The White Parade
II. Perfect
II. Perfect:
“Why is she here?”
He’s sitting on the bench across from the elevator, waiting for me like he has been for the last week. There’s a square patch of cotton gauze taped to the inside of his left elbow, the telltale sign of the recently needled. His clothes are still the same (or perhaps, more believably, a different set) of cotton hospital pajamas in plain, standard white. He’s at the height of fashion in his clothes, at the very peak of classic American hospital chic that will never in a million years die out. If it ever does, then God help the masses without any other way of telling the difference between the medically experienced and the medically ignorant.
It’s the first time since our first meeting that The Patient has said anything to me, and the sound of his voice comes as a shock. The look of genuine interest etched into the permanent intensity of his face only serves to shock me further.
“Well? Are you gonna tell me what she has or are you just planning to stare at me like I’m some rock star?”
He catches me off guard with the comment--but honestly, it’s hard not to stare at him.
“Wh-who?”
“The girl in 519,” The Patient says, raising any eyebrow. “She’s your friend, isn’t she?”
“Oh...yeah. She-she is.”
“I see her sometimes, when I’m pacing the halls--usually when they come to get her,” he explains, pausing. “She doesn’t like to leave her room very much, does she?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “She hates hospitals.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Hate hospitals.” The Patient leans his head back against the wall, sighing a little. “You seem like you do.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Whenever you get off the elevator you seem...in a hurry to get down to her room. You walk at a weird pace. Like...like you don’t want anyone to know this place freaks you out, but if you could... If you had your way, you’d be somewhere else.”
“Wouldn’t we all rather be somewhere else?”
A silly thing to say. Of course we all would--him and Claire especially, I guess. The Patient just grins faintly.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
“Which question was that?” I ask, consciously playing forgetful.
“What your friend is in for. You haven’t said...”
“Because I don’t know. She...doesn’t know. The doctors, they don’t...” I sigh. “They’re not sure. They have theories...”
“Story of my life.” He raises his head up, his body following. “All they seem to ever have on this floor are doctors trained in theories. You should ask her if she’s considered transferring floors or, better yet, hospitals.”
“It’d just be the same... Huh?”
How does a guy who belongs on this ward move so quickly? The hall is a little on the narrow side, sure, but I haven’t even looked away that long before The Patient is standing in front of me--almost over me, really--eyes staring down into mine with his usually unusual intensity before moving lower, to the black and red scarf around my neck. He reaches out to take a corner, rubbing the knitting between his fingers.
“You have a lot of these,” he says, staring down at the scarf. “Do you make them?”
“Yeah. S-sometimes. When the mood hits...”
“The mood hits a lot, I take it.” The Patient releases the scarf. “If you’re looking for your friend, she’s not in her room.”
“What?”
“Yeah; she’s been gone for an hour. They...”
The sound of his feet moving against the floor is barely audible over my own hurried pace, but I know he’s following me; I know his eyes are watching me trying to hide the sudden rush of panic filling me up. Not in her room? That can’t be right. I called her before I came down; I told her I was coming. She told me she would be here all day--just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day...before...that. What could have come up? Why could they have taken her? Where would they have taken her? The doors pass by in a blur; all I focus on are the odd-numbered ones. 513...515...517...
519.
Room 519.
The door is closed.
“What the fuck?”
The door is...locked.
“What the fuck is going on?”
The door is never locked.
“I don’t...”
It’s often closed, but it’s never locked.
“I don’t understand.”
Never.
I check my phone; naturally, I get no signal on this floor, and there’s no sign that she might have called or even sent a text message. Lovely. Of all the times for something like this to happen...
“Did they move her? Where did they take her?”
“I really don’t know about that, but...these pictures are pretty impressive.” Somewhere close by, a page turns. “Did you take all of these yourself?”
Pictures? “What pictures?”
Another page. “The ones you keep in this album... They’re really good.”
Oh. Those pictures. The ones in my portfolio. In the portfolio that should be tucked safely under...my...
“Hey!”
