Page 87 of Then Came You

“Excuse me.” I muster up the sweetest voice I can manage, but all it does is annoy her, if the huge scowl on her face is anything to go by. It’s like I’ve inconvenienced her.

“Wait one moment, please.” I’m stunned at the bedside manner, but even more stunned when she starts blowing and popping bubbles like it’s a sport.

I’m a ball of frantic energy, tapping my Converse-clad foot on the linoleum.

After waiting more moments than we should have, she finally lifts her head.

“Has your friend overdosed or taken anything?” I look at Tori who is hallucinating in and out of sleep. She’s in a massive blanket, and the only thing this nurse can see from here is her beanie-covered head to keep her skull warm.

“What? No?”

“So, she’s not on drugs?” She repeats the question in a different way but with the same bitchy tone.

“That’s my sister, and she has cancer. Acute Myeloid Leukaemia,” I screech, drawing the attention of everyone in this room. “She’s coughing up blood.”

Usually, when someone plays the cancer card, there’s some sort of sympathy, but nope, not here. The ice queen in front of me acts like coughing up blood is a regular thing.

“Fill out these.” Her voice is devoid of emotion. After a few minutes, I slide the clipboard back to her. Another few minutes pass until she acknowledges me again. “Do you have private health insurance?”

“Yes. Here,” I scramble to find my card. “Can I please get another blanket for my sister?” I plead.

“We’re not a hotel. You can get one through those doors.” For what feels like the hundredth time tonight, I’m stunned. “Your card isn’t registering.” The plastic rectangle is slid back under the plastic partition that is detaining me from throttling this woman.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you’ll have to pay in full if you stay here tonight.”

“And how much will that cost?”

She shrugs. She fucking shrugs. Just as I’m about to give her a piece of my mind, a middle finger, and a punch in her botoxed face, there’s a thud behind me.

“Someone help!” A young boy cries. I spin, seeing Tori has collapsed from the chair to the floor. Buttons are pressed, alarms ring, and the ratty nurse is paging for someone. Racing over, I fall to the floor, rearranging Tori’s head in my lap.

“Tor, honey, can you hear me?” I ask softly, looking for all signs of life. Her eyes gloss over, unfocused and dazed when she opens them, and her skin is gossamer with a thin sheen of sweat coating it. I feel for her pulse but it’s faint, as if the fluttering is getting weaker.

Nurses and doctors kneel beside me, making fast work to assess her.

“Miss, can you tell me your name, her name, and anything about her situation.” Seems like the nurse bitch wasn’t quick enough putting our details into the system. Mechanically, I rattle off Tori’s condition.

Once Tori is lifted on a bed and wheeled away, it’s only then I’m escorted to the waiting room by another doctor, who is firing off questions.

I’m finally left alone, sitting by myself on this hard-as-nail chair, and it occurs to me how truly alone I am. I don’t have any friends, so I can’t text Xan, or Cindy. I have no parents. I don’t have any of Blade’s family’s numbers. The only person I attempt to call is Trish, but I remember she’s at a wedding tonight.

You would think by now that I’d be used to hospitals, but there’s still this gnawing feeling that I’m literally standing or, in my case, sitting between life and death around me. There’s an anxious and sombre feeling in the waiting room, which is enhanced by how the room is arranged. It’s sterile, with informative posters and medical artwork informing people of things they most likely don’t want to be reminded of.

While the silence of the waiting room is deafening, it’s the surround sounds that have me on edge, from the occasional ringtone or pages, to hushed conversations, to whooshing doors that you’re not allowed to trespass, and there are muffled footsteps of the staff coming and going.

I wonder if whoever designed these rooms ever actually had to sit in one? Surely not, because if they did then they wouldn’t have skipped making it cosy. It’s freaking freezing in here, making the environment even more sterile. I’d give anything to be under a blanket right now, or hell, even on a more cushioned chair so my ass wasn’t on its way to being permanently bruised.

Even though all those things and more make me shudder when gracing hospital halls, it’s the smell that gets me every time. There’s always a faint hint of antiseptic and cheap blackened coffee. It’s bitter and sharp. And every time it stings my eyes, suffocates my lungs, and burns my nose. It’s the smell that covers death.

As I peer around the room, I notice how nervous the ambiance is tonight.

To my left, there’s a young couple holding hands. She’s leaning on his shoulder, asleep, while he scrolls through his phone. To my right, there’s a dad and a younger child. The child is sitting on his lap laughing at the book the dad is reading.

Then there’s me.

How is it that I have absolutely no one in my life I can lean on in times of need?

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