Chapter 3: Hospitals of the Heart | November 2015
Holly
I wake up rather unpleasantly to Alexandra tapping on my shoulder and hiss-whispering my name. She's always been more of a morning person than I am, and thus schedules many of her classes earlier in the day than I could ever dare to. But she's always quiet in getting ready and leaving the dorm in the morning. On a normal occasion if I'd been roused by a noise she'd made inadvertently, I would ignore it and try to get back to sleep. But as she's never before deliberately woken me before my alarm, my subconscious—though groggy—tells me that something must be urgent, and I decide to rise up from the swamp of my sleep.
"Are you okay?" I ask her, sitting up on my bed and squinting through the dim light of early morning coming through our window. She's standing over me with her phone in her hand, eyes darting between the screen and my face, and she's wearing an odd expression somewhere between anxiety and great delight.
"You aren't going to believe this," she tells me in a giggling tone. "You're all over the news. The newspaper, some smaller websites—and the University security has been keeping press off the campus all morning."
I groan a little, wanting to make some remark about how 'all morning' to her is as good as pre-dawn to me, but I decide against it. "Just look at this," she says, and hands me her phone. I take it and blink away the startling blue light that hits my eyes, before beginning to scroll.
"Oh, wow..." I hear myself say. And the sight of it is truly surreal. At first I'm frightened that the news might somehow involve Mr. Cumberbatch, and that Alex will feel that I've betrayed her trust for not telling her about my interactions with him last night. But the news has nothing at all to do with him. All the articles she shows me center on the incident in the subway, paired with guesses at what the shooter's motive or possible affiliations might have been. They discuss the young boy who had been shot, that he is currently receiving care in the hospital, and they also speculate over the mysterious young woman who had helped give him immediate care long enough for him to reach the ambulance alive. I feel my face physically heat up with embarrassment as I continue reading, the writers making me out as some sort of hero with lightning instincts and superhuman empathy.
"Because that's what you are!" exclaims Alex to me when I tell her my feelings, at last handing her phone back. I don't need to involve myself in this drama yet, and if I can manage it, I would like to get a little more sleep before I'll have to face a day of limping, exams, and, apparently, too much attention.
"I'm not heroic, or... a superhero, or anything. I just did the right thing," I say, defending myself from the sudden popularity. I don't even want to think about being widely known to the public, and I try to calm myself down by telling myself that this is simply my fifteen minutes of fame, spent early. But what causes more anxiety than the attention itself is how far it has the potential to reach. I wonder with a shudder as Alex starts to scroll through her phone again, scoffing and giggling at the articles mentioning her best friend, whether this news of me will reach my father... My father who I'd run away from at seventeen years of age, and who still doesn't know where I disappeared to. My father who, if he knew my location, would most certainly come after me and try to reclaim me, regardless of the fact that I'm now a legal adult.
But if I try to deal with all of that right now, then I'll collapse into hysterics before the day even starts. So I shake my head at Alex's protestations to my 'ridiculous humility' and tell her in no uncertain terms (which I hope still manage to be kind) that I am heading back to sleep.
She grumbles at me a little bit more, so I make a point of drawing my blankets tight around myself, and after a little while, she leaves the dorm room.
But by then, when the excitement is past and I'm left alone with my suddenly explosive worries, I've come to the realization that I'm not about to get back to sleep any time soon. Along with my anxieties over being in the news in the first place, and the repercussions that public acknowledgement may have on my personal life (and my existence itself, knowing how violent my father can become in situations much less extreme than this), I have started to realize in Alex's absence just how extreme my pain is.
An absolute, miserable burning has taken hold over my entire abdomen, along with a terrible stiffness that makes me question whether I'll succeed in standing up from my bed at all. I curse the anesthesia from my surgery for putting me into a false state of security the night before, and decide that I'll just have to tough this out until I can access some more pain medication. I can only hope that something will be strong enough to help me cope with all of this—for I can't possibly imagine sitting down for an exam in this extreme state of pain.
I almost roar in physical anguish when I finally work up the nerve to stand up from the bed. I come close to just crumpling up and falling right back to the ground back in a fetal position, but I find the will, with another suppressed roar of pain, to limp my way over to the desk and sit down in the chair. It burns so badly that, firstly, I feel shameful tears start to prick at my eyes, and I wonder whether there's something direly wrong with the wound, if I might be dying...
It takes a minute for me to get my breathing calmed down and to recognize the clear, calm voice in the back of my mind which tells me it's perfectly natural for this pain to be taking over my body after such trauma as a gunshot. But despite my clearer head, the pain is still nearly unbearable, and it's with a great disappointment in myself that I realize It's both illogical and irresponsible to plan on attending classes today.