The Patient looks up, eyebrows raised in a quietly inquisitive manner. Open in his hand is a thin, black book. Not just any book—my book. My photo album--my portfolio, I mean...an ordinary-looking thing I bought last year to store whatever happens to be the best of my work at any given time. He holds it open somewhere near the middle of the current collection, and it feels...odd, seeing him with it. It feels kind of like my soul has been laid bare before that unusually intense stare. How had he managed to sneak up without me noticing? How did he manage to steal it out from under my arm? Without answering either question, The Patient makes a simple gesture with his hand, and the book seals shut.
“You should be more careful, even in a place like this. You’re apt to lose things if you don’t pay attention.” There’s a pause, and then he turns away, portfolio in hand. “Come on. Follow me.”
“Where? And can I have my portfolio back? I...I need it for class.”
More like I need it to live, but he doesn’t need to know that. Then again, maybe he already does.
“I’m not done looking at the pictures. But just come on. You can wait for your friend in my room.”
Me? Wait for her in his room? He walks for a few steps--portfolio still in his pale hand--before he realizes I’m not following and stops to look over his shoulder.
“Well? You want your book back, don’t you?”
It’s not a matter of want, when it comes to that portfolio. It’s a matter of need.
“It’s just until she comes back, then I’ll get out of your way. I just hope she’s okay...”
He smiles a little, as if he knows something I don’t. “I’m sure she’s fine. Here... Do you have your own camera?”
“Yeah.”
“With you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
When you’ve seen one hospital room, you’ve seen them all. And yet, something about his room... There’s something different about it--something hidden but at the same time so glaringly obvious, it frustrates the mind trying to figure out just what that difference is. It’s nothing visual--like I said, you see one hospital room, you’ve seen them all--but if presence counts for anything...
“Your camera...”
“What about it?”
“Can I see it?” A pause of silence. “I won’t break it. I promise. I mean...I gave you your book back, didn’t I?”
“True...”
But even as I let him hold take the camera in his hands, I get nervous. It’s fairly new--both in terms of newest in its line and newest to my collection--and it’s largely the reason I was broke last month. Ten megapixels, image stabilizer...just to name a few features. He holds it like a sacred artifact, turning it over, pondering its usage.
“What do you shoot with it?”
“Photographs.”
The Patient chuckles. “I mean what of?”
“Things, places...”
“People?”
“Naturally. People are my favorite things to shoot.”
He smiles a little at that. “Without the camera you could be mistaken for a murderer.”
“Ah, but photography is like murder. It’s the murder of the fleeting moment, trapping it in an afterlife of visual eternity.”
The smile widens. “A writer, too?”
“Not so much. I borrowed that from a friend who is.”
“I see...” A pause. “Ever taken nudes before?”
“W-what?”
“Well, I just figure, a skilled photographer like you... Those pictures in the album are pretty good...”
“R-really? You like them?”
He smirks. “The dead can’t lie.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” I answer. “And you’re not dead, so...”
“As far as you know. But changing subject won’t save you from answering the question.”
I shift a little. “I haven’t exactly found anyone comfortable enough yet. I know it sounds odd, considering I’m in art school, but... I think it has more to do with me than with them.”
“Shy around a little exposed flesh, hm?”
“S-something like that...”
“Hm.” He continues turning the camera over his hands, eyes studying every feature, every switch and button. “Do you ever think you’d like to?”
“I-I guess so. Is that an offer?”
“Maybe.”
The number of unusual situations in which one can find themselves after only a few seconds of dialogue is both endless and endlessly startling. In case you’re wondering, this is just such an unusual situation.
“Well, I-I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Um...I have a...an art...thing in a little while that I need to get ready for, so... That-that is, if you don’t mind that I--”
With the shadow of a grin, he hands the camera back. “What are you waiting for? Murder me.”
The camera feels heavier in my hands--colder. It’s as if some part of him remains on whatever he touches; it makes me think back a week, to the first time his hands imposed themselves on me. I don’t feel any different... But should I? Has some part of me changed? Am I colder, somehow? I don’t feel...
I shake the thoughts from my head. Get professional; check the memory card--make sure there’s enough space to handle all the pictures. Check your model, position him--
“Don’t move. St-stay right there...”
