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Glory purses her lips, which are unadorned by any lipstick at all. “I’ll put in an order for some aspirin.”
“I think I need more than that,” I say.
She doesn’t budge. “I’ll tell the doctor. Your breakfast will be here soon.”
DAY FOUR
The old geezer across the hall coughs all the time. I started counting them. Twenty-eight in one thirty-minute period. To drown out the sound, I’ve taken to watching soaps. It doesn’t really work, but now I’m captivated by a storyline about this woman and her evil twin who, for some reason I can’t figure out, looks nothing like her. Old sick guy is coughing up a lung over there.
God, if you exist, can you take him instead of me?
DAY FIVE
It’s official. I hate oatmeal. Hospital oatmeal is gray with the consistency of glue. You can pour two packets of sugar substitute and a whole carton of milk into it and it still won’t have any taste. If this is what my last days are going to be about, put the pillow over my face now. Dad was here this morning. Now Mom’s on duty. She brought me some new comics, which was cool. I must have drifted off. When I wake up, she’s sitting in the ugly hospital chair, slipping pictures into a big book. She gives a half-smile. “I thought I might finally finish that photo album of our Disney trip.”
“Mom. I was five when we went to Disney.”
“I know. I kept saying I’d get around to it.” She puts a picture in my hand. “Do you remember this?”
It’s a picture of us standing outside Tomorrowland. I’m grinning maniacally like my face might break with joy.
“You loved that place. Made us go on everything you could ride at least four times.”
“Was this before or after I tripped out on A Small World?”
“After,” she says with a sad little smile. Mom sifts through the shoe box of pictures. She picks up and abandons one after the other. “I don’t know where to put all these things.”
Finally, she closes the box. She slips it and the half-finished photo album into her book bag to be forgotten.
DAY NINE
The stoner trio has come today. Their conversation is like watching a volleyball match where you can’t tell the players apart.
Rachel: Dude, some of those nurses are smokin’ hot. The one with the dark hair in a ponytail? Is she into piercings and science nerds?
Kevin: Does she ever come in and, like, take her hair down and be all, “Oh, Cameron, I never dreamed it could be like this!”
s good to me, Doc. Let’s kick some serious prion ass. Any time is good. And a little more morphine wouldn’t suck. Oooh, I just flew through the Milky Way. Awesome.
“… some side effects …”
“I don’t know. …” It’s Mom’s voice.
Something’s pulsing up ahead. Huh. What is that thing? It’s round and dark.
“… twice a day …”
“… doesn’t even know we’re here …” Dad’s voice.
The Buddha Cow zips on and disappears into the big black hole up ahead. Me no likee this. Time to reverse thrusts, Captain.
“… Just sign here and we can get started. …”
Sign what? Hey. I hit reverse. How come that hole’s getting closer? No fair. Mom? Dad? Dr. Asshole? Somebody? Pull me back. I’m getting too close to this thing for comfort, man. Seriously. I’m nodding. Anybody out there see me nodding? Anybody out there? Anybody?
DAY THREE
I open my eyes. On the wall opposite me is a framed picture of an angel. St. Jude’s. Right. I’m in the hospital.
