Oh, there is pain inside
You can see it in my eyes
It makes me think about me
That I've lost my pride
But I'm in love with this power that resides in your eyes
You live in modern apartments
Well, I've even got scared once or twice
Last time I walked down your street
There were tears in my eyes
-'Hospital' by The Modern Lovers
The overhead florescent lighting cast an ugly hue on everything it touched. Christine always felt repulsed by it, but it seemed particularly grotesque in the waiting room of the clinic. It reminded her too much of death, lifeless and cold. It enhanced every scuff mark in the linoleum flooring, she could see every slight imperfection on the skin of her legs, and it irritated her eyes, evoking a blooming headache at one temple. If she had her say in things, she would fill the room with warm, yellow light that made a person feel like they were back around a campfire telling stories instead of waiting to hear whether their loved one was going to live or die.
Phones rang at the receptionist desk while a child wailed in a corner. There was the in and out shuffling of doctors, nurses and patients. In a room full of strangers, she still felt completely alone.
It had been hours now, each second passing by with the urgency of cold molasses on a winter day. She tried to distract herself the best she could with three-month-old gossip magazines about celebrities, half of whom she didn't even recognize, but she found they only further increased her anxiety. How could she read about a scandalous affair that led to a multi-million-dollar divorce or look at outrageously expensive red-carpet gowns when her father was somewhere on a table with his chest wide open to the world?
This surgery was a final attempt to rid his body of the malignancy that had formed in one side of his lung. The more non-invasive methods had failed to garner a response from his cancer. The surgeon had assured them the Thoracotomy was a procedure he was well-practiced in, but it came with a great number of risks which had increased in number with a novel respiratory illness making its rounds. Her father was older and, weakened by the medications and radiation treatments, had put him at a higher risk for infections.
In her pocket, her phone buzzed. She opened the screen to see a text from Raoul.
"Hey you. Is he still in surgery?"
She typed in a quick reply.
"They said it would be 3 or 4 hours but I hope it's over soon. I can't stand the waiting."
The message was marked as read and no text bubble appeared. She figured he was probably at work and took a moment out of his busy schedule to check in, which made her feel warm. He had always been thoughtful, though. She could never understand why he had been such an attentive friend, because she had always felt miles beneath his level.
Fifteen minutes later, she was trying to read some ridiculous article about the British Royal family to engage her mind when the seat next to her became occupied.
"Hey," a familiar voice said, catching her attention.
Surprised, she abandoned the article she was only half reading to see Raoul holding a potted plant.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, afraid that it came out as an accusation, when she really meant 'You must have a million more important things to do than to meet me in a depressing waiting room.'
"I didn't want you to be here all alone. I took the chance that they hadn't changed their visitor's policy." He presented the plant like it was an afterthought, "I know your dad equates cut flowers to murder because they just die, so I thought he would appreciate a living plant instead. It's a Snake Plant. The lady at the nursery insists they are notoriously hard to kill." He set the plant down on the seat next to him and leaned in to draw her into an embrace. "I'm so sorry you are going through this Christine. You know I think I love your dad more than my own. God only knows he treats me more like a son than my own pop ever did."
She sank into the warm comfort of his arms, breathing in the high-end fragrance of whatever hair and skin products he used while feeling simultaneously self-conscious about her own dollar store brand shampoo. Her thoughts steered to the large bundle of bills he had recently given her, and she was grateful he could not see her uncomfortable grimace as she pressed her face tighter into the crook of his neck. Willing the thought away, she focused on how he smelled, never overly masculine, sharp with the hint of subdued vanilla, and how he felt, familiar, like a favorite sofa.
When he kissed the top of her head through the fabric of his mask, she felt her stomach turn in somersaults.
'It's brotherly affection,' she told herself. 'You grew up together.'
When the doctor finally came out, he explained in overly complicated medical jargon the details of the completed surgery which Christine could not seem to follow, while Raoul nodded his head and offered the occasion 'I understand'.
"For the next forty-two hours he will be in the ICU," the doctor said. "We don't allow visitors in that ward at this time, but you wouldn't be able to talk to him anyway because he'll remain intubated until he is moved into his recovery suite."
She stood in stunned silence after the doctor walked away. Why had she thought her father would be well enough to see her immediately after the surgery? The doctors had already informed them weeks prior what they were bound to expect, but the hope was still there.
