Ten-year-old Alma Fudoh sits on the floor outside his best friend's bedroom door, a weighty medical textbook he borrowed from the library open in his lap. He wants to be near in case she needs something. Logically he knows he could probably hear her call out from the waiting room, which is down the hall, but he could get to her quicker from this position. It is more efficient.
If he is being completely honest, though, the young genius is just a little bit concerned. That is all there is to be said on the subject. He is not apprehensive or anything catastrophic. Emotions like that are counter-productive and not conducive to finding solutions.
He is concerned because his best friend had to leave school again today, before even lunch came around. He saw it, too. The colour draining from her face, the pencil falling from her hand, and it impressed him, especially since no-one deigned to talk to him, to give him an acceptable explanation. All anyone would tell him was she 'was not feeling well' like he could not understand 'big, scary' adult words.
It is frustrating to say the least, but he had eavesdropped enough to hear some of the words anyway, in spite of the doctor and his parents trying to 'protect' him, as if relaying information would damage him in some way. Gathering facts is always useful in problem solving. It is yet another glaring example of their lack of understanding. Having all the facts actually helps Alma run the odds. He is always more comfortable knowing than not knowing.
"Hey, Al?" His best friend's voice sounds hoarse and slightly weak.
So, he chooses not to answer for a minute wondering if sitting in the hallway has disturbed her rest after all.
"I can hear you rustling around out there, you know. Why don't you come in and sit with me a while? Maybe we can play a game or something." She continues.
Alma closes the huge tome and clutches it under one arm as he stands up. He turns and peers into the room, but only hovers in the doorway unsure if he should go in.
"Your mother told me not to disturb you. She says you need to rest." He said, a little off-put by it.
The girl rolls her eyes and scoffs. "I've been resting all day! I'm bored of it! What I need is some entertainment before my head explodes and you have to scrape my brains off the ceiling. You'd be doing me a favour. If we hear mother coming down the hallway, you can hide under the bed."
Relief floods every inch of the boy as a grin plays at the corners of his mouth. He chooses not to point out the improbability of one's head exploding due to boredom because he knows exactly how annoying it is to be bored.
"All right, then. I guess I can come in for a bit." He answers instead, and he practically runs to the chair beside her bed and does not hesitate for a second before dropping into it.
He sets the book back down in his lap and rests his elbows on top contemplating his best friend to see if she looks ill.
"Would you like to play chess?" He asks hopefully, knowing he can win without even trying.
The other child gives him a mock distrustful look.
"Not a chance. You know I can't keep up with which pieces move which way and how many spaces, and I know you don't always tell me the rules right either." She accused, pointing a thin finger at his nose. "You think you're so smart. You're just a big cheater."
She shakes her head at him, but not in an angry way, but rather like she is mocking his hubris.
Their conversation has made her smile. She is now showing both of her dimples, one at each corner of her mouth, that seemed to grow shallower and shallower each passing day. Maybe he has cheered her up in a way, at least for now. He read in the medical text positive attitudes help facilitate positive outcomes in patients. So, he decides his stay at her hospital room is not detrimental to her recovery.
Alma wants to keep his best friend cheerful, so he asks, "Well, what would you like to play, then?"
She points her wilful finger at the table near the window. "Hand me a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk over there. I want to show you this thing I learned at school."
Oh, good. Learning. Maybe their school is not quite as useless as he thinks.
He almost bounds over to the desk accidentally letting the book drop to the floor in his haste. It makes such a racket, they both freeze, waiting for her mother to yell from outside, or worse to come and check on them, but all stays quiet. She must be outside, talking to some useless doctor or another. Much better.
As he bends over to pick up the book, his best friend asks, her eyes twinkling "What's with the massive book, Al? You almost gave us away. Are you after doing some weight lifting? Or a little heavy reading? Get it?"
She winks at him and he huffs out a short laugh at her nonsense, but he replies, all seriousness, "I'm going to find out what's wrong with you, and then I'm going to fix you."
"The doctors aren't even sure yet. They're running more stupid tests on Monday. I have more holes in me than Swiss cheese from where they've been poking and prodding. I feel like a lab rat!" She complains, full of spirit, but then deflates once again. "I wish you would figure it out. That would show everyone what a brilliant friend I have and maybe they'll leave me alone."
Alma's chest fills up with… Something. It is a good feeling he does not have very often and only ever around his friend. No one ever believes him the way she does and he is unable to prevent his ear-to-ear grin.
"Well, I'm going to read everything I can get my hands on. I'm sure I can find the answers." He states, filled with confidence.
"All the better, but, for now, I can use your book as a desk to write on." She takes the book away from the boy. "Hurry up and bring it and the pen and paper. I want to show you."
While Alma is gathering the requested items, his best friend is wiggling into a sitting position pressing her back to the pillows at the headboard. She puts one hand to the side of her head and closes her eyes wincing and gritting her teeth.
The boy is instantly upset. "Are you okay? Do I need to get your mother to call the doctor?"
She sighs and lets her hand drop.
