Blame The Weeds (gxg)

8

I'd pictured Freya Cameron's house a thousand times for no good reason. It would sit atop a hill overlooking the harsh Atlantic Ocean, far from the waves. It was very modern, with glass walls and polygonal doors with gold trim. It had a metal roof with fairy lights all year round and said Welcome to the New Millennium in style. Freya's room was split into two levels with a TV setup that emerged from a sliding hole in the wall. If I knew anything, the whole place would be an eye roll. But Freya didn't take me to a place like that; she took me to East Atlantic Medical Centre.

"You look like you're going to faint," Freya said, turning in her seat. I clutched my notebook, gaping at the towering industrial building with a massive H at the top. "Kar, look at me. Hey."

"Why'd you take me to a hospital? Are you trying to commit me or something? I told you I have issues, but I'm not insane; I like drawing plants. It's not that weird. It's normal to be a bit obsessive about something," I said. "Some people collect stamps or hockey cards. Moe likes books. I collect plants. I'm pretty normal. Normal enough."

Freya suppressed a smile. "Are you done?"

Thoughts skipped across my mind like stones again. Mom and her orange tea. Books and hugs. White. Lights. Needles as long as my arm.

"Kar, hey."

"Mom was here," I said, biting the insides of my cheeks hard enough to draw blood.

"I know." Freya opened her door, stepped out, and shut it. Then mine opened, and she reached over to unbuckle me. "Come on. Graham's going to be your next best friend." I tore my eyes away and met hers, wondering how she could be so sure. "You're a quick study, Kar."

Maybe she was right. I took her hand.

~

Sterile alcohol and sickness lived in every hall. Freya walked ahead, down the stark white hallways, past the elderly in wheelchairs, ragged nurses, and grieving families. Every other doctor recognized Freya and either reached out a hand or offered a smile. I pulled the cat-smelling red hoodie closer as the cool air shot out of vents everywhere. Freya's T-shirt and jeans didn't seem to bother her. The two of us trekked the hospital halls with visitor passes hanging around our necks. Like we belonged. Freya took us down an empty hall and stopped in front of a closed door with green dinosaurs made of construction paper taped on it.

"Here we are," she sighed. "Go say hi to Graham."

"I hate you," I said as my lip trembled.

"Sure," Freya said, rolling her eyes. She opened the door, spun me around by my shoulders, and pushed me in.

Chemicals. It smelled like antiseptic in the small room. The walls were covered in drawings of a child. Marker, crayon, paint, all colours of the rainbow. The window's pink curtains were pushed back to let in the sunset, and that light shone on the bright red hair of a giant sleeping snoring in a chair. Freya's father was a massive man with a long, braided red beard like a Viking. Beside him, sitting up in a twin chair, was a woman with short brown hair and ivory skin.

"You are?" she said. I swallowed, trying to find my voice as she commanded the room like a strongwoman.

"Um, hello. My name is—"

"Kareena!" a voice screeched. I flinched and turned to see a little boy in the bed and knew I'd never forgive Freya for this. "It's you!" he said with a toothy grin. The little guy wouldn't weigh thirty pounds soaked through. His head was too big for his shoulders and wrapped in a green scarf. There wasn't a single hair on his skin. All those red curls—gone. No eyelashes or eyebrows.

With big green eyes, six-year-old Graham Cameron was only pale skin stretched over sharp bone.

"Kareena!" he said again, flinging his magazine. Then, he raised his arms to beckoned me. "Kareena! Come here!"