Fix You

I’d only pulled into the parking lot when I was able to tell something was off. There were too many people and not enough empty parking spots. A large van advertising the local news channel was parked in the fire lane and I pulled a face. Leave it to broadcasters to think they were more important than firemen. Still, I ignored it and grabbed my overnight bag from the backseat of the car. Slinging it over my shoulder, I pulled stray hairs from under the strap and made my way through the automatic doors of the hospital.

“Good morning, Annie,” the receptionist, Jayne, smiled at me. I returned it as I stopped in front of her desk. “I’m sure you already know what’s going on, so take this pass. Whoever’s working the pediatric wing this morning shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

I nodded and started toward the elevator, but turned around quickly. “Hey, Jayne? What exactly is going on? It kind of slipped my mind—”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, a bright smile on her face. “The Penguins are visiting today. Annual thing. They come about once a year.”

“The who?”

“The Penguins,” she answered simply, staring at me as if I had ten heads.

“Oh, right,” I laughed convincingly, “the Penguins.”

After I turned around, I rolled my eyes. I hadn’t a clue who the Penguins were. It wasn’t like I had time to care about things that took place outside of the hospital. I spent eighteen hours a day there; even if there was time allotted for me to have a life outside in the real world, I wouldn’t bother with penguins and their hospital-visiting schedules. I’d pay bills and clean the house and try to squeeze in a nap on a real bed rather than the child-sized cot the hospital stored in the corner of your room.

I shut myself in the elevator and pressed the tiny number three that’d take me to the children’s ward. The doors were nearly closed when someone came from the heavens, running toward them at a speed I’d never seen before.

“Hold the elevator, s’il vous plait!”

I was going to let the doors close until I heard the French. My arm immediately jutted in between them and they reopened, allowing the man to step inside and finally catch his breath.

“Mer—” he began, abruptly stopping once he took a sideway glance at me. “Thank you.”

“De rien.”

His face flushed and I felt the foreign twitches of a smile.

“Wh-what floor?”

“Third,” I answered, already knowing the elevator had forgotten my earlier selection since I threw it off track by holding its doors for this stranger.

He nodded and pressed the button. I noticed he didn’t press another; we were both going to the same place. It wasn’t my place to ask why so I didn’t, just stayed silent for the ride and waited for him to say something because I surely wasn’t going to. I’d never been good around people, especially strangers, and being locked up in hospitals for the last few years didn’t exactly improve my anxiety. People baffled me. I was constantly surrounded by the bad: the pain of losing a loved one, the stress of incurable diseases, the frustration of unanswered prayers. The world lost whatever had made it good long ago.

This man—whatever his name was—seemed harmless. His eyes were kind and shy and he stood with his arms by his sides, not crossed over his chest like he was sporting a chip on his shoulder. You would’ve liked him, I think.

There was a quiet ding! before the doors opened, revealing the colorful and always bustling children’s ward. There were a few kids running around, chasing one another as if they hadn’t a care in the world, and I smiled despite myself. The man let me exit first and I disappeared down the east wing in the direction of your room without another word.

“Ah, Annie! You’re here early.”

I nodded. Marjorie was your head nurse. She took care of your meals, injections, dispensed your medication in the mornings and before you went to bed, and wheeled you around the floor when I wasn’t there. She was a pleasant woman, from what I’d gathered, though I couldn’t understand why. On a particularly slow afternoon she saw me eating alone in the cafeteria and joined me. I learned she’d worked in the pediatric ward her entire career and had never thought of transferring elsewhere. I frowned at that; she was a brilliant nurse and I couldn’t understand why she’d choose such a depressing occupation.

“How’s he doing?” I asked, setting my bag on the chair in the far corner.

“So far so good. He should be awake soon. You can take him for breakfast if you’d like.”

She checked a few more things on her clipboard, jotted something down in your file, and flipped her wrist over to check the time—8:37am. I could’ve told her without looking; I always knew the time.

“That’d be great,” I replied as she slipped out the door.

I sighed and locked myself in the bathroom adjoined to your room. I spent a lot of time in there. Crying was one thing; having other people see me cry was a different entity altogether. Never, under any circumstance, did I let it happen. If you asked anyone who knew me when our parents died or when you’d been diagnosed with cancer, they’d tell you I was a cold-hearted bitch because I hadn’t once grieved. Although I didn’t agree with the accusation, I couldn’t dispute it.

A tiny mirror hung above the sink and I took a long look at myself. I looked older than my twenty-three years. Time had done me no favors, that was for sure. There were visible creases in my forehead, dark bags under the blue eyes we shared with our parents, and my skin was paler than it should’ve been, almost unhealthy-looking. I frowned as I turned the handle for the cold water, splashing my face.

“Annie?”

My eyes squeezed shut as I heard your small voice. You sounded so weak, so unlike the Alex I knew only a few years ago. I grabbed the small hand towel from the counter and patted my face before plastering on a smile and opening the door.

There were people surrounding your bed I’d never seen before. They were wearing sports jerseys, each of them donning a Santa hat to correlate with the upcoming holiday. Marjorie stood in the doorway, talking to them, and a momentary look of panic crossed her face when she spotted me.

“Annie!” she exclaimed as the room grew silent. You turned to look at me, almost as confused as I was, but I could tell you were happy to have visitors, regardless of who they were. “Annie, these are members of the Penguins.”

They all introduced themselves one-by-one but their names escaped me almost instantly. I didn’t even know who the Penguins were. Football, baseball, professional bowling team? You knew, though. You rattled off their names and numbers before I finished with my introductions.

“Annie, that one’s the famous-est!”

The man in front of me blushed as he offered me his hand. “Sidney Crosby.”