"Damn it," I cluck to the empty dorm room, feeling as though all the inanimate objects around me are looking on in solemn judgment of my low pain tolerance. I allow myself to wallow in my embarrassment at having to email my professors, but then, eventually, tell myself aloud to get over it, stop babying myself and just deal with the situation, the way I always have dealt with difficult predicaments, the way I always will. I've typed up an adequate email, addressed it to all my professors and sent it out within five minutes—but it seems that at least an hour has passed because of the extreme pain taking over my whole body from the singularity of the sutured gunshot wound.
I'm grateful for the distraction when my phone vibrates on the desk and I open it to find a new message from Greg, the father of the boy I helped on the train yesterday. We exchanged numbers at the hospital afterwards in case anything came up, and as far as I can tell now, something has. Good. A mission, a purpose for the day. Something to get me out of this damned room, an excuse to overcome the astronomical waves of pain.
"Good morning, Miss Whitaker," read the first message, rigid from the outset. "I feel slightly juvenile asking this favor of you. As you may have heard, Tim has already undergone one surgery. But the doctors are saying he will need a second one today around noon. I'm in a complicated financial situation at the moment, and I would benefit greatly from your help. He's lucid at the moment, and has been asking to see you. If you could keep him company for an hour or so while I puzzle out the payment issue, it would be deeply appreciated. I understand if you're indisposed, and don't mean to imply that you haven't already given Tim and myself the world by saving him yesterday evening. Thank you, and please consider. - Greg"
I shake my head slightly at the terrible situation he's found himself in (he seems to be a hardworking and caring father—if such a thing can truly exist—from our conversation last night, and has had my attention and sympathy from that point onward), and I quickly start to compose a message in return.
"Greg. Thanks for reaching out. I would be delighted to come to the hospital and keep Tim company. I'm struggling with some pain, myself, and have decided to take the day off from classes, so this will not be a problem. Would ten this morning suit your needs? I can be there earlier."
A few seconds pass, and then his answer comes with a buzz: "Ten sounds perfect. I'm so glad to hear that you can come. Thank you, beyond words. Tim is looking forward to it."
I smile a little to myself, glad that, despite my pain, and the fact that I doubt I'm as heroic a person as first Mr. Cumberbatch and then the news has made me out to be, I've still managed to bring a bit of ease into a fellow struggler's life. "See you then," I respond, and then set my phone down, building up the mindset that will enable me to stand up and start getting ready. Though it's still fifteen 'till seven in the morning, and I don't have to be at the hospital by ten, I know it will take me a while to get there through morning traffic—probably by cab, to avoid attention. Simply getting ready and eating a little something—if my stomach will manage it—will take me at least twice the time it usually does.
I'm preparing myself for the blistering pain that will start upon standing up again when Alex returns to the room in a flurry of early-bird-ness that makes me a little bit jealous.
"I found you this," she tells me, handing me a bottle of Advil. "Just keep it on you for the rest of the day. It'll help you manage."
"Actually..." I admit, "I've decided to take the day for myself. I'm going to the hospital to see the kid and his father."
She rolls her eyes slightly at me, a usual reaction whenever—I think—she perceives me as being too selfless, a trait I've tried to eliminate but somehow cannot. But quickly a smile replaces the look of mild annoyance. "You need a disguise," she says, poorly suppressed delight rippling off of her in waves. And though I give her the most clearly defined expression of contempt for this idea as I am capable of, her smile only intensifies, and in the end, I have to join her in grinning foolishly.
It takes half an hour for Alex to give up her original plans of an all-out disguise. I refuse to change as much of my appearance as she'd like to (for the sake of escaping from the boredom of her first class of the day), both because it would be entirely ridiculous for me to limp down the street in a spy-like getup, and, more, because I highly doubt my ability to tolerate changing more than one article of clothing in this mortifying pain. So Alex ends up settling for helping me—laboriously—change my Columbia University sweater for a different one, to be less attention-attracting, but not to go entirely overboard. Besides, I warn her, once we've spent thirty minutes just changing my shirt and sweater for the pain it causes me, she'll regret missing her first class later, even if she doesn't want to attend it in the moment.
She sticks her tongue out at me at first, but she knows I'm right, so in the end, she goes off to her class and I'm left alone to scavenge up some breakfast. And by nine o'clock, I limp my way to the edge of the campus with the help of the athletic department loaned crutch, and get in a cab headed to the hospital to meet the little boy I helped save.
By the time I arrive just after ten, the medicine has kicked in just enough for me to manage a smile for Tim and Greg. Seeing the little boy there, laying on the cot, hooked up to so many machines, looking half-drugged and half-terrified, I know that it's wrong to complain of my own pain, however intense. So I grin at him and, after exchanging a meaningful glance with Greg, pull up a chair by Tim's cot.
