exit as quietly as I came, but when I make it half way to the door she turns. In a few swift motions, she flips her body with her eyes still closed and her hands working to keep the sheets in place near her neck.
I freeze and prepare myself for the worst. I prepare for her eyes to shoot open, for a brief moment of confused non-recognition to pass, and then it could go one of two ways: I’ll be faced with a slew of questions, or screaming will commence. It could go either way.
My muscles are tense, ready for it. I’m preparing that getaway. That, “Sorry, I’ve got the wrong room. It’s a mistake that I just so happened to be sitting here watching you sleep like a creeper. I was totally trying to creep on someone else.”
It almost happens. It comesthis closeto happening, and in that moment I pray to whatever god, wondering what I did so right that I deserve not to be totally exposed right now.
Because what happens is she creaks open her eyes.
And I’m sure I’ve been caught. The thoughts running through my mind includeI’m doneandDamn it, followed by a string of more severe obscenities, and then a stoic resignation. Then come those prayers of thanks when I see the blankness in her eyes, the sleepiness and the lack of full consciousness that’s required for her to register that I’m even here.
Seeing this, I keep my eyes on hers. It’s obvious she’s still asleep. She sees me, but she’s not processing who I am or what I’m doing. She’s somewhere else, probably dreaming. I walk back to the chair and place my hand on it, then I cautiously lower my body down and lean back … all the while holding her invisible gaze.
She finally closes her eyes and sighs, then becomes peaceful once more.
I tip my head back against the chair and sigh with her. That was way too close. My father has called me stupid plenty of times, and now I guess I’m showing my true colors. This wasn’t a smart thing to do.
As my resting heart rate returns, my eyes wander to the clipboard hanging near her bed. It’s filled with handwritten notes and they’re close enough to make out from where I’m sitting. It doesn’t contain any information about her injuries, but it does list times and dosages of medications in milligrams. The bottommost addition reads 7:22 p.m. and is initialed byN.L.
The round clock on the wall, ticking loudly in the light of the window, says it’s 8:15.
Well, that explains why she’s sleeping so deeply at 8:15. She must be drugged. Poor girl.
I only stay for ten minutes. I set myself a time limit because I know every minute that ticks past on that annoying, classroom-like clock means another minute of stupidity on my part and more risk added on. Someone can walk in at any time, be it a family member or a nurse or a doctor, and I’m not prepared for that. I know in the end I’ll most likely get caught and be in some kind of trouble. But I weighed all that before I left my house to come here, and I’ve accepted it. And I’m so glad I did. Because after I thought I was caught, when she first semi-looked at me deeply with her dark, sleepy eyes, all those cares disappeared. She was so peaceful lying there, and in that moment it was as though all her peace invaded all my chaos, and an intoxication almost as strong as the physical one she was on overcame me, and I was drugged.
I reach into my backpack and pull out one of my schoolbooks. Inside is a single pressed flower. It’s nothing special, and it didn’t take much effort to press; I’d made it years ago and it means little to me, but I’d read it can be therapeutic to do something like this. So, I do. I set it on the cheap, fake-wood hospital nightstand only a few inches from where she’s sleeping. Maybe that’s not the best place. I pick it up again and walk over to her nearby collection of cards, balloons, and other gifts that are resting on her dresser, and I set it among them, making sure it’s well blended among everything else.
I take a step back, evaluating what I’ve just done. Then I lunge my hand forward and take the flower back.
No. No fucking flower.
Respect, Ethan: you’re supposed to be showing it, not flaunting a lack of it all over the place like an idiot.I’m trying to not stand out, and leaving a unanimous, strange calling card isn’t the way to do that. This is just supposed to be symbolic, after all; I don’t want to freak her out. And I certainly don’t need a police report on my hands.
I’m in the middle of putting the flower back where it came from when I jump at the sound of an alarm. It breaks through the previously silent room, ringing out loud in a steady, beeping rhythm.
I panic. My resting heart rate? It’s not resting any more. It’s back up to a hundred and twenty beats per minute.
I slam the book shut and throw it in my backpack, then leave as quickly as I can without even bothering to zip it up. I’ve made a ruckus, but I don’t care. I just hope I’ve left in time for her to not have seen me.
In the hall, I reach a corner and stop behind it, catching my breath. I dare to peer around when I hear someone approaching the girl’s room. It’s a nurse, walking with a smile on her face and holding something. She opens the door.
“Good morning, Avery,” the nurse sings.
I don’t hear Avery. I don’t hear anything anymore, because I get the hell out of there. I slip out of the hospital, much more stealthy than how I left Avery’s room and just as silently as I came in. Another clock hangs above the exit, and I see it strike 8:25 the very second I leave.
It’s been two days. Two days since I first saw Avery, sat beside her and looked into her eyes. And today, I’m going back. If someone were to ask me why, I wouldn’t have an answer. The only explanation is things still don’t feel right, and maybe going back can fix that.
“You’re off again?” my mother shouts at me through the house just as I’m coming down the stairs. It’s morning. She must have heard me getting ready.
“Yes,” I call back.
Today is Sunday, so it’s no surprise she thought it odd to hear me moving around up there so early. A guy like me wouldn’t be active at this hour unless I was heading somewhere.
I make my way downstairs and step into the kitchen. She’s busy cooking already. There she is, blotting her hands on the apron tied around her body. Her hair is a mess, and she only leaves it messy like that when she knows she’ll be in the kitchen all day.
