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“I tried, they said the hospital’s full and to just monitor him here. Sucks, mate.”
“I agree. I’ve got a leukemia patient getting no treatment in the kids’ ward,” I mutter, taking another bite of chicken.
“Kwame, I’ve heard. Nice kid. It’s too bad, really. Horrible, actually.”
After a few minutes of eating in silence, I ask, “How long have you been here, Clive?”
“About five months,” he answers.
“Yeah? How long are you gonna stay?” I ask.
He lifts a shoulder and I notice even he looks thinner than when I first met him a couple of months ago. He’s already a thin fella, too-long light blond hair and blue eyes, and a slight build. “Not sure. When I feel like I can go home again, I guess.”
This interests me. “Why wouldn’t you be able to go home?”
He looks up into my eyes and there’s true, horrific pain in his. “Lost me wife and child a few months back. She stroked out while givin’ birth. Baby suffocated before we could get ’im out. Did CPR on ’im until they had to pull me away. I’m a fucking doctor. This shouldn’t have happened on my watch.”
I want to cry for the guy.
“Damn, I’m so sorry, man.” I put my hand on his in a comforting gesture and watch as tears splash his food. “I’m sorry I brought it up. I shouldn’t have pried—”
He swipes his face. “No, it’s okay. I haven’t talked about it since... and I need to. It’s not healthy to keep it in.”
“You are right about that. It’s hard to talk about pain, especially for us big, tough strapping men.” I make a muscle man pose.
He laughs, his eyes glistening. “You got that right, mate.”
I take a drink of my water.
“What about you? What brought you here?” he asks.
I knew it was coming so I decide to be upfront. “Since you shared, I will too. Seven years ago, I was out drinking with some friends. Left the bar to drive home and dropped my phone into the floorboards. While I was fumbling around for it, I went around a bend on the wrong side of the road, and there was a car. I corrected at the last minute and ended up ramming the driver’s side. The woman was thrown from the car and died in my arms. Left behind a husband and small daughter, about five.”
“Bloody hell,” he says. “That’s awful. I don’t blame you for coming here.”
“Oh, no... that’s not what made me snap. I served six years in prison for that. About three months ago, the husband was found dead from a gunshot wound. I don’t know if he offed himself or what, but I couldn’t handle it. Even if it was someone else who killed him, there’s now a little girl who’s orphaned because of me. If I hadn’t killed her mom, she’d at least still have her...” I trail off and clear my throat as I look down at my food, no longer hungry. I swipe my hand along the back of my neck.
“Bollocks,” he mutters. “You’ve sure been through it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, it seems.”
“You know the dad dying isn’t your fault, though. Right?” he asks, his brow raised.
“You know your wife and baby dying isn’t your fault either, right?” I counter.
He nods.
“We’ll be forever paying for sins we feel responsible for,” he murmurs.
“That’s right. We can come here and help the less fortunate, then go back home and do the same, but the guilt will never go away. This is our prison. Though, I deserve mine. You don’t.”
He shoves his food away. “You don’t either. You paid for your crime, and nothing will bring them back. Maybe you can find a way to help the little girl.”
I had that thought before, and had already vowed I’d try to do something for her once I got back Stateside.