It doesn't take long for Tim to open up to me, and soon, seeing that the situation between the two of us is friendly enough, and satisfied that Tim isn't frightened of me, Greg leaves the room to figure out the financial issue with the surgical operation. I read the boy book after book from a pile a nurse brought in, mimicking voices when I can, and making him laugh. Some of these books I remember from the very first years of preschool. I was never read to at the house where I lived.
It's always been easy for me to get along well with young children, though I never got along well with my own age group when I was one of them. I still admit that I suffer, at times, from an extreme jealousy from them. I'm saddened often when I see them, because I know that it's only so long before they are robbed of their innocence, though perhaps it will happen more slowly and subtly for most than it did for me. I'm still trying to figure out which is worse.
But for now, I allow myself to slip away from that jealousy, the knowledge that I, myself, am no longer a child, and also, in part, from my physical pain. I read him book after book and he laughs as much as he can, in spite of his own weakness. Once a nurse comes in to check on him and I'm grateful, at least, for his kindness toward Tim. It frightens me to see the little boy so weak, and I worry that his father won't be able to sort out the financial situation in time, for there's a certain way that the nurse looks at him when he situates his pillows that makes me very nervous for him. And I don't even want to think about something so morbid as his death.
So I keep reading him the books, keep making him chuckle, and request a coloring page for him when he asks. As the hour wears on, though, I see his state becoming weaker and weaker. It seems that he truly doesn't have much time left, and it takes a great amount of effort on my part to keep the terrible pain of my own wound at bay, especially when I see him wince at his own pain—for his father doesn't have enough money to keep him on enough pain medication.
I'm beginning to feel claustrophobic and irrevocably sad just when the doctor enters the room with what I know is good news before she even starts speaking. "Hi, Tim," she says with an impeccable bedside manner, "you remember me, don't you?"
Tim nods yes, as he's been becoming too weak to say much in the past quarter hour. The doctor smiles at him and turns to me. "Are you representing Mr. Smith?"
"Not legally," I say, feeling a little flustered. "I'm here keeping Tim company for him. He's somewhere trying to figure out the expenses for the second surgery."
"Well, I have some very good news," says the doctor. She approaches Tim's side and looks down at him with a friendly expression. I admire her; particularly since this is the sort of career I envision myself having in the future, it's both uplifting and daunting to see the way she approaches such a young boy, in the middle of such suffering, with the utmost grace and ability. Where here I am, ready to fall apart over the injustice of it all.
I shut up my mind's self-conscious rambling and listen to her continue: "An anonymous benefactor has just paid for your treatment in full, Tim. Both surgeries, and so that we can get you some better medicine for the pain. How's that sound?"
Tears come into my eyes slightly at the way the little boy's face brightens up. I've been able to catch on in our short time together that he is more aware of Gregory's financial struggles than Greg would have him be. To see this early bit of maturity in him is touching, and I'm elated to hear that the news coverage of this traumatic event has led to someone lending money. Sometimes, the city can seem so cold. But it gives me faith and a feeling of ease knowing that someone has taken the effort to demonstrate such warmth.
"They were insistent on anonymity?" I ask the doctor before she departs, in hopes that I might have the opportunity to thank whoever the benefactor was in person. But she nods her head to the affirmative, and in the end I have to let her go, and let myself be content in the fact that someone, somewhere, has decided to look out for this victimized little boy.
I contact Greg by phone and deliver the excellent news, and before long, after he's come back to join his son, the nurses come in to start prepping Tim for his second surgery. I approach his bedside and give his hand a squeeze, telling him that he is far stronger and better than any superhero I have ever seen in a movie. His face lights up and a deeper acknowledgement and gratitude comes to me through his eyes when I say it, and it's with confidence and a real feeling of gratitude for having met them both that I depart the room on my crutch, giving them privacy and promising Tim that I'll return to see him once he's out again.
In the elevator, which is, luckily, not inhabited by anyone else, I break down into uncontrollable tears, the terrible pain—barely quelled at all by the medication—along with the emotional relief and the roller coaster that I've been going up and down since the tragedy on the subway last night... Everything combines at once, and a flood of mixed-up sadness and happiness comes out. I manage to close the floodgates before I reach the ground floor, and I hobble into the lobby to find a place to rest and wait, rubbing at my eyes and cheeks with the cuff of my sweater sleeve and smiling ear to ear.
Benedict
I spot her immediately from across the hospital lobby, leaning on her crutch, her face smiling and also streaked with tears, the sight somehow making my heart stutter in its beating. I don't want to catch her off guard by staring at her, since I'm sure I'm the last person she was expecting to see here. But there's something entirely captivating about her presence, and her state, that keeps my head from turning away, even out of decency.
