Page 100 of Fly Boy
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I’m about to put my phone away, when it vibrates in my hand.
Brat
I’m proud of you. Call me when you’re out.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I’m unable to write a sentence. I’m about to return it to my pocket for the second time, when it buzzes again.
Dad
I wish I could be there with you today, Son. But I know Sadie will do a better job than I ever could. I love you, Wyatt. Don’t you ever forget that.
I stare at the message, my heart traveling to my throat, as guilt over not asking him to come with me makes itself known. That is, until another message comes through.
Teddy
Shit, I’m a bad brother. In my defense, I just woke up.
Dude, I love you. I’m here for you. I fucking suck at this.
Ana
Call us if you need anything. We’re thinking of you today, Wyatt. The whole family is.*Heart emoji*
I snort, powering down my cell and slotting it into my pants pocket. Trust Teddy to unintentionally give the comic relief at a time like this.
Sadie waits by the hospital doors, sliding her arm into mine. “Are you ready?”
I take a deep breath and nod solemnly, before we walk inside, heading straight for the reception.
“Excuse me, can you tell me where the Oncology Wing is, please?” Sadie asks politely. The receptionist looks up, a grim look on her face, before pointing toward a set of elevators.
“Level five. Follow the corridor to the end and turn right.”
“Thank you,” she replies, leading me away. My blood pounds heavier in my ears, and I shove my hands into my pants pocket, not wanting to let Sadie see them tremble.
The steel doors open, and we silently step inside. It’s windowless, a metal box that creaks and groans as it starts climbing the floors, stopping at each one to let patients, doctors in lab coats with stethoscopes slung around their necks, andnurses in green scrubs get on and off. Sadie and I stand at the back, a feeling of unease washing over me the closer we get to level five.
Her arm is back in mine, her hand clutching tightly as we walk down the narrow corridor, following the red floor markings to the end. My throat gets thicker with every step, the sudden urge to turn around, leave this place, and return to the warm sunshine outside increasing the closer we get to the ward. It’s too sterile here, too clinical and cold and unnerving as we turn the corner to blue double doors withOncologyon the top.
“Are you sure you still want to do this?” Sadie asks, offering me an out as she pulls me to a stop before we continue. “No one will blame you if you’re changing your mind.”
Staring at her and then at the doors, I scrub a hand roughly through my hair.Fuck.Why is this so hard? I thought it would be easy once I made my mind up. Just walk into her room, tell her what I’d rehearsed in my head, and leave.
“No, I need to do this,” I say, more resolved than I actually feel. Sadie searches my face, her mouth pulling into a tight line as she nods in understanding, tugging on my arm again.
The doors open automatically, the wing a stark contrast to the corridor outside. Several pieces of artwork line the walls, all bright and colorful, uplifting scenery and abstract paintings. But it’s the quiet, the reverent silence, that sets me on edge, and for the first time since being told about Fiona, it hits me as to why we’re here.
“Reception’s this way,” Sadie says softly, her voice hushed to match the atmosphere as we continue walking. A half-circular desk sits in the middle, and three nurses in light blue scrubs are stationed around it, chatting softly as we approach.
“Hi, how can I help?” one asks, looking at me, then Sadie.
“We’re here to see Fiona Breacon,” she answers when I stand motionless.
“Of course.” The nurse defers to her colleague, who tells her the room number, rummaging around the desk before handing across a piece of paper. She peels off two labels and passes us one each. “If you could just put on these visitor stickers and then follow me.”
Each step forward is heavy. Each beat of my heart a little faster, and I try not to look through any open doors on either side of the wide hallway as we pass, encroaching on their privacy.
Somewhere in the ward, a family is crying, a patient is being served a meal, the faint sound of a television playing some sitcom. There are flowers stationed outside of treatment rooms, various leaflets arranged neatly on a wall, a set of blinds blowing from the open window.