I smiled, oblivious to who he was, and took it. “Annick Marleau.”

His eyebrows raised. “Hey, Flower, we’ve got another Frenchie here.”

A taller man smiled vibrantly and waved from his position on the other side of the room. “Enchantée!”

“Et toi,” I replied. He smiled wider.

“I’m Alex!” you shouted, instantly earning everyone’s attention. I smiled pridefully at you; you were always so good around people, so ready to be the center of attention. Even after everything you’d been through you hadn’t lost the childhood innocence that made you believe the world was full of tragedy like I had.

Various members of the team came over to talk to you and you answered all of their questions with a smile. They didn’t ask about your cancer and I silently thanked God for that. They asked how old you were, what kind of sports you liked, and what you wanted to be when you got older.

“I want to play hockey like you guys,” you told them.

I laughed. “I didn’t even know you watched hockey, Alex.”

“Yep,” you nodded, more enthusiastic than I’d seen you in months, “Dr. B puts it on sometimes when you’re sleeping.”

I bit back a smile. “Well aren’t you lucky?”

You grinned at me before returning your attention to the men that surrounded you. They were so big and healthy that I was afraid they’d only make you depressed. You had pipe dreams of playing hockey, of following in the footsteps of Sidney Crosby, but you were confined to a hospital bed with a disease that’d most likely take your life before your seventh birthday. Everyone else was optimistic, including you, and I felt guilty for not partaking in their sentiments. Hope was all I had left and I was letting it fade by the second.

Eventually the players had to leave to visit the other children and you all said your goodbyes. You promised to be at a game as soon as possible and one of them promised you center-ice tickets in broken English.

“Hungry, kiddo?” I asked, hoping them leaving wouldn’t damper your spirits. They’d finally given you a reason to be happy; I would’ve rather died than have it disappear as soon as they did.

You nodded. “Can I eat a cookie today, Annie?”

“Sure, buddy,” I answered. A wide grin spread across your thin face. “But not too many! You’ll get sick from all the sugar.”

You threw off your blankets and got situated in your wheelchair.

“Can I have two cookies?”

Humored, I rolled my eyes. “We’ll see. You talk a big game when it comes to eating cookies.”

“Not-uh! Remember that time I ate three?”

I wheeled you into the hallway. A few photographers and reporters were milling about, waiting to corner a player for an interview. I could hear the shrieks of excited children and the laughter of the staff and players.

“That was only because you hadn’t had any real food all day.”

“Cookies are real food, Annie.”

“Nice try,” I laughed.

You shrugged, clearly not deterred that I didn’t share your enthusiasm for cookies, as I moved into the elevator. You pressed the button for the fifth floor, where the cafeteria was, and started going on about how well the team was doing. You knew their record, who was hurt, who was leading the team in points—everything. While my back was turned you’d gone and learned everything there was to know about hockey.

I navigated you through the line, grabbing whatever I thought you’d want to eat, as you greeted each of the kitchen workers by name. Meryl worked the cash register and handed you a large peanut butter cookie in exchange for my twenty. You smiled in thanks and asked me to grab you an extra carton of chocolate milk.

When I returned to the table, the man from the elevator had taken a seat and was chatting with you quietly. You’d given him half of your cookie; whoever he was, he must’ve been important.

“Here you go,” I said to you, handing over the carton of milk. The two of you looked up at me. “Should I go get another?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “You should be polite and ask Mr. Kris if he’d like any milk.”

The stranger, who I assumed to be Kris, laughed airily. I glared.

“Would you like any milk, Mr. Kris?”

“That would be great, Miss...”

“Annie,” you told him.

“That’d be great, Miss Annie.”

If it weren’t for the shit-eating grin on your face or the fact that I hadn’t seen you so happy and out of your shell since you went into the hospital, I would’ve told him to shove the milk up his derrière and get it himself. Instead, I bit my tongue and went through the line a third time, grabbing a package of apple slices for myself.

“Here,” I said again, thrusting the carton in Kris’s direction.

He smirked. “Merci, belle.”

I didn’t say anything, just took a seat next to you and brooded. Kris instantly resumed his conversation with you; I was amazed how at-ease he seemed. You didn’t miss a beat, either; you weren’t starstruck or nervous like I would’ve expected you to be. Your eyes twinkled as you answered each of his questions, asking him some of your own, and I felt the first pangs of jealousy. I understood he was one of your idols, but I’d never seen that look in your eyes. It’d never been there for me.

I coughed, interrupting one of Kris’s stories about his time spent in juniors.

“So, Kris—”

You were quick to scold me. “Annie, he was telling a story.”

I gave up then, figuring I’d let you have your moment. The team was only going to be at the hospital one day; I’d had you for six years. But I was your protector now, I had to keep you safe, and letting in strangers didn’t seem acceptable. This team made you happy, there was no denying that, but what was going to happen when they left? They hadn’t been there through the treatments; they didn’t hold your hand when you cried or when your treatments kept you up all night only to throw up every few minutes. The happiness they brought you was temporary; I’d have to deal with the comedown and pick up the pieces.

It seemed selfish, them coming to visit kids like you and then leaving. Their hearts were in the right place but their minds weren’t. Kids like you didn’t have permanence: it was one hospital bed to another, a different doctor every time you progressed or regressed, family members coming and going because they couldn’t take the pain. Then they left, too. They brought you gifts and happiness for a few hours and then they were gone, simply figments of your imagination you could only make come alive when you saw them on television.

But, for now, you were happy, and I tried to pretend that’s all that mattered. Not the aftermath, when you’d talk about their visit for a few weeks before it faded into sadness, and not the future. Right then you were happy for the first time since our parents were taken from us, and as much as I didn’t want it to, that counted for something.