He’s staring out of his window now, hands buried in his pockets while the gray-white brightness of a winter afternoon silhouettes and exaggerates the thinness of his frame. He looks frail; if I open the window (assuming it can be opened, since most windows are locked on floors like this for obvious reasons) a breeze might come and take him away. Sliding into the corner, pressing my back against the smooth, pale-blue wall as I so naturally do, I get the perfect view from which to shoot several close portraits.
Click.
“Don’t move yet.” Click. “That’s perfect.”
“Perfect.” The shutter clicks, and he chuckles with a note of mild bitterness. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
Click.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“I suppose...”
Click.
With the light from outside, the features of his face are all the more enhanced. The shadows and highlights add a strange...sharpness that makes him look proud, defiant. Like a prince refusing to accept defeat, I guess. It’s a look that, until now, has only existed in his eyes. This kind of...“fuck you” sort of stare that would knock you back--that did knock me back--when first encountered.
Click.
It’s actually rather beautiful.
Click.
In its own way.
Click.
“I have to say, I find it hard to believe that no one would.”
“Yeah?”
He turns his head, and I’m knocked back again. Highlights and shadows shift, embracing and enhancing different areas of his face. The intensity returns in full to his eyes, but now... Now there’s a level of softness in his face that definitely wasn’t there a few seconds ago. I guess someone would think he’s trying to look that way on purpose; the contrast between vulnerability and intensity is good for art, good for making people feel...something. You think he’s trying to do that on purpose, but really...it’s nothing more than a trick of the light. He’s still defiant, still proud.
Click.
“I bet you’d find a lot of things hard to believe.”
“Like..?” Click. He’s silent. “Come on. Speak up.”
Click.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “Just keep taking pictures.”
Click.
“Turn around; sit kind of...kind of against the window. Lean against it, I mean, but if you can sit on it...”
“Like this?” He half-sits, half-leans against the windowsill, thin fingers curling around the edge in order to steady himself. “This building is pretty old-fashioned; the windows are... They’re perfect, I guess.”
“Perfect.” Click. “Don’t slouch your shoulders so much...and tilt your head up, just a little bit?”
“Like this?”
“Not that far back.”
“Okay. Is this better?”
“Yeah. Tilt your head a little to the... To my left, your right--not-not too much, but...”
“Like this?”
“Yeah.” Click. “That’s... That’s good.”
The Patient chuckles. “Whatever happened to ‘perfect’?”
He pulls a smile out of me. “Perfect...”
The shutter continues clicking away...until the sound of guitars, drums, and homemade devil screeching explodes from the pocket of my jeans.
“Someone say a Hail Mary for this house...!”
It’s amazing how hard it is to grab a phone when you’re trying to keep a camera from falling to the floor. It’s even harder, when you aren’t expecting to get a signal on the fifth floor of a hospital.
“Hello!”
It’s Claire, my friend, apologizing for not being able to call me sooner about the sudden testing. The phone call is half-static, but I can hear her all right. She asks if I’m still in the hospital.
“Yeah--yeah... I’m still here. I was just...taking pictures.”
“Oh? You found someone to model for you.”
“Yeah. Kind of...spur of the moment thing, but--”
“That’s good,” she says. “That’s really good.”
“Is-is everything okay?”
“Huh?”
“You sound... I dunno.”
She sounds tired. She sounds...she sounds like she’s trying to hide something. It’s unsettling.
“I’m fine. I just...” She yawns. “I’m just worn out. That’s all. They ran a lot of tests... It wore me out, is all.”
“Well...did they say anything?” Setting the camera on the bed tray, I send The Patient a quiet message. He gets to his feet, stretching. “Did they say how long it would take to get results?”
“A few days to be sure, but...”
“They have a guess?”
“Yeah. But...”
“But what?”
“They’re pretty sure they know what it is. They’re just waiting on the results to make it fact.”
Her tone drops a cold weight into my stomach. I swallow, try to keep a level of calmness in my voice.
“Well...what do they think it is?” Fingers idly play with the scarf that suddenly feels too tight around my neck. The silence from the other end makes the weight heavier, colder. “Claire?”
“Al... They think it’s the cancer.”
“C-cancer.”
The weight explodes; the cold heaviness begins to spread.
“They think it’s come back.”
“Cancer.” It’s the only word that seems to exist in my vocabulary. “Can...cancer.”
“They aren’t--they aren’t sure yet, but...”
