Ocean and Atlantic
surrounded by the sun
The words dribble out of my mother’s mouth as slowly as the tears slip out of her bright blue eyes.
Rubber-soled shoes pad in by in the hallway. Papers are shuffled along a clipboard. A nurse and a doctor pass by discussing most likely the unpromising outcome of one of their patients in murmured voices. The hiss of an oxygen tank resonates in the tiny, sterile room and the steady, ear-piercing shrill of the heart monitor attached to me gives me an instant headache.
“Schuyler. Honey… I’m so sorry,” she says, one large sob ripping from her lips before she manages to cover it and hurriedly rush out of the room so she can compose herself.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my mother cry.
My father stares at the wall across the room, unable to look at me – unable to look at really anything – my mess of a mother included.
I can feel the way a lecture is building in his throat. I can practically hear the words he’s thinking, but he doesn’t say them. Maybe he’s just grateful. Maybe he’s just too disappointed. Maybe he doesn’t want to trudge up the topic right now, at the worst possible moment. Maybe, just maybe, if I’m lucky enough, it’s just paranoia and there will be no lecture.
But then again, who am I kidding? This is my father. Of course there’ll be a lecture.
This is a delusion. I’m not actually awake. The nurses tube fed me a little too much morphine and this is just some illusion my mind has conjured up. This isn’t real.
Only it is, and some nurse in training hasn’t doped me up too well. This isn’t some form of insanity settling over my still developing brain. This isn’t some sick, twisted dream.
This is my reality: a hospital room to call my own, a father that can only stare at the lovely shade of eggshell covering the wall and a mother who can’t even contain herself.
“Mom’s lying, right?” I ask, my voice hoarse as all hell.
I want to rub my throat, but a neck brace prevents me from doing it. I want to take it off, to be able to breathe normally, but I know that I shouldn’t. In fact, I’m not even sure I could take it off, even if I could. My arms feel like lead weights at my sides, my fingers overtaken by this huge force of gravity.
Surely she is. She’s trying to make me think about my actions, trying to get me to realize that what I did – what Nova and I did – could have been really, really serious.
My father snaps his attention to me, his brow creasing with concern, as if he’s trying to decide if the traumatic fall I took had any effect on my hearing capability or my language comprehension. And I almost expect him to whip out a stethoscope or and otoscope to give me a full neurological exam or something, but he doesn't.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans and he shakes his head, staring down at the ground.
This isn’t the composed, calm man I know. This isn’t Dr. Steven Fray who can be steady under pressure and explain situations such as these to families. This isn’t him, point blank because he can’t look at me and he can’t actually say the words.
This is a whole other ball park for him: telling his only daughter that her best friend is dead.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath through the nose-piece taped just beneath my nostrils. It doesn’t help to put the sufficient amount of oxygen in my lungs.
They still feel constricted.
I count to three.
One. Two. Three.
Nova didn’t make it.
Nova’s dead.
And it suddenly feels like I’m still falling off of the edge of that cliff.
Rubber-soled shoes pad in by in the hallway. Papers are shuffled along a clipboard. A nurse and a doctor pass by discussing most likely the unpromising outcome of one of their patients in murmured voices. The hiss of an oxygen tank resonates in the tiny, sterile room and the steady, ear-piercing shrill of the heart monitor attached to me gives me an instant headache.
“Schuyler. Honey… I’m so sorry,” she says, one large sob ripping from her lips before she manages to cover it and hurriedly rush out of the room so she can compose herself.
It’s the first time I’ve seen my mother cry.
My father stares at the wall across the room, unable to look at me – unable to look at really anything – my mess of a mother included.
I can feel the way a lecture is building in his throat. I can practically hear the words he’s thinking, but he doesn’t say them. Maybe he’s just grateful. Maybe he’s just too disappointed. Maybe he doesn’t want to trudge up the topic right now, at the worst possible moment. Maybe, just maybe, if I’m lucky enough, it’s just paranoia and there will be no lecture.
But then again, who am I kidding? This is my father. Of course there’ll be a lecture.
This is a delusion. I’m not actually awake. The nurses tube fed me a little too much morphine and this is just some illusion my mind has conjured up. This isn’t real.
Only it is, and some nurse in training hasn’t doped me up too well. This isn’t some form of insanity settling over my still developing brain. This isn’t some sick, twisted dream.
This is my reality: a hospital room to call my own, a father that can only stare at the lovely shade of eggshell covering the wall and a mother who can’t even contain herself.
“Mom’s lying, right?” I ask, my voice hoarse as all hell.
I want to rub my throat, but a neck brace prevents me from doing it. I want to take it off, to be able to breathe normally, but I know that I shouldn’t. In fact, I’m not even sure I could take it off, even if I could. My arms feel like lead weights at my sides, my fingers overtaken by this huge force of gravity.
Surely she is. She’s trying to make me think about my actions, trying to get me to realize that what I did – what Nova and I did – could have been really, really serious.
My father snaps his attention to me, his brow creasing with concern, as if he’s trying to decide if the traumatic fall I took had any effect on my hearing capability or my language comprehension. And I almost expect him to whip out a stethoscope or and otoscope to give me a full neurological exam or something, but he doesn't.
He shoves his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans and he shakes his head, staring down at the ground.
This isn’t the composed, calm man I know. This isn’t Dr. Steven Fray who can be steady under pressure and explain situations such as these to families. This isn’t him, point blank because he can’t look at me and he can’t actually say the words.
This is a whole other ball park for him: telling his only daughter that her best friend is dead.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath through the nose-piece taped just beneath my nostrils. It doesn’t help to put the sufficient amount of oxygen in my lungs.
They still feel constricted.
I count to three.
One. Two. Three.
Nova didn’t make it.
Nova’s dead.
And it suddenly feels like I’m still falling off of the edge of that cliff.