It's inevitable, however, and after a few short moments prolonged by emotion, she notices me, in turn. Her first reaction is to look down at the floor and finish rubbing away her tears with the sleeve of her sweater, and I, too, look down at my shoes for a few moments before we both look up and acknowledge each other again. After another moment, a realization passes between us that we've been obligated by coincidence or fate to acknowledge and greet each other, and she offers up a little wave to me, starting across the expanse of the lobby on her crutch.
"I wasn't expecting to see you here, Mr. Cumberbatch," she says to me quietly once she's finally made her way to me. We stand a bit apart from the other people in the lobby near the automatic doors, and she's careful to keep us inconspicuous, for which I am grateful. I feel a bit foolish for having held out hope that she wouldn't come to recognize me eventually, but a pleasant relief is also present in me, as I can tell that, despite her knowledge of my name, she still conducts herself casually in my presence.
"For goodness sakes," I say to her, chuckling a little at the formality of 'Mr. Cumberbatch' being her title for me, though I'm sure she had only been trying to be respectful. "Call me Ben."
She nods and smiles a little sheepishly. At the end, the smile turns into a grimace and she readjusts herself on her crutch, looking away, trying not to let me notice, though it's clear she's in an abundance of extreme pain. "It took me a while to realize who you were. I'm sorry if I offended you last night by not recognizing you off the bat."
"Oh, no," I tell her honestly, "it was quite a relief, actually."
"I could pretend not to know you, still, if that would set you at ease," she says with another smile, and an accompanying wince. Aside from her admirable and intriguing manner, she has a very pleasant face, and I find myself studying her rather like a charming analytical painting, hung in an unlikely spot in a museum. She smiles and winces once again before continuing, seeming slightly bashful in my presence. "I've got to ask... Were you the one who donated the money for Tim's treatment?"
"How did you guess?" I say lightly, impressed by her deduction. "Honestly, I felt guilty, for not doing more for him directly. So I stopped by to see if there was anything I could do."
"You should have seen his face light up," she tells me with a smile as she recollects it. "And his father was overwhelmed with relief. I've been with Tim—the boy—since ten this morning. His father and I have been in touch since night after I got out of surgery."
"How have you been feeling?" I ask, noting her crutch and the way her entire body folds into that singular space in her side which, from the conflicted nature of her face and the twitching in the corner of her mouth, is still causing her tremendous anguish.
"I've been feeling grateful for my life," she says, after considering the question for a moment, and I can't help but smile a bit at her selflessness.
I can feel that she's slightly uncomfortable in the conversation, and I try to make myself as unprepossessing and normal as possible. I'm sure that she's more than skittish after last night, and with the pain of her wound added to the shock I'm surprised she's even standing up. "Have you thought about physical therapy?" I ask, genuinely worried, and wondering why, suddenly, I've come to care about her so much.
"I hadn't thought about that yet, actually," she admits, nodding to herself and shaking her head. "Ignorant of me. I'll make a plan to see someone soon. Thanks." And the little smile she manages is a sweet one, which makes me feel settled in my skin, and in my place with her. Something in me is compelled to bid her farewell, to part ways with the knowledge that I've done something rather than nothing for the boy and his father... But, simultaneously, the matter of my presence in the hospital has now extended to the girl's being there, as well. I feel that there's some force trying to tell me something about her, but I haven't quite deciphered the code yet, and I want to remain with her until I have.
"This is strange to ask," I begin, letting my mild self-consciousness enter my tone. She looks up at me from her hunched position, only lowering her from her already petite height, and I can tell has incited a fraction of worry in her, so I continue on. "...But I would greatly appreciate it if you would let me wait with you for a while. I'd like to know how things go with the boy. Perhaps we could take a stroll somewhere, get out of this confined space for an hour or so? Only if it's alright with you." I feel so terrible about the speed and awkwardness with which I made my request that I wonder for a moment or two whether I'd actually said it at all, until a reaction comes across her face.
"Of course," she says, after a beat of deliberation that plays across her face. Though she appears in casual conversation to be something of an open book, I can tell that there's something she's keeping from the world, something that, perhaps, she is keeping from herself, as well. The interest I took in her in the subway yesterday afternoon has suddenly returned, and she appears to me like an intricate and enchanting mystery that I would love the chance to uncover...
But I know it will likely not come to fruition. In just less than two hours, I will be back on set, back on my throne of fame and fortune, and we will likely never see one another again. It saddens me slightly that she, the first person not caught up in the industry in which I'm involved, will likely be someone I won't be able to carry on a long-term correspondence with. But for now I let that sadness go, and allow myself to be glad that I have the chance to meet with her at all; tell myself that the main purpose of remaining with her is to keep my loyalty to the young boy from the train.