Raoul draped a heavy arm across her shoulders and gently drew her away from the waiting room towards the doors leading outside.
"Why don't you come stay with me for a couple of days," Raoul suggested as they approached the automatic sliding glass doors leading outside into the warm summer city air. "I don't like the idea of you sitting at home alone in mental anguish. We can go back to your apartment so you can grab a few things? Maybe tonight we can just get some Thai take out and watch movies? Or if you just want to sit in silence together, that's fine too. I just can't bring myself let you stew in fear by yourself all night."
She mutely nodded in agreement, because she knew she would do anything to avoid the melancholy solitude that would surely impose itself if she went back to that terrible little apartment.
"Weird…" Raoul murmured to himself as they exited the hospital.
Christine's eyes lifted from their aimless gaze at the ground.
"What?" she asked as she followed his line of sight to the back of a tall man in an unkempt suit briskly walking in the opposite direction and disappearing around a corner.
"I'm just getting a weird sense of Deja-vu," Raoul dismissively replied, "I swear I've seen that guy before."
Raoul was kind enough not to make any comment about the neighborhood she was living when he finally drove up to the awful façade of their cheap apartment building and Christine avoided looking at the scorched mark on the sidewalk where the tent had recently been set ablaze. Melted plastic from the scorched tent still clung to the rough surface of the pavement.
'A murder," one of her neighbors said in accented English. 'Burned up the tent to hide the crime, maybe.'
She thought about the man who stood across the street, staring at her with those strange eyes, while she made the call to emergency services. He eventually rushed back inside the neighboring abandoned building where she assumed he must be living. It was the same odd man who had delivered her stolen backpack only moments after it had been taken. Was he responsible for the crime? It didn't make sense, why do such a good deed only to turn around and commit murder a few days later?
Raoul lived in a modern corner loft in the affluent section of downtown. It came with a stunning view of the city, with floor to ceiling wraparound privacy windows and all new appliances. It had sparce decorations, except several picture frames adorning tables and bookshelves, many of which contained portraits of Raoul's family, but a few had photos of Christine and himself in their childhood years. She always wondered why he felt they deserved such prominent places in his home.
Thai food was delivered to his apartment while Christine picked out an emotionally non-taxing film to watch. After the film, they stayed up late exchanging pleasant memories and sharing stories of their own private lives until it was clearly time for bed.
"I have a king-sized bed," he said somewhat sheepishly when she emerged from the bathroom in pajamas. "There's plenty of room for both of us, unless you'd rather I crash on the couch."
There was a blush on her cheeks, she just knew it. They had shared a bed plenty of times in the past. Once they even shared the same sleeping bag during a particularly cold camping trip. It seemed different now—she noticed him in ways she didn't when they were just kids, before he had grown into a perfect specimen of man—but she didn't want to make things weird, so she agreed to share the bed.
That night, in his massive bed, tucked under high thread count sheets, she woke from a terrible anxiety laced dream and the uncanny feeling of another presence in the bedroom. Raoul had migrated from his side of the bed and was spooning her against the hard planes of his fit build with one arm caging her against him.
She glanced around her to see nobody there, while Raoul released a low moan and pulled her in tighter.
Deciding it was all in her head, she settled back into the cocoon of his body and allowed sleep to pull her under.
Two days later, she received the call informing her of her father's move to the recovery ward.
He was highly drugged when she visited him in his suite. Raoul was not permitted inside, so he remained in the waiting room while relinquishing the potted plant for her to deliver in his stead.
"Papa, I'm here" she gently greeted him while schooling the horrified expression that threatened to erupt on her face at the sight of her father hooked up to so many tubes and cables. "How do you feel?"
"You look like your mama," he wistfully replied.
"How do you feel, Papa?" she repeated with a measure of calm that she did not think she possessed.
"Like my chest is full of angry wasps," he muttered in response.
"Raoul got this for your room, isn't it nice?" She held up the friendly looking potted plant. "I'll set it by the window."
"He wants to marry you," her father murmured as she placed the plant upon the windowsill. "Of course, he would. Of course, he—you look like your mama."
"They must have you on some very strong medication, Papa." Christine softly said under her breath. She had never resembled her mother, having taken most of her appearance from her father's side—light hair, bright eyes, a slightly dimpled chin.
"Christine," he wheezed, his Swedish words were slurred and distorted. "Did you bring the notebook?"
