012
1433 Words
ANASTASIA'S POV
The wind cuts through the thin fabric of my scrubs, biting at the skin on my arms, but I barely feel it anymore. I sit on the metal bench outside the hospital entrance, clutching a paper cup of lukewarm coffee like it’s a lifeline. Two weeks. Fourteen days of sleeping in an uncomfortable vinyl chair next to a beeping monitor, watching the rise and fall of my father’s chest. He hasn’t woken up, not once, but the doctors say he’s responding to the treatment. That’s supposed to make me feel better.
I take a sip, the bitter liquid scalding my tongue, and stare at the pavement. My bank account is a gaping wound. Every savings account I’ve ever touched, the emergency fund, the money I put aside for a deposit on a tiny apartment—it’s all gone. Vanished into IV drips, specialist consultations, and the relentless, humming machine that keeps him alive. The weight of it sits in my stomach like a stone, heavier than the exhaustion dragging at my eyelids.
To keep from losing my mind, I started helping the nurses. This place is a warehouse for the elderly, a terminal ward for cancer patients who are just waiting for the end. At first, I just did it to stay busy, to stop myself from staring at the clock. But somewhere along the line, they became my distraction. I cheer them up, take the ones who can walk down the long, sterile corridors, and eat my meals in the cafeteria with them. I look at their wrinkled faces and wish, with a desperate ache in my chest, that one day my father will be sitting in one of these wheelchairs, well enough to complain about the food with me.
A hot tear rolls down my cheek, splashing into the coffee cup. I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself, the morning breeze chilling the damp tracks on my face. I didn’t even realize I was crying until the salt hits my lips.
"Sunshine."
The voice is raspy, thin, but it pulls me out of the spiral of my thoughts. I blink rapidly, lifting my head. Mrs. Clara is sitting in a wheelchair a few feet away, wrapped in a thick wool blanket. Behind her stands Rachel, a nurse with dark circles under her eyes, her hands resting on the handles of the chair.
I quickly scrub the tears from my face with the back of my hand, forcing the corners of my mouth up. It’s a reflex now. I push off the bench and move closer to them.
"Mrs. Clara," I say, my voice sounding steadier than I feel.
She reaches out a trembling hand, her skin paper-thin and spotted with age, and gently wipes a tear I missed from my cheek. Her touch is dry and soft.
"Why are you crying, Sunshine?" she asks, her eyes clouded with concern.
I shake my head immediately. "I’m not. Just... the wind. It’s strong today."
Another betraying tear slides free, tracking through the powder on my face. Mrs. Clara doesn’t look convinced, but she turns her head slightly toward Rachel.
"Don't you worry, Rachel," Mrs. Clara says, her voice firming up. "Anastasia will take over from here."
Rachel smiles at me, a tired but genuine expression. She steps forward and ruffles my hair, messing up the bun I hastily tied this morning. It’s a rough, affectionate gesture that makes my throat tight. "You okay, Ana?"
I nod, unable to speak. Rachel squeezes my shoulder and walks away, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as she heads back inside.
"Push me to where you were sitting," Mrs. Clara commands gently.
I nod again and move behind the chair. The wheels are stiff, but I maneuver her over to the metal bench. I sit down, the cold seeping through my pants, while Mrs. Clara remains in her chair, facing me.
She holds something out to me—a thick, gray-knit sweater bunched up in her lap. "Here. Put this on."
I take it, my fingers brushing against the rough wool. "Thank you," I mutter, pulling it over my head. It smells like lavender and old paper, and it’s instantly warm, swallowing my frame. It’s too big, the sleeves hanging past my hands.
"It used to be my son's," she says, watching me adjust the collar.
I look down at the knit pattern, rubbing the fabric between my thumb and forefinger. "Wow. It looks cute. Where is your son now?"
The air between us seems to still. Mrs. Clara’s face doesn’t crumble; it just settles, like snow falling on a heavy branch.
"Dead."
I shift on the bench, the metal scraping loudly against the concrete. "I... I didn't know. I'm so sorry."
"I'm over it now," she says, her voice flat, detached. "For a long time, I blamed myself. I thought I had bad luck, that I was cursed with this hereditary cancer. But every day, on his sickbed, my son kept smiling. That smile kept me going."
She stares past me, her eyes unfocused, seeing something I can't. "His name was Josh. He was seventeen when it happened. One afternoon, he asked for his favorite food. Spaghetti carbonara. He hadn't eaten solid food in days, so when he asked... I was so happy. I thought he was healing. I thought he was coming back to me."
My vision blurs. The tears are coming faster now, hot and uncontrollable. I reach out and grip Mrs. Clara’s hand where it rests on the armrest. She squeezes back, her grip surprisingly strong.
"I rushed home," she continues, her voice trembling slightly. "I cooked it with so much love, humming while I stirred the pot. I brought it back to the hospital, walking fast, thinking about the look on his face when he took the first bite."
She stops, taking a ragged breath. "When I got to his ward, the hallway was full of doctors. So many white coats. I even wondered if I had walked into the wrong room. I went inside, and... yes, it was his ward."
I sob openly now, burying my face against her hand, listening to the terrible rhythm of her words.
"The food... the container slipped right out of my hand. It hit the floor. The sauce splattered everywhere. But I didn't care. Because they had a cloth over his face. They were standing around the bed, reading the time of death. I remember the sound of the plastic lid cracking on the tiles. That was the last sound I heard before the world went black."
She pats my head, stroking my hair through the fabric of the sweater. " I woke up in a ward myself, crying until I was dry. And then the doctor came in. He told me I had cancer too. That’s when I broke. I didn't want to live. I started drinking. I went to the cliffs, wanting to jump, wanting to go meet him. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face. That smile. I couldn't do it to him."
I am shaking, my body wracked with sobs that echo her grief. I hold onto her frail hand like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.
"I stopped trying 5 years ago," she whispers. "I started smiling again. And when I see you smile, Anastasia... it reminds me of him. You have that same light."
I can’t speak. I just cling to her, my tears soaking into the sleeve of her dead son's sweater, the weight of her tragedy crushing my chest. We sit there for hours, the morning sun rising higher, the hospital bustle moving around us, two ghosts tethered to the living by grief and memory.
Eventually, the cold begins to seep back in, and I know I have to go back. I pull away, wiping my face with the sleeve, sniffing hard.
********************
I walk back through the sliding glass doors, the smell of antiseptic hitting me like a wall. The hallway feels endless. I push open the door to my father’s ward. The room is dim, the monitor beeping in a steady, monotonous rhythm.
I walk to the bed and lean over, pressing my lips to his cool forehead. The skin feels dry, papery like Mrs. Clara’s. "I'm here, Dad," I whisper.
I sink into the vinyl chair, the exhaustion of the last two weeks crashing down on me all at once. I rest my head on the edge of the mattress, the smell of starch and sickness filling my nose, and let my eyes drift closed.
- Writer