"I know a nice place in Central Park," she informs me. "It might be a little cold, but there's an excellent coffee vendor." A little flash of insecurity goes across her face, and she looks up at me suddenly as though she's just made a dire mistake, saying, "Unless you like tea," as though I might punish her mortally if this is the case.
I can't help laughing, and the sound is so relieving and light as it frees itself from my chest that a couple of people sitting nearby turn to us, and I have to turn casually away to avoid being recognized. "Sorry," I tell her, not wanting her to feel belittled by the laugh, "I would love a cup of coffee."
She offers me that same sheepish smile again, and after a few exchanged looks and nods of concurrence, we are out the doors, and agreeing to take a cab the four blocks to the park, in the interest of keeping anonymity (for us both, I muse, congratulating her on the articles written about her in numerous papers this morning—to which she reacts with a humble shake of her head), and also for the sake of her injury.
"Seriously," I tell her, once we've gotten out of the cab, and out of danger of being eavesdropped upon. "We'll both be in hiding today. But I really believe that you have the better case for being known, of the two of us. It makes me upset that you won't be acknowledged, for as long as you deserve."
"Oh, please," she says, shivering slightly in the chill of autumn around us. The weather has been rainy lately, and now the water beads in the air as the leaves fall from the trees and plaster themselves to the path we walk along. I look at her, curious about what she could intend by her exasperation, but she only shakes her head with a sigh and shrugs her shoulders, which makes her grimace again. "Fifteen minutes, I guess."
I notice the difficulty she takes in continuing in her current state, and, noticing a nearby bench, I suggest that we sit down. She accepts with a nod, and after I've rubbed off the beaded water droplets from the metal bars of the bench, I help her to sit down, before joining her, as we've both agreed coffee isn't quite necessary at this time of day. For a time we sit without speaking, looking out over a small pond on the other side of the pathway, a certain calm dreariness to the floating leaves and slow-moving ducks.
"This is a lovely spot," I tell her after a period of comfortable quiet.
"Sorry I've been so quiet," she says immediately, as though jolting awake from sleep. "I'm a little tired. Exhausted, actually. Hospitals are... draining."
"To say the least," I agree, wondering at her apologetic nature. "Was it the boy, as well?" She nods in the affirmative, reluctantly. "Do you dislike children?" I ask, hoping I haven't misread her look.
"I don't dislike them," she says slowly. "It's a... love-hate relationship."
I feel a light twinge of sadness at the way she tells me this... I can tell that she's someone who had to grow up faster than she should have. And suddenly I find myself wondering just how old she actually is. She's in college, I know, but she seems beyond her years even if she were in her middle twenties. I consider her face for a minute and then manage a smile, despite the strange, hopeful sadness of her. "I understand that completely," I say in response to her last statement, wondering what depths lie beneath her face, the simple nod she gives me In appreciation for my understanding.
I watch her for a moment, thinking of what I might ask her. It's been so long since I've been in a situation with someone other than a coworker, and the lack of assigned roles and duties is like having the net taken away on a trapeze. Slowly, though, I can feel myself slipping back into the old routine of spontaneity and—I realize with a suppressed smile—normalcy.
I'm about to ask her about her life, about what she is pursuing at University, when something behind me captures her eye, and she suddenly looks over my shoulder, frozen solid, with a look of urgency and fear in her eyes.
I look over my shoulder, following her intense gaze, and after a moment I single out a hooded man, standing a distance away by another bench on the other side of the path, looking clearly in our direction. I look at him for a moment, curious as to why he takes such a keen interest in us, and, fairly certain it's not because of me, turn back to her, trying to decipher from her mannerisms what connection they have, or did have. I can tell that, if they do know each other, the relationship was anything but pleasant, for she's become extremely tense and no breath enters or leaves her. It's as though, suddenly, I have disappeared from beside her, and she has turned into a statue with an abundance of terror and life left behind in only her darkening eyes.
"Are you alright?" I ask her, though I know it's a daft question which will make her feel forced to lie.
I think about amending it, but she shakes herself out of her stupor before I can, and, still not looking at me, manages to whisper, hoarsely, "Yes."
I feel compelled to ask her who the man is, but get a distinct feeling that to do so would only upset her, so I look over my shoulder again briefly, seeing the man still there, and then look back at her, deciding that ignoring him, at least on my part, will be the best thing for her. She, in turn, fixes her eyes firmly on me, as though to avoid looking at the hooded man again. She doesn't look directly into my face, but sets about studying the collar of my coat for a minute, before finally checking over my shoulder again with discreet, pained eyes. I can tell by the measure of relaxation in her shoulders that the man is no longer there, and, putting the palm of her hand to her forehead in an apologetic gesture, she sighs shakily.