"It's in your suitcase. I'll leave it on your side table before I leave." She spoke the words slowly and deliberately so he would not misunderstand.
"He visits me every night, Christine," he said dreamily. His eyes rolled forward and back in his skull while he fought the effects of the fentanyl coursing through his system.
"Who visits you, Papa?" she asked patiently.
"The Angel of Music," he breathed the words, and it sounded pained after the removal of his lung. The doctors had told them far ahead of time that this surgery was considered one of the most painful and recovery would be agony. "But not here. Not in this house of sickness. I don't know why. Have I failed him? I've tried—his music is just impossible to write. I'm failing him!" His words began to grow agitated, coming out as half barks.
"No, of course not," she cooed and stroked his stubbled face. She fought back tears. It was too painful to see her father descending into this temporary madness. Helplessness seized her heart like a wraith. "I'm sure he's just waiting for you to get better, Papa, that's all."
"I have to finish. He's giving me the music, Christine. I need to—" he winced as the speaking put too much strain on his breathing. "I'm running out of time."
Christine left her father's room fifteen minutes later and descended into a fit of sobs pressed up against the sterile white wall of the hallway. Nurses and doctors passed her in different directions as they continued about their urgent tasks.
Raoul was waiting for her when she re-entered the waiting room. That morning—like the morning before that—she had awoken with his arms holding her against the curve of his firm body. They had slept that way before when they were younger, but it felt less innocent now. She was beginning to think love had snuck up on her sometime between the days they ran around like feral things, infused with childish youth, and the serious years of responsible adulthood.
He had suggested she extend her stay with him, but she declined, making up some half-hearted excuse because she couldn't tell him she needed space. Her feelings towards him were becoming too complicated and she could not bear to spend every night in his brotherly embrace when her heart was seeking something more.
Besides, it wasn't the right time for any of that now, not with her father on the fringe of his health, but she let him hold her, nonetheless, until the tears stopped rolling down her face.
When they exited the building, she saw him. The same tall man in the disheveled suit, but this time she saw him from the front and thought she knew who he was—or at the very least she thought had seen him before. It was the man with the strange eyes, who had returned her backpack, who had watched her with such interest the morning of the tent murder. He turned on a dime and around the corner before Raoul, who was looking in the opposite direction, could notice him.
Was he following her? It seemed like such a ridiculous idea. The hospital was outside of town on the other side of the river. They had to pay a toll to get here. That man did not appear to have the means or the transportation to follow them this far. He couldn't, right? —he squatted in an abandoned building, or at least, she thought he did. There really was little she knew about the stranger.
Perhaps she was imagining things. Everyone wore Covid masks, and it was difficult to recognize faces fully in them. It was more than likely just a doppelgänger. And besides…it was at a distance; many people look like others at a distance.
"Do you want to get coffee before I take you back?" Raoul asked as he fished out the keys from his pocket.
"No," she absently replied as her eyes remained fixated on the spot where the man had been. Then, bringing her attention back to Raoul, she turned towards him and offered a wan smile. "I'm just really tired and should probably take a nap."
His large hand was rubbing circles on her shoulder.
"I really wish you would stay with me until your father is discharged," he confessed with a heavy hint of sadness. "But will you agree to let me take you when you come to visit him?"
"That's every couple of days, Ra—"
"I don't care," he gently interrupted. "I'm here for you, Christine. Truly. I'll cancel appointments. I'll take days off. It doesn't matter."
She nodded as a family of butterflies made chaos in her belly.
When he dropped her in front of her apartment a half an hour later, he kissed her on the cheek and insisted she call him if she became too lonely. She nodded, even though she knew she would be terribly lonely tonight but still wouldn't make that call.
The apartment was just as she had left it, with the two air mattresses upon the floor and the framed photo of her mother on the off-white painted wall. It was incredibly stuffy, so she moved towards the window to force a little breeze inside. As she wrestled with the heavy wood window frame, a bit of movement caught her eye across the street.
It was him again. He was watching her from a glassless window on the second floor of that dilapidated building and, as he turned to avoid notice, she had a realization she could not explain; he had been the man she saw at the hospital.
'I swear I've seen that guy before," Raoul had said.
She didn't know why. She didn't know how. But some feeling arising from her deepest primal instincts told her it was true.
"Oh god," she whispered. Her hands and lips trembling as she stepped away from the cracked window. "What do I do now?"
