Beatrice Nims didn't know she was beautiful. Miles showed her that. They had a short living love before he disappeared. Just because it was short doesn't mean it didn't mean everything to her. It did. She spends month trying to figure out why he lef...
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Present
The wind from the hospital hit me almost instantly and I stood dumbfounded on the sensor of the automatic door secretly hoping it would crush me. Half of me wanted to rush back out the door and the other half wants to be Miles. The nurses flew by like superheroes, some of them at least; the others were just shooting bull and beating on snack machines while the emergency room was as closed in as sardines. I struggled to move in through the halls, as every time I leaned forward to completely enter the cold building something steady pulled me back. The people were maneuvering around me and I still remained, frozen. I saw my mom move past the empty nurses and make her way over to me, unfortunately, her facial expression wasn't pleasing and I knew something was wrong.
Miles damn