That’s really all that registers--except for the distant sound of a young man’s voice talking hurriedly to someone I can’t…see…
“Hello? Yeah. Yeah, she’s fine. She’s just fainted...”
***
A month goes by, and in a place like this, you hardly notice. A month goes by, and you’d swear it was just a day. Nothing ever seems to change in a hospital; the sick just keep coming in to replace those who get better or those who die off. In this rushing cycle, doctors only seem capable of going through the motions while they pretend to care about each case. A month goes by, and you realize that most of them try to care, but they’re too involved in looking good with their superiors or hitting on their nurses to be very good at faking the sentiment. You’re convinced the first week, maybe a little unsure the second week; your doubts are worse by the third week, and by week four...
“I heard you asked for a new doctor.”
Claire looks up from the pages of 30 Days of Night, so engrossed with the comic that she flashes me annoyance for the interruption.
“Yeah. The last guy was a prick.”
“He seemed nice enough...”
“He was a prick,” she says, going back to the book. “He was doing the nurse; I overheard them talking when they were in the room--when they thought I was sleeping.”
“Oh.”
“This new one promises to be worth something, though.” The sound of a page turning flutters in the air. “He’s a resident, which means... What are you knitting?”
“Huh?”
“You’re knitting,” Claire says. “I haven’t seen you knit in...fucking forever. It’s almost a little weird to see you take it up again.”
“Oh...oh. Yeah.” Nervously, I chuckle. I suppose the picture of a kid raised on rock music knitting is a little odd, but you would never guess how...relaxing it is. “I-it’s just a scarf for somebody.”
“Is it for The Patient?” Another page-flip. “You’ve been taking pictures of him all month, right?”
“Y-yeah...”
“They’re pretty good. And he actually seems to like you.”
I shrug, starting up the needles again, controlling the blue yarn’s progress. “I probably just annoy him the least. Not like I’m not trying to...to stick a-a needle in his arm or anything like that. I’m not trying to get him to open up and--”
“You treat him like he’s human--like he exists as more than just one more walking disease. Doctors forget that a lot around here; it’s why they sometimes fail--”
As if on cue, a stampede of doctors and nurses rushes by the room, panic evident in their sneaker-clad pace. One of the nurses cries out that it’s a code blue, and I jerk my head around in time to watch the makeshift parade as it passes. Claire doesn’t even raise her eyes from the comic; a month here, on this floor, and code blues become commonplace.
“It’s probably the girl in 522; she tried to slit her wrists two nights ago.”
“Two nights ago?”
“Mm-hmm. About an hour after you left. They’ve had her on suicide watch ever since.”
“Well...if they’ve had her on suicide watch, how could she...?”
“Crossbeams and bed sheets,” Claire says, eyes glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s only a matter of memorizing shift changes, knowing where to tie things off and what kinds of knots to use.”
That anyone would put that much thought into attempting suicide is scary. I try not to concentrate too much on the fact that Claire would have any type of insight as to how someone would get around a suicide watch; I just go back to knitting quietly. A tug at the finished end tells me she’s studying the craftwork with a careful eye. Her fingers are thin, but not quite as thin as The Patient’s; her skin is as pale as his--maybe more so against her black hoodie. That the chemotherapy steals her hair means nothing; you can hide that sort of thing. But that it makes her tired...that it steals her strength...robs her of healthy color... That it makes her feel worse when it’s supposed to be making her feel better...
She's tired of this. She's tired of doctors, of medications, of needles... She's sick of seeing the same sterile white that seems to come standard with hospitals. White... White walls offsetting the brown of bed frames, the powder blue of sheets and the faded yellow of medical bracelets. Occasionally there's red-- the red of flowers or, more likely, the red of blood--but still the white persists...
She's sick of seeing it all. She's sick of being sick. But she doesn't want to give up. Even during those nights when she rests her head in apparent defeat and closes her eyes to keep the tears in... She doesn't want to quit. She doesn’t want to give up the fight. And neither do I.
“Blue,” Claire says, smiling. “Black and blue. He’ll love it, Al. He’ll absolutely love it.”
“Really? Y-you think so?”
“Mm-hmm... Definitely. It’s perfect.”
“Why is she here?”
