Scholarship Hearts

Hospital Glow

The hospital parking lot is a sea of faded lines and buzzing sodium lights, flickering like they’re on their last breath. I pull the Corolla into a back spot, the engine coughing in relief as it dies. My backpack sits heavy on my lap, crammed with textbooks I haven’t touched—Intro to Lit notes, a half-finished math worksheet, a copy of The Great Gatsby that reeks of the library basement.

I’m juggling exhaustion: double shift at the diner last night, trekking across campus earlier. Still, I showed up. That has to count.

I slung the backpack, locked the Corolla, and headed toward the hospital’s glass entrance reflecting streaks of orange and pink sunset. Pretty from the outside. Inside, it’s bleach and sorrow.

The doors hiss open, unleashing the stench: bleach sharp enough to burn, mixed with faint cafeteria food. Fluorescents hum overhead, turning everyone a shade too pale. Machines beep in a discordant symphony, the building’s mechanical heartbeat.

I rode the elevator to the third floor, staring at my reflection: circles under my eyes, hair frizzed out of its ponytail, clothes rumpled. I look like I’ve been through a war.

The doors ding open. Oncology ward. Families whisper, patients lie tethered to machines, nurses bustle in scrubs that blur into the walls. I walked the long hall to room 312.

Mom’s there, propped up, smaller than I remember. The light bleaches her hollow cheeks. Tubes run from her arm to a beeping machine dripping some potion that’s supposed to fight pneumonia. The Jell-O on her tray sits untouched.

“Hey, kiddo,” she says, smiling faintly.

“Hey, Mom.” I lean in for a careful hug, her body fragile in my arms. “You look like you’re plotting a jailbreak. Got the spoon hidden under your pillow?”

She chuckles, coughing after. I hand her a tissue, my stomach twisting.

“These machines rat me out if I move,” she says.

“They’re jealous of your charm.” I dump my books on the chair. Gatsby flops open, spine cracked. “Brought homework. Thought I’d bore you to sleep with symbolism and algebra.”

She rolls her eyes with affection. “How was school? Any rich-kid drama?”

“The usual. Vending machine mugging attempt, fashion critique from the peanut gallery.” I force lightness. “Dad posted another wedding pic. He and Vanessa looked like catalog models.”

Her face tightens but smooths over. “He’s… moving on. We all are.”

“Yeah, well, he’s moving on without mailing the check. Again.” Bitterness creeps in. I pivot fast. “So, what’s the magazine scoop? Brad Pitt still single?”

We banter until she gets serious. “Harper, you’re seventeen. You should be out with friends, not stuck here with me.”

I wave her off. “And miss out on free Jell-O? No way.” My laugh cracks. “Besides, who else keeps you company? These machines are terrible conversationalists.”

She takes my hand, her skin cool. “It’s too much, honey. School, work, me. Go to that party Mia mentioned. Don’t waste your youth.”

Her words punch through my armor. I mask it with a grin. “Superhero duties, Mom. Cape’s in the laundry.”

She sighs but lets it go. “Remember when you begged me to braid your hair every morning?”

The memory floods in. Eight years old, sitting on the bathtub edge while Mom wove my wet hair into French braids, humming Fleetwood Mac. Lavender shampoo in the air, her hands strong then. She made bill-collecting into treasure hunts, turning pennies into gold with laughter. “Life pulls at you,” she told me once, “but you twist it back, make it pretty.”

I blinked back tears. “Yeah. You were the best at it.”

“You still are,” she whispers. “A princess. Don’t let this—” she gestures at the machines “—steal that.”

We shift back to lighter talk. I describe Crestwood’s whispering girls. “One said I shop at a dumpster. I should’ve told her it’s the new thrift trend—eco-chic.”

Mom laughs, then coughs. I steady the water pitcher, hands shaking. Fear is always there, simmering.

A nurse enters—mid-forties, kind eyes, cartoon hearts on her scrubs. Elena. She checks Mom’s vitals. “How are we doing, Mrs?" Ellis?”

“Surviving.”

Elena smiles, then looks at me. “You must be Harper. Your mom brags about you.” Her voice drips with that pity I can’t stand. I nod, forcing a grin.

“You’re a good daughter,” she adds. “Not many kids your age would come every day.”

My jaw tightens. Don’t pity me. Fix her. But I swallowed it. “Entertainment committee, reporting for duty.”

She lingers, adjusts the IV, then leaves. The resentment coils in me. Sympathy doesn’t heal.

Hours pass. Mom drifts in and out, her breathing shallow but steady. I sit, homework untouched. Hunger gnaws, but I ignore it.

Around nine, Elena returns with meds. Mom grimaces. “Tastes like chalk.”

“Better than hospital coffee,” I joke.

Elena smiles faintly, then motions me into the hall. The corridor is quiet, shadows stretching under fluorescent strips.

“Your mom’s fighting,” Elena begins, “but the pneumonia isn’t responding. Doctors are worried. She may not have much time—weeks, maybe less.”

Her words slam into me. I click my pen furiously—click, click, click—like I can rewind time. “You’re wrong" She laughed today.”

Elena’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry. We’re doing everything we can. But you should prepare—”

The pen snaps in my hand, ink spilling across my fingers. I shove her words down, deep. She’s wrong. Mom’s not leaving. She can’t.

But as the ink stains my skin, reality seeps in through the cracks.