"I just thought I saw..." she starts, but then her train of thought tumbles away from her, and she moves her hand helplessly in the air for a moment before letting it fall and giving up, finally looking at me, though I can tell that she's not being quite truthful, and I can also tell that she knows I know. "It's nothing," she says. And, for the sake of us both, I nod in understanding, promising subtly with my eyes not to pry into her personal life. After all, we barely know each other.
"We barely know each other," I say once an appropriate length of time has passed, reiterating my thoughts to her. "Would you tell me a bit about yourself? What are you studying?"
"I'm planning on going to medical school," she says, a slight edge of insecurity in her tone.
"No wonder you knew what to do yesterday evening," I tell her. "I truly did admire your instincts. You know, I've played the hero numerous times, pretended, occupied that role in a fictional capacity... But you were a true one, then."
"Really," she says, almost desperately, "You're more of a real-life hero than I'll ever be. You motivate and inspire everyone who sees your work. You donate to countless charities... make powerful statements... You truly have an influence and you use it effectively. That's not so common among people in your position."
I chuckle a little bit, surprised at her knowledge of my dabbling in philanthropy. "How did you know all that?" I say with a light tone.
Her cheeks redden minutely and she lets her chin sink to her chest, the tenseness from her wordless encounter with the hooded man progressively wearing off. "My roommate Alexandra, actually... She's, uh... interested in you. And very vocal about that interest."
"I see," I say, and we both chuckle slightly, but there's a depth to her expression when she looks at me, which cues me in to what she's about to say.
"How do you cope with that?" she says, shifting her small body on the bench with a significant amount of pain, posing her curiosity to me with a gentle grace that tells me this route of discussion is optional. "With the fame? Not being able to escape the limelight?"
It's not a question I receive often, even in the more intimate interviews I've given, and I'm caught slightly off guard by the genuine sensitivity with which she poses it. I exhale deeply, leaning back on the bench and considering how I ought to answer while she looks at me intently. "I believe the fame is worth the expression," I say at length. "I know how cliché that must sound, but it's the truth. I do what I believe does good for the world, and I enjoy my work. Of course, there are times when the attention can cause difficulties. But I haven't become drained by it. And I've found ways to forego it. You didn't at all notice me sitting on the same subway car as you last night."
She smiles at me a little bit, nodding as she thinks over and confirms the legitimacy of my words, appreciating their genuine nature. She sniffles slightly in the cold, looking away after a moment, in the direction of the ducks calmly gliding across the surface of the pond beneath the red and yellow trees.
"What about you?" I ask, after a few minutes of our increasingly comfortable quiet. "Why do you want to be a doctor?"
She doesn't look back at me immediately, though the corner of her mouth twitches a bit in acknowledgement of my question. I wonder if I've inadvertently struck a nerve as she continues to gaze at the ducks, at the leaves falling down to the surface of the pond, being taken slightly off course by the cool breeze.
"Actually," she admits at length, as though in confession, "I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I like the idea of it, of being a healer, of saving lives. But I'm starting to find that in practice..." She shakes her head a bit and scoffs quietly at herself before turning to me finally and admitting, in a great show of courage, "I detest it."
I feel my eyebrows furrow of their own volition, and I look down at where her hands clench between her knees.
"What I truly love," she continues, looking at her hands, as well, "Is literature. Reading, writing... But if I'm being honest, I'm frightened of pursuing that. Of not having a reliable income, a guarantee at being able to inspire and help people... Really, I feel irresponsible for wanting that in the first place. It seems so selfish, when I could be sure of helping humanity in the medical field." She shakes her head at herself and suddenly seems to remember my presence, looking at me with wide eyes as though she expects me to consider her certifiably disturbed. "I'm sorry," she hurries, "that was absolutely too much information."
I shake my head slightly, not sure how to respond; surely, she's caught me off guard with her honesty, but I feel for what she's said, as I, too, have been through this exact crisis, as a younger man. "Not at all," I tell her, shifting my head slightly to catch her gaze with mine. "Actually, I know exactly what you mean. And I don't think pursuing that dream of a creative career is foolish at all."
She looks into my face for a beat longer, and then starts to shake her head slightly, the doubt seeping in. "Easy for you to say," she says quietly. "You're one of the, what, zero point zero zero one percent of artists who actually succeed?"
The ducks suddenly look worthy of envy, gliding calmly over that silver surface of the muddy pool, with the leaves falling around them, heads dunking into the water and rising again. "I'm sorry," I say, surprised but enlightened by her point. "I didn't think about that."