He’s sitting on the bench across from the elevator, waiting for me like he has been for the last week. There’s a square patch of cotton gauze taped to the inside of his left elbow, the telltale sign of the recently needled. His clothes are still the same (or perhaps, more believably, a different set) of cotton hospital pajamas in plain, standard white. He’s at the height of fashion in his clothes, at the very peak of classic American hospital chic that will never in a million years die out. If it ever does, then God help the masses without any other way of telling the difference between the medically experienced and the medically ignorant.
It’s the first time since our first meeting that The Patient has said anything to me, and the sound of his voice comes as a shock. The look of genuine interest etched into the permanent intensity of his face only serves to shock me further.
“Well? Are you gonna tell me what she has or are you just planning to stare at me like I’m some rock star?”
He catches me off guard with the comment--but honestly, it’s hard not to stare at him.
“Wh-who?”
“The girl in 519,” The Patient says, raising any eyebrow. “She’s your friend, isn’t she?”
“Oh...yeah. She-she is.”
“I see her sometimes, when I’m pacing the halls--usually when they come to get her,” he explains, pausing. “She doesn’t like to leave her room very much, does she?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “She hates hospitals.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Hate hospitals.” The Patient leans his head back against the wall, sighing a little. “You seem like you do.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Whenever you get off the elevator you seem...in a hurry to get down to her room. You walk at a weird pace. Like...like you don’t want anyone to know this place freaks you out, but if you could... If you had your way, you’d be somewhere else.”
“Wouldn’t we all rather be somewhere else?”
A silly thing to say. Of course we all would--him and Claire especially, I guess. The Patient just grins faintly.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.
“Which question was that?” I ask, consciously playing forgetful.
“What your friend is in for. You haven’t said...”
“Because I don’t know. She...doesn’t know. The doctors, they don’t...” I sigh. “They’re not sure. They have theories...”
“Story of my life.” He raises his head up, his body following. “All they seem to ever have on this floor are doctors trained in theories. You should ask her if she’s considered transferring floors or, better yet, hospitals.”
“It’d just be the same... Huh?”
How does a guy who belongs on this ward move so quickly? The hall is a little on the narrow side, sure, but I haven’t even looked away that long before The Patient is standing in front of me--almost over me, really--eyes staring down into mine with his usually unusual intensity before moving lower, to the black and red scarf around my neck. He reaches out to take a corner, rubbing the knitting between his fingers.
“You have a lot of these,” he says, staring down at the scarf. “Do you make them?”
“Yeah. S-sometimes. When the mood hits...”
“The mood hits a lot, I take it.” The Patient releases the scarf. “If you’re looking for your friend, she’s not in her room.”
“What?”
“Yeah; she’s been gone for an hour. They...”
The sound of his feet moving against the floor is barely audible over my own hurried pace, but I know he’s following me; I know his eyes are watching me trying to hide the sudden rush of panic filling me up. Not in her room? That can’t be right. I called her before I came down; I told her I was coming. She told me she would be here all day--just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day...before...that. What could have come up? Why could they have taken her? Where would they have taken her? The doors pass by in a blur; all I focus on are the odd-numbered ones. 513...515...517...
519.
Room 519.
The door is closed.
“What the fuck?”
The door is...locked.
“What the fuck is going on?”
The door is never locked.
“I don’t...”
It’s often closed, but it’s never locked.
“I don’t understand.”
Never.
I check my phone; naturally, I get no signal on this floor, and there’s no sign that she might have called or even sent a text message. Lovely. Of all the times for something like this to happen...
“Did they move her? Where did they take her?”
“I really don’t know about that, but...these pictures are pretty impressive.” Somewhere close by, a page turns. “Did you take all of these yourself?”
Pictures? “What pictures?”
Another page. “The ones you keep in this album... They’re really good.”
Oh. Those pictures. The ones in my portfolio. In the portfolio that should be tucked safely under...my...
“Hey!”
The Patient looks up, eyebrows raised in a quietly inquisitive manner. Open in his hand is a thin, black book. Not just any book—my book. My photo album--my portfolio, I mean...an ordinary-looking thing I bought last year to store whatever happens to be the best of my work at any given time. He holds it open somewhere near the middle of the current collection, and it feels...odd, seeing him with it. It feels kind of like my soul has been laid bare before that unusually intense stare. How had he managed to sneak up without me noticing? How did he manage to steal it out from under my arm? Without answering either question, The Patient makes a simple gesture with his hand, and the book seals shut.
