Page 2 of What Should Have Been Ours

He could convince me to do the craziest things with him, no matter how much trouble it came with.

Like pretending our rolling IV stands were makeshift race cars and we were in Mario Kart. We would race down the halls, running and jumping on the bases, trying desperately to steer ourselves and avoid hitting anything.

One time, Cam almost ran straight into a nurse who was coming out of one of the rooms, and we got a long lecture about the dangers of hallway racing.

Or, like when we would prank all the new nurses that came into our wing of the hospital by placing googly eyes everywhere—on the IV bags, monitors, white boards, oxygen tanks, and even our charts if they accidentally left them lying around.

My favorite was playing fake doctor with the other kids while sitting in the treatment chairs. We would go around making up fake diseases for hours.

“I’m suffering from chronic boredom syndrome. Treatment: Immediate release.”

“I’ve got Cafeteria food poisoning-

Symptoms: Taking one bite of the hospital’s meatloaf and immediately regretting every life decision you’ve ever made.

Treatment: Smuggling in outside food, preferably the greasiest pizza or the fattest burger you can find.”

“I have Advanced Poked-to-death-itis-

Symptoms: Full-body flinching anytime someone in scrubs came in the room— even if they only had a clipboard in their hands.

Treatment: Dramatically gasping anytime a nurse went to place an IV to scare the hell out of them for a laugh and to buy you extra time before being stuck.”

Cam’s personal favorite,

“The Incurable case of being a pain in the ass.

Symptoms: Being too charming, too sarcastic, and too much of a troublemaker for the nurses to handle.

Treatment: Absolutely nothing. This is a lifelong condition.”

Under all of the trouble, he was also the sweetest person I’ve ever met. When we were little, he knew how much I hated the jello every nurse tried to give me for ‘hydration’ after treatments, so he would sneak me pudding cups and eat the jello for me, leaving the empty container so the nurses would think I finished them, and taking my empty containers of crime evidence back with him to his room so they would never suspect a thing.

Sometimes, when he saw how down I was starting to feel, he would sneak me out of my room, rolling me down the halls in a wheelchair when I was too weak to walk, just so we could go stargazing on the hospital’s rooftop. The area was restricted to employees only, but somehow, he always found a way to sneak past anyone who could catch us.

Every good memory I have here was because of him.

I still remember the day we met. It’s my favorite memory to hold on to through all these years. Alongside every other memory with him. Even the bad ones.

The day we met, I decided that I was going to be a mute. Seven-year-old Gabrielle was tired of talking to all the nurses and answering a million questions from every doctor who walked into the room. I had been cooped up in my hospital room for six days, and I was desperate for any ounce of freedom outside that place. But I wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital to do anything fun I wanted.

So…I revolted. Anytime a doctor or nurse would come in to ask me questions or talk to me, I would pretend I didn’t even see them. They would, in turn, look to my mom, who would just shrug like she was just as confused as they were.

Even as I was rolled down to the pediatric infusion center, I stayed as quiet as a mouse. Every kid I passed by tried to say hello, but I just kept my arms crossed and stared straight ahead. I sat in my usual spot that the nurses always had saved for me against the window, giving me the best view that the Mount Medical Children’s Hospital in New York had to offer, and as soon as I was settled in, I heard a kid ask me what my name was. I ignored him like I did everyone else.

Then—

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a Code Silent! I repeat, we have a Code Silent! We’ve lost another one! Get the crash cart!” he yelled out.

I snapped my head towards him in complete disbelief and embarrassment.

He was a boy my age. His hair was a messy mop of dark ringlets, sticking out in every direction like even it refused to be tamed. His eyes were big, bright, and full of mischief. He had that restless energy, the kind that made it impossible for him to sit still for too long, and the kind of smile that was infectious.

He was clutching his IV pole like it was a makeshift microphone. Trying so hard to get a reaction out of me.

I couldn’t help it. I busted out laughing at how ridiculous he looked.

He smiled like he was so proud of himself for breaking through the wall I had up that day.