"I'm okay. I just get so dizzy when I first sit up, and the vision in my right eye is still a little blurry." She squeezes her eyes shut momentarily while Alma stands beside her bed biting his lower lip until she says, "I'm fine, Al. I promise."
He cautiously lays the book and writing materials on her lap and she begins scribbling and folding the paper at intervals.
She sighs. "If I was going to do this right, I would have to use coloured pencils, but I guess we'll have to write the names for the colours instead."
Alma has no idea what she is talking about. He just sits patiently waiting for her to finish. He does not care what the game is as long as it keeps his best friend happy and feeling better.
Finally, she holds the folded paper up triumphantly between both of her index fingers and thumbs, a mischievous smirk lighting up her whole face.
"We're going to find out the first initial of the person my best friend is going to marry!" She declared, as if presenting to a large live audience.
Alma wrinkles his nose in distaste and gives her a sceptical frown.
"You learned this stupid game at school?" He sneers.
His initial assessment of the learning institution was spot on. He should have known.
"A friend showed me." His best friend says holding the paper under his nose. "Oh, come on! It's fun."
"I doubt I will ever get married, and a game on a piece of paper wouldn't be able to predict anything accurately." He declared, twitching his nose at the notion. "It's a waste of time."
Her hands drop back to the book in her lap. "What do you mean, you aren't getting married? Sure, you will."
"Not likely." He countered, petulantly.
"You'll see. In another couple of years, girls are going to become a lot more interesting." She is back to gently teasing him again, her voice taking on a sing-song quality.
The young genius sighs, thinking of how to explain so his best friend will drop the ridiculous subject.
"Yes. I know all about puberty and developing a sex drive. That's in the medical textbooks too, you know? I'm saying no one will want to be with me permanently." He points out, rather bitterly. "I'm a bad apple. You are the only person who really likes me, not even my father really enjoys my company. I'm too different from normal people and the chances of even running into someone like me are infinitesimal, let alone finding someone who could tolerate living with me long-term."
The smile drops from his best friend's face and she puts her paper contraption down to cover one of his hands with hers.
"Who is to say your wife has to be like you? She could be like me. Smart in her own way, but not a genius. Someone who could teach you about love and acceptance." She said. "You'll see. Her kiss will tell you if she's the right one."
Alma folds his arms in front of him and shakes his head. Romantic love is for fairy tales. The idea someone could be affected in some meaningful way by a kiss or touch is junk science. Not even that. Besides, people do not like him. Not at home, not at school, nowhere. Period. He is tired of discussing it.
So, he simply states, "I don't want to play. It's dumb."
However, as Alma declares his distaste, he notices his best friend's face appears stricken and sad. Now he's made her feel worse. What a great friend he is, if he cannot simply bite the bullet and go along with what she wants for a change.
Reluctantly and grudgingly, he says, "Okay, okay. Fine."
His best friend instantly brightens and once again positions her silly 'predictor' on her fingers and asks him to pick his favourite colour.
Feeling uncooperative, he says, "I don't have a favourite. Colours are useful for classification, warnings and camouflage. Nothing more."
Best friend snorts. "Everything in your room is red, your hair is red and half of everything you wear is red. We'll go with red, then. R-E-D." She moves her fingers so the paper square folds and unfolds with each letter. Then she shows him the inside. "Now, pick a number."
He vaguely points to the number twelve and she proceeds to open and shut the device twelve times, shows him the open space again and asks him to choose one more time. Alma taps somewhere in the vicinity of the middle of two flaps. The ten-year-old girl frowns and looks underneath the first flap.
He lets out a burst of humourless laughter.
"My wife's name is going to start with 'Q'? Really?" He laughs some more. "That's the least used letter in the alphabet. Is there even a name that starts with it? Who am I supposed to marry? Queen Elizabeth?"
His best friend's chin sets stubbornly and she lifts the flap next to the 'Q', the other one he could have been tapping. "It's 'R'. See? That's a nice strong start to a name. I think I like her already…"
Alma woke up instantly remembering every detail of his very vivid dream. He had not thought of that game in such a long time. Rinka had always been able to coax him into doing things he would not normally do. That incident had been no exception. For years afterwards, she would joke with him about finding the illusive 'Miss R'.
Little did they know, he had already found her.
Rinka mumbled something in her sleep and snuggled closer against his side, and he was suddenly inundated with a sense of rightness. Of home.
Of course, a childhood game could not predict this outcome. Of course, a stupid folded piece of paper could not tell the future. Except it had in its own little way.
After all the confusion and pain their experience with death dealt them with, after waking up twenty years ago all alone and lost, after rebuilding his life and waiting patiently for her to arrive, after their wedding night, he felt a strange sense of peace.
Hours before, as he sat alone on his hotel room, he still felt as if, should he trip on the stairs and crack his skull open, he would wake up in NEVEAH once again, as he had achieved nothing of worth since he buried his best friend. However, when she started kissing him, he was very sure that being together was the right choice, that it was worth it. There really was no other choice.