“You should be more careful, even in a place like this. You’re apt to lose things if you don’t pay attention.” There’s a pause, and then he turns away, portfolio in hand. “Come on. Follow me.”
“Where? And can I have my portfolio back? I...I need it for class.”
More like I need it to live, but he doesn’t need to know that. Then again, maybe he already does.
“I’m not done looking at the pictures. But just come on. You can wait for your friend in my room.”
Me? Wait for her in his room? He walks for a few steps--portfolio still in his pale hand--before he realizes I’m not following and stops to look over his shoulder.
“Well? You want your book back, don’t you?”
It’s not a matter of want, when it comes to that portfolio. It’s a matter of need.
“It’s just until she comes back, then I’ll get out of your way. I just hope she’s okay...”
He smiles a little, as if he knows something I don’t. “I’m sure she’s fine. Here... Do you have your own camera?”
“Yeah.”
“With you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
When you’ve seen one hospital room, you’ve seen them all. And yet, something about his room... There’s something different about it--something hidden but at the same time so glaringly obvious, it frustrates the mind trying to figure out just what that difference is. It’s nothing visual--like I said, you see one hospital room, you’ve seen them all--but if presence counts for anything...
“Your camera...”
“What about it?”
“Can I see it?” A pause of silence. “I won’t break it. I promise. I mean...I gave you your book back, didn’t I?”
“True...”
But even as I let him hold take the camera in his hands, I get nervous. It’s fairly new--both in terms of newest in its line and newest to my collection--and it’s largely the reason I was broke last month. Ten megapixels, image stabilizer...just to name a few features. He holds it like a sacred artifact, turning it over, pondering its usage.
“What do you shoot with it?”
“Photographs.”
The Patient chuckles. “I mean what of?”
“Things, places...”
“People?”
“Naturally. People are my favorite things to shoot.”
He smiles a little at that. “Without the camera you could be mistaken for a murderer.”
“Ah, but photography is like murder. It’s the murder of the fleeting moment, trapping it in an afterlife of visual eternity.”
The smile widens. “A writer, too?”
“Not so much. I borrowed that from a friend who is.”
“I see...” A pause. “Ever taken nudes before?”
“W-what?”
“Well, I just figure, a skilled photographer like you... Those pictures in the album are pretty good...”
“R-really? You like them?”
He smirks. “The dead can’t lie.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” I answer. “And you’re not dead, so...”
“As far as you know. But changing subject won’t save you from answering the question.”
I shift a little. “I haven’t exactly found anyone comfortable enough yet. I know it sounds odd, considering I’m in art school, but... I think it has more to do with me than with them.”
“Shy around a little exposed flesh, hm?”
“S-something like that...”
“Hm.” He continues turning the camera over his hands, eyes studying every feature, every switch and button. “Do you ever think you’d like to?”
“I-I guess so. Is that an offer?”
“Maybe.”
The number of unusual situations in which one can find themselves after only a few seconds of dialogue is both endless and endlessly startling. In case you’re wondering, this is just such an unusual situation.
“Well, I-I guess it wouldn’t hurt. Um...I have a...an art...thing in a little while that I need to get ready for, so... That-that is, if you don’t mind that I--”
With the shadow of a grin, he hands the camera back. “What are you waiting for? Murder me.”
The camera feels heavier in my hands--colder. It’s as if some part of him remains on whatever he touches; it makes me think back a week, to the first time his hands imposed themselves on me. I don’t feel any different... But should I? Has some part of me changed? Am I colder, somehow? I don’t feel...
I shake the thoughts from my head. Get professional; check the memory card--make sure there’s enough space to handle all the pictures. Check your model, position him--
“Don’t move. St-stay right there...”
He’s staring out of his window now, hands buried in his pockets while the gray-white brightness of a winter afternoon silhouettes and exaggerates the thinness of his frame. He looks frail; if I open the window (assuming it can be opened, since most windows are locked on floors like this for obvious reasons) a breeze might come and take him away. Sliding into the corner, pressing my back against the smooth, pale-blue wall as I so naturally do, I get the perfect view from which to shoot several close portraits.
