The Day I Wore Purple

1.2 Dust to Dust

A horrible, mixed-up feeling took hold of Hannah's gut as she sat outside her mother's room at the Saint Timothy Hospital of Evanston. The remains of six watercolor paintings were scattered around her white stockings and black shoes. She wiped her palms on her blouse and jerked her head back, hitting it hard against the brick.

"Mom loves your paintings," Dad had explained on the short ride to the hospital. "They'll make her feel better."

Hannah asked him again if something was wrong. Again, he said no.

What if a painting really could make Mom better? It was a silly thought... but what if Dad knew something she didn't? The cancer couldn't disappear from Mom's throat because of a painting... right?

Hannah grabbed another sheet of paper and gazed at the endless white surface. This time, after dipping the bristles in a dab of crimson paint, she scrunched her eyes, rubbed her teeth together, and imagined the cancer dying with every stroke of the brush.

* * *

Across the parking lot, through the revolving doors, down the familiar corridor bustling with friends in white coats; Gavin rounded the corner to his brother's room and stopped short when he saw the prettiest girl he'd ever seen perched like a stone angel across from his usual spot. Orderlies and patients criss-crossed between them, but Gavin's eyes didn't leave the beauty sitting before him. (He suddenly became unshakably aware of the raptor on his chest and wished to God he could go back in time to make a classier decision.)

He paused to let the adrenalin drain from his brain, then slowly and suavely sauntered to the bench across from the girl. He dropped his backpack on the linoleum and slouched.

Jon's markers could wait.

The girl didn't notice him. Her attention was focused entirely on the painting in her lap where a neon Trapperkeeper served as a make-shift easel. She had yellow hair mixed with a little bit of red like the wispy part of a flame. Her shirt was white with tiny buttons, and the front was smeared with multi-colored fingerprints that reminded him of a stained-glass window. Gavin blamed the hospital for the sadness in her eyes.

Mom and Dad's bickering traveled easily through the hall. Their argument ended the second they turned the corner. Mom's face softened and her lips curved into her sad smile that told the hospital workers, "We're staying strong."

Dad adjusted his glasses, but his expression stayed the same. "Coming, son?"

Gavin swallowed hard. "I'll be there in a sec. I need to get started on my homework." What a horrible lie. He couldn't open his bag to prove his story!

"You can do homework tonight. Come see your brother."

"Dad," he said as quietly and emphatically as possible.

The old man narrowed his eyes, noticed the girl on the opposite bench, and got the picture. He smirked, chuckled to himself, then entered the room and closed the door.

Whew.

Gavin returned his focus to the girl. He considered coughing, tapping his feet, or humming a song to get her attention, but before he could decide on a plan, she looked up. It was only for a split second, but she noticed him and his heart flipped like a fish on hot concrete.

The girl's reaction was strange. Instead of acknowledging him or returning to her painting, she used her foot to slide her backpack deeper into the shadows of the bench.

Joy turned to dread as Gavin glanced down at his own bag. Peeking from the open zipper—cradling cheerful breasts in her overly-tan arms—was Delilah. The headline changed to, "GAVIN NIGHTLY IS A PERV."