"No," she says, releasing an uncomfortable tension that had suddenly taken hold of her limbs and wincing a little at the resulting pain in her side before recovering. "That was judgmental of me. I'm sorry I said—"
"Please," I interrupt, incapable of bearing her saying sorry any longer. "Please, don't apologize. Really, there's no fault involved." I exhale, slightly upset by the situation, but realizing her correctness as far as my ignorance to my own position had gone when I'd tried to interfere. "I truly don't mean to impose," I continue, probing the waters. "I recognize that it's ridiculous for you to take my word for anything, but... I can empathize with your plight. It was once mine, in a sense. And, truly, I believe that you should pursue what strikes you, what you believe is beautiful and ennobling, both of you as an individual, and of humanity."
I feel slightly silly after saying such things, and realize how philosophical and high-brow I've probably sounded. I look with a measure of caution at her face to gauge her reaction, hoping I haven't gone too far. There's a look of deep consideration and conflicted emotion and logic on her face. But also, slightly, there's an expression of gratitude written there, a gratitude for this unexpected camaraderie I've offered. We share a simple smile that lifts my heart, and I see something quite lovely and honest in her eyes, that makes me wish we'd met in better circumstances, makes me wonder more about her and her life, and makes me, above all, want to help free her from her pain and confliction...
Holly
My phone rings suddenly, interrupting the moment of warmth, and I stifle a curse as I turn away from his open, supportive, intriguing eyes to retrieve my phone, smiling when I see that the call is from Greg.
"Hi, there," I say into the speaker, "Is Tim out?"
But I promptly realize that I've spoken too soon. My face falls in stages and I feel the blood drain from it as Greg tells me, trying to keep himself from tears, that there had been complications during the surgery, and that Tim is back in a room, riding out a wave of complications that the doctors doubt will end in anything good. I turn to Ben and I know he can tell what the trouble is without my having to say a single word. "He's barely lucid, but he's been asking to see you again," Greg tells me shakily through the phone. "They don't know if... They don't know how much longer..."
"I'm coming back as fast as I can, alright?" I promise him over the phone, and he says something that sounds like too many things at once to be totally decipherable through the speaker, before abruptly hanging up, likely before he can start to cry.
Benedict and I are in another cab back to the Hospital within five minutes, but the four blocks from the park back to the hospital feel like forty, and I can't move fast enough on my God-damned crutch when we finally get out onto the curb and cross the sidewalk into the ironically bright and spacious lobby.
We're stopped by the male nurse who I'd interacted with in Tim's room earlier before we even reach the elevator. He approaches us with his arms out slightly, and a look of devastation and pity on his face that delivers the news before I have to ask.
"Is he alright?" I hear my voice say down a very long tunnel. I am conscious of Benedict's presence beside me, but he keeps growing further and further away as I anticipate the answer I already know to be true.
"His body couldn't handle the complications," he tells us both. Some series of apologies and related statements are made, but I don't hear any of them. From very far away, I think I get the sense that Ben's hand is on my shoulder, steadying me. Perhaps I am tipping over, falling towards the floor. Perhaps he is supporting my weight, leading to my chair. But I don't know if any of this could be true. It seems that, all of a sudden, the meaning I'd placed into Tim, the innocence, the hope, has been crushed, snuffed out as easily as a candle by cruel fate. A devastation takes over my heart like gnarled roots infect a garden. At some point, I become aware of Ben's voice coming towards me from that great distance.
When I arrive in my body again, I'm standing beside Benedict on the sidewalk outside the hospital, and Gregory, Tim's father, is being led into a cab by one of the hospital support staff, just beyond the curb. The cab door is shut and as it drives away, Greg's face looks out through the glass at me, stunned, in a different world, perhaps similar to the one I'd just been trapped in moments ago. Bens hand is on my shoulder and in his other hand he holds his phone up to his ear, speaking measuredly into the speaker.
"—won't be a problem," he's saying to whoever's on the other end. He notices that I'm watching him and looks into my eyes, mouthing something to me, but I can't quite read his lips in my state, so I look away, back down at the curb, trash being run over repeatedly by tire after tire. After a few more seconds, Ben hangs up his phone and pockets it, turning his attention to me.
"This is a terrible time to leave," he says, "but I've just gotten a call from my agent. I have to be back on set soon, and he wants to speak with me ahead of time." I nod vaguely, though I've only caught the basic meaning of his words, and all my comprehension is delayed. "Look," he starts after another moment, drawing a tiny notebook and pen out of his other pocket, scrawling a phone number on it, folding the paper and placing it in my hand, closing my fingers around it carefully.
"I feel like It's not right to leave off this way, and not talk further," he explains, looking at me with slight worry, and I know not to misjudge his intentions.
I manage a nod of agreement in response, but can't make myself speak. I wait another moment and focus on letters, words syllables, sounds. And eventually I work up enough determination to say, "You trust me with this number?"