Click.
“Don’t move yet.” Click. “That’s perfect.”
“Perfect.” The shutter clicks, and he chuckles with a note of mild bitterness. “No one’s ever said that to me before.”
Click.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“I suppose...”
Click.
With the light from outside, the features of his face are all the more enhanced. The shadows and highlights add a strange...sharpness that makes him look proud, defiant. Like a prince refusing to accept defeat, I guess. It’s a look that, until now, has only existed in his eyes. This kind of...“fuck you” sort of stare that would knock you back--that did knock me back--when first encountered.
Click.
It’s actually rather beautiful.
Click.
In its own way.
Click.
“I have to say, I find it hard to believe that no one would.”
“Yeah?”
He turns his head, and I’m knocked back again. Highlights and shadows shift, embracing and enhancing different areas of his face. The intensity returns in full to his eyes, but now... Now there’s a level of softness in his face that definitely wasn’t there a few seconds ago. I guess someone would think he’s trying to look that way on purpose; the contrast between vulnerability and intensity is good for art, good for making people feel...something. You think he’s trying to do that on purpose, but really...it’s nothing more than a trick of the light. He’s still defiant, still proud.
Click.
“I bet you’d find a lot of things hard to believe.”
“Like..?” Click. He’s silent. “Come on. Speak up.”
Click.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head. “Just keep taking pictures.”
Click.
“Turn around; sit kind of...kind of against the window. Lean against it, I mean, but if you can sit on it...”
“Like this?” He half-sits, half-leans against the windowsill, thin fingers curling around the edge in order to steady himself. “This building is pretty old-fashioned; the windows are... They’re perfect, I guess.”
“Perfect.” Click. “Don’t slouch your shoulders so much...and tilt your head up, just a little bit?”
“Like this?”
“Not that far back.”
“Okay. Is this better?”
“Yeah. Tilt your head a little to the... To my left, your right--not-not too much, but...”
“Like this?”
“Yeah.” Click. “That’s... That’s good.”
The Patient chuckles. “Whatever happened to ‘perfect’?”
He pulls a smile out of me. “Perfect...”
The shutter continues clicking away...until the sound of guitars, drums, and homemade devil screeching explodes from the pocket of my jeans.
“Someone say a Hail Mary for this house...!”
It’s amazing how hard it is to grab a phone when you’re trying to keep a camera from falling to the floor. It’s even harder, when you aren’t expecting to get a signal on the fifth floor of a hospital.
“Hello!”
It’s Claire, my friend, apologizing for not being able to call me sooner about the sudden testing. The phone call is half-static, but I can hear her all right. She asks if I’m still in the hospital.
“Yeah--yeah... I’m still here. I was just...taking pictures.”
“Oh? You found someone to model for you.”
“Yeah. Kind of...spur of the moment thing, but--”
“That’s good,” she says. “That’s really good.”
“Is-is everything okay?”
“Huh?”
“You sound... I dunno.”
She sounds tired. She sounds...she sounds like she’s trying to hide something. It’s unsettling.
“I’m fine. I just...” She yawns. “I’m just worn out. That’s all. They ran a lot of tests... It wore me out, is all.”
“Well...did they say anything?” Setting the camera on the bed tray, I send The Patient a quiet message. He gets to his feet, stretching. “Did they say how long it would take to get results?”
“A few days to be sure, but...”
“They have a guess?”
“Yeah. But...”
“But what?”
“They’re pretty sure they know what it is. They’re just waiting on the results to make it fact.”
Her tone drops a cold weight into my stomach. I swallow, try to keep a level of calmness in my voice.
“Well...what do they think it is?” Fingers idly play with the scarf that suddenly feels too tight around my neck. The silence from the other end makes the weight heavier, colder. “Claire?”
“Al... They think it’s the cancer.”
“C-cancer.”
The weight explodes; the cold heaviness begins to spread.
“They think it’s come back.”
“Cancer.” It’s the only word that seems to exist in my vocabulary. “Can...cancer.”
“They aren’t--they aren’t sure yet, but...”
