Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

We get to the hospital, and it smells the same way every damn hospital smells — like they need to open some windows and let some fresh air in. I ain’t a regular or anything, but I’ve had my fair share of hospital visits. My first one was to see my new baby sister. That one wasn’t so bad. It smelled like hospital, but people were smilin’ and laughin’ and there were balloons and toys everywhere. But then when I was ten, I broke my middle finger, and my mom had to rush me to the emergency room. That visit wasn’t as fun. Everyone around me looked like hell, and on top of that, my finger felt like hell. Then my last hospital visit was to see my grandma. She passed away not too long after that. So, lately, I’m not too fond of hospitals — or their smell, for that matter.

Room 207 . I stop at the door to make sure I have the right room number. Mom’s still on the first floor talkin’ to the doctor. I stayed for a little part of his speech. Then it just started soundin’ like a bunch of doctor mumbo jumbo, so I snuck off to find Grandpa.

I stand at the door and suck in a big breath once I’m sure it’s the right room. I remind myself of how I really hate hospitals. Then I step inside.

The first thing I see is Grandpa lyin’ on a little bed. He’s got a blue gown on and a white blanket coverin’ his lower half. He’s awake, but he looks tired. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Grandpa look so tired. I almost turn around and walk right back out the door. Somethin’ about seein’ him lookin’ this way — and not in his old jeans and work boots — terrifies me. But instead, I manage to swallow the lump in my throat and slowly start makin’ my way to the side of his bed. I have to keep tellin’ myself that he’s probably itchin’ for some company just so I can beat the fear risin’ up in me. The longest I’ve ever stayed in a hospital is probably a couple hours. He’s got to be in here all night and then some.

He startles a little when he notices me — almost as if he wasn’t expectin’ me. And just then, there’s a part of me that gets the idea that he’d rather me not be here — that he’d rather not have me see him like this either. But I keep makin’ my way to him nevertheless. I’m already here. He’s just gonna have to deal with it. I take a seat in the chair that’s already next to his little bed as the clock on the wall ticks out a few too many seconds.

“Well,” I finally say. “We balin’ hay tomorrow?”

Grandpa seems to relax before he smiles slightly and then nods his head. “When it dries.”

“Right,” I say. “When it dries.”

We sit there for another few seconds in silence before I remember what I’ve got tucked away in my back pocket. I made Mom stop at his house so I could grab it.

“I brought your stinky cap,” I say, shifting in my chair to pull it out. Since he was visiting his brother today, I knew he wasn’t wearin’ it. It’s the only time he doesn’t wear the old thing, and that’s only because Grandma always gave him hell about it. She used to say visitin’ days were fancy days. It’s funny, though. He still always wore that damn cap visitin’ people when Grandma was alive. She’d fuss, and he’d take it in stride, and then they’d both get in the car — Grandma’s fancy dress, Grandpa’s hat and all. It wasn’t until after she passed that he started leavin’ that cap at home on visitin’ days.

I toss the cap onto his lap.

He looks at it, then slowly reaches for it. Several IVs move with his arm as he takes the cap and fits it over his head. “What would I do without you, son?”

I laugh to myself. “That’s a good question.”

Tim walks into the room then and stops just past the doorway. “What the hell? How’d he get that thing?” He points at Grandpa’s head, then pushes his way past a cart full of hospital gadgets and saunters into the room. If you can count on Tim for one thing, it’s his ability to be completely unfazed — by anything. It’s almost inspiring actually.

“Grandpa, they feed ya anything good yet? I’m starvin’.”

Tim plops down onto the end of Grandpa’s bed, while Grandpa and I exchange the same looks we exchange just about every time Tim opens his mouth.

“Hey, we still balin’ hay tomorrow?” Tim asks, makin’ himself comfortable by grabbin’ a pillow from a chair on the other side of the bed and using it to prop himself up.

I can tell Tim really doesn’t know that Grandpa won’t be balin’ anytime soon. I guess he missed out on the first half of the doctor’s speech. I almost envy him.

Grandpa doesn’t skip a beat though. “Yeah, when it dries,” he says, lookin’ over at me. I can almost see his eyes smilin’.

I nod my head. “When it dries,” I repeat.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut and balls up his face. “Damn it,” he says under his breath. “It’s supposed to be hotter than shit tomorrow.”

Grandpa nods his head, and I do too, while I silently take back my thoughts on Tim. Nothin’ fazes Tim — except the weather…and work.

It’s Wednesday. Grandpa was released from the hospital yesterday. He acts normal, and he says he’s fine, but Mom says he can’t do things like he used to do, like bale hay and feed the cows and stuff. Mom and Dad are down at the farm a lot more than usual lately, doin’ the things Grandpa can’t anymore. I’m doin’ more too — after the school day’s over on the weekdays and most weekends. And as soon as the mail comes, I’ll head on down there again today to feed and water the cows.

I see the mailman’s car, and I take off runnin’. I’ve had a date with the mailbox every day for the last week, waitin’ for Brooke’s letter.

I’m out of breath when I get to the big metal box, but that doesn’t stop me. I pull open the lid and drag out the newspaper and a few envelopes. I flip through them lookin’ for her red lips — she always seals her envelopes with a kiss. And sure enough, I find them. I throw the rest of the mail back into the box and tear open the envelope to get to her letter.

Dear Riv,

When I look up at the sky, I think of you, so you’re my happy too. And there are trains here. I saw one the other day. But I think you’re going to have to hold onto your plans of coming to see me — for now. We’re moving again. I’m not sure where yet. My dad will know soon where we’re going, and then I promise I’ll write to you and send you my new address.

Dad promises this move is our last move. And I’ll be able to finish eighth grade and start high school in the same place next year. I’m nervous about high school, and it sucks we have to move again, but I’m happy that it’ll be our last time. I don’t even know what it’s like to stay in one place for four years. But you’ll come visit me, Riv. Won’t you? I miss you, River. I miss you so much. What I wouldn’t give to take a dip in that creek with you right now.

I had a dream about you last night. We were together again, and we were happy. I wish I could see you now. But soon, right? There have been trains everywhere I’ve been, so I’m sure there will be a train in the next place we go! Please don’t forget about me.

I’ll write again as soon as we’re in our new place.

XOXO

Love,

Brooke

P.S. Winnie-the-Pooh is doing great! He makes me laugh. I’m trying to teach him how to shake. He stinks at it. But I still love him. And a bear and a swan, huh? Just like bees and honey.

I stare at her last line and laugh out loud. But then I’m sad for her. I know she hates movin’. And I really hope she doesn’t move farther away or to a place a train can’t get to. And then there’s another part of me that hopes her parents liked Missouri so much that they move her right back here to me. We could go to high school together, and I could take her on a real date when I get my license. And I’d even take her to prom when it comes time for that. I really hate gettin’ fixed up, but I’d do it for her.