"Of course," he says, and I have no choice for his tone and eyes but to believe it's the truth.
We part ways and it's only when I'm in the isolation of the cab back to the University campus that I have a chance to look objectively at the hours which have just passed. In an effort to distract myself, if for a short while, from the devastation of Tim's sudden absence from the world, I focus my thoughts on my interactions with Ben.
I am not a fool. I know that attention and affection offered by a man are always followed by sexual demands. But there seems to be something undeniably different about Benedict. I know I will be obligated to be careful around him, if I happen to encounter him again at all, considering the fact that we live in different lifestyles, and he will likely be too busy to follow up with me the way he expressed his wishes that he would. I don't want to be tense, and am truly interested by him, but I also know to be wary. Wariness has kept me alive. Wariness is the only reason I survived seventeen years of living in my father's house, with his constant and unwavering abuse of every kind.
A new wave of horror from the trauma of this morning alone comes over me in the back of the cab and I zone out of my body for a minute before returning to it. That man in the park... the hooded man I'd been incapable of ignoring over Benedict's shoulder... I am certain that he was my father. Of course, there is a possibility that I had only been imagining it was him, after being made anxious about him tracking me down because of the news about my identity and my presence in NYC this morning. But there's always the chance that it wasn't a trick of the imagination, and that it truly was here. And if that is the case, then I am aware that I am truly in terrible danger.
Another pang of distress takes ahold of me as I consider what I might have to say when I get back to the dorm and into Alexandra's company. Alex, since I met her in the beginning of this semester, has made herself very vocal in all groups about taking legal action against abusers and rapists. But I'm not ready to do that as far as my father goes; I'm simply too afraid. And though I love Alex and feel that I understand much about her, we haven't known each other for long enough for me to be confident that, if I told her the true extent of my father's abuse towards me since I was nine years old, she wouldn't pressure me into doing something I'm not prepared to do.
I take advantage of the privacy of the taxi and by the time I've reached the place where I'm dropped off at the edge of the campus, I've gathered my emotions up tightly enough that I'm confident I won't cave under the pressure of social interaction. I bottle up my worry about Greg, my strange grief for Tim, my confusion over what Ben had told me in the park, the illusion of seeing my father... I put it all in a tight box for later unpackaging. But for now, I focus on getting up on my feet and making my way across the campus without attracting too much attention. When I reach the dorm room, I realize that I've been neglecting my pain for so long that it's truly unbearable, and I curl up in my bed and distract myself by contacting the physical therapist who works with the athletic department at school, and scheduling some meetings over the upcoming months. Eventually, the only thing left to do, despite the fact that it's only just after one o'clock, and I haven't eaten much of anything all day, is to fall asleep. So that's exactly what I do.
I'm quick to get the task of informing Alex of the tragedy out of the way as soon as she arrives back from her final class of the day. She's also quick to apologize, and brush it out of our way, knowing the way I prefer to process things alone. But I also soon realize that a part of her brevity is related to an entirely different event.
She explains to me, using the information as an excuse that might help me to distract myself from the impromptu confusion and distress, that there's been a sudden announcement. The community of Cumberbitches, as I've come to understand, has an extremely efficient method of communicating information, probably one of the most efficient and effective of any communication system, even in a professional setting. Through this network, she's discovered that the Man himself is holding a meet-and-greet for some fans this very evening, inside New York. Alex explains to me in her way that she knows I can't refuse that, since she doesn't have any fellow Cumberbitches to go with from campus, she wants me to accompany her. I can't help admitting that going with her is sure to distract me from the situation at hand, which is what I want more than anything else.
But I'm also aware of what might happen if I end up coming face to face with Ben again, for the second time today. I can't possibly keep our knowledge of each other secret from Alex forever, can I? In the end, I have to agree to Alex's whims and she is kind enough at least to not force me to change my clothes. While she's spending altogether too much time dolling herself up in the bathrooms, I take advantage of the privacy of the dorm, and to distract myself from overall dread, I take the slip of paper he'd given me earlier from my pocket. I stare at it for a while, considering his elegant, efficient handwriting, considering the numbers, and the meaning behind them. And after enough time has passed, I set the slip of paper beside me and take out my phone, adding his contact.
Author's note:
Hello again, my lovelies! I feel so happy and lucky to be able to write this for you guys, I am immensely enjoying it! I'm sure you've gathered as much already, but this is not going to be the most lighthearted of stories. It will definitely get more hopeful as it progresses, but there are some things both of our main characters are going to have to struggle through in the beginning... That's how life goes, after all. And waiting at the end of the tunnel for them both will be a reward worth every trial...
Thank you always for reading! Let me know your thoughts and feelings! Wishing you well,
Une-papillon-de-nuit
20 July, 2020