That’s really all that registers--except for the distant sound of a young man’s voice talking hurriedly to someone I can’t…see…
“Hello? Yeah. Yeah, she’s fine. She’s just fainted...”
***
A month goes by, and in a place like this, you hardly notice. A month goes by, and you’d swear it was just a day. Nothing ever seems to change in a hospital; the sick just keep coming in to replace those who get better or those who die off. In this rushing cycle, doctors only seem capable of going through the motions while they pretend to care about each case. A month goes by, and you realize that most of them try to care, but they’re too involved in looking good with their superiors or hitting on their nurses to be very good at faking the sentiment. You’re convinced the first week, maybe a little unsure the second week; your doubts are worse by the third week, and by week four...
“I heard you asked for a new doctor.”
Claire looks up from the pages of 30 Days of Night, so engrossed with the comic that she flashes me annoyance for the interruption.
“Yeah. The last guy was a prick.”
“He seemed nice enough...”
“He was a prick,” she says, going back to the book. “He was doing the nurse; I overheard them talking when they were in the room--when they thought I was sleeping.”
“Oh.”
“This new one promises to be worth something, though.” The sound of a page turning flutters in the air. “He’s a resident, which means... What are you knitting?”
“Huh?”
“You’re knitting,” Claire says. “I haven’t seen you knit in...fucking forever. It’s almost a little weird to see you take it up again.”
“Oh...oh. Yeah.” Nervously, I chuckle. I suppose the picture of a kid raised on rock music knitting is a little odd, but you would never guess how...relaxing it is. “I-it’s just a scarf for somebody.”
“Is it for The Patient?” Another page-flip. “You’ve been taking pictures of him all month, right?”
“Y-yeah...”
“They’re pretty good. And he actually seems to like you.”
I shrug, starting up the needles again, controlling the blue yarn’s progress. “I probably just annoy him the least. Not like I’m not trying to...to stick a-a needle in his arm or anything like that. I’m not trying to get him to open up and--”
“You treat him like he’s human--like he exists as more than just one more walking disease. Doctors forget that a lot around here; it’s why they sometimes fail--”
As if on cue, a stampede of doctors and nurses rushes by the room, panic evident in their sneaker-clad pace. One of the nurses cries out that it’s a code blue, and I jerk my head around in time to watch the makeshift parade as it passes. Claire doesn’t even raise her eyes from the comic; a month here, on this floor, and code blues become commonplace.
“It’s probably the girl in 522; she tried to slit her wrists two nights ago.”
“Two nights ago?”
“Mm-hmm. About an hour after you left. They’ve had her on suicide watch ever since.”
“Well...if they’ve had her on suicide watch, how could she...?”
“Crossbeams and bed sheets,” Claire says, eyes glancing up at the ceiling. “It’s only a matter of memorizing shift changes, knowing where to tie things off and what kinds of knots to use.”
That anyone would put that much thought into attempting suicide is scary. I try not to concentrate too much on the fact that Claire would have any type of insight as to how someone would get around a suicide watch; I just go back to knitting quietly. A tug at the finished end tells me she’s studying the craftwork with a careful eye. Her fingers are thin, but not quite as thin as The Patient’s; her skin is as pale as his--maybe more so against her black hoodie. That the chemotherapy steals her hair means nothing; you can hide that sort of thing. But that it makes her tired...that it steals her strength...robs her of healthy color... That it makes her feel worse when it’s supposed to be making her feel better...
She's tired of this. She's tired of doctors, of medications, of needles... She's sick of seeing the same sterile white that seems to come standard with hospitals. White... White walls offsetting the brown of bed frames, the powder blue of sheets and the faded yellow of medical bracelets. Occasionally there's red-- the red of flowers or, more likely, the red of blood--but still the white persists...
She's sick of seeing it all. She's sick of being sick. But she doesn't want to give up. Even during those nights when she rests her head in apparent defeat and closes her eyes to keep the tears in... She doesn't want to quit. She doesn’t want to give up the fight. And neither do I.
“Blue,” Claire says, smiling. “Black and blue. He’ll love it, Al. He’ll absolutely love it.”
“Really? Y-you think so?”
“Mm-hmm... Definitely. It’s perfect.”