"You going to be okay, 'Lainey?" my mother asks.
I weakly nod. "Okay. You're sure?"
I nod again. With a soft kiss on my forehead, my mother leaves, walking through the blue, plasticky curtains. I hear the soft click, click, click of her two-inch heels ("A lady should never be taller than her husband," my grandmother would say to her all the time. She took it to heart.) against the lineoleum floors of the hospital wards. Only that and the scent of her perfume, vague lilies, serve as reminders that she was ever here.
Should I try to sleep? I'm tired more and more often now. But I know that, in about an hour, a nurse will come in and take my temperature and blood pressure. Maybe I'll have to pee in a cup, too. I know it's necessary. But that doesn't make it any less inconvenient. Is it worth it? No. Not going to sleep. Not now. Not worth it.
I should probably do something productive. Schoolwork? No again. It's not like I'll go back to school any time soon, anyways. A few days ago, my French professor thought it would be a good idea for me to video chat the whole class. I thought it would be a good idea too, at first. And then it happened. Don't get me wrong – I miss that class and those people more than anything. The problem wasn't them… it was me. How cliché does that sound, I know. But it was. You know how in the corner it shows you an itty-bitty thumbnail of what's coming from your webcam? I couldn't deal with that. It's superficial, but I guess I don't want anybody to see me like this. Don't want anybody to know that I'm too sick to get out of this hospital room. Don't want anybody to see that I can't breathe, can't, basically, live. That this machine is doing the job of keeping me alive. I hate that.
So that's a no to doing work? Guess so. Is there really anything else here to do? Not really. I grab the remote and turn on the TV. Antiques Roadshow. Not my favorite, but it's better than nothing. It's a window to the outside world; the only one in this stuffy, curtained room.
Halfheartedly, I listen to a man in a painfully obvious toupee talk enthusiastically about a saber from the French and Indian War. I need to keep my hands busy. I've been working on some embroidery since I've been here; at this point, the scene of a chivalric medieval joust is nearly done.
I'm in an almost trancelike state, stitching the features of one of the knights, when I hear the curtain rustle. Is it my mother? Did she forget something in here?
It's not, though. It's a boy, my age or a little older, with disheveled dark hair, and concern in his eyes.
"Vivian?" he asks, panicked. "Are you okay?"
He sees me looking at him, partially annoyed and partially curious.
"Elaine," I say, the briefest of introductions.
"Sorry about that," he says, with a slight, almost-smile. "I just found out my sister's in the hospital. Too concerned to pay attention to much else."
He holds out his hand for me to shake. With some hesitation, I do.
"I'm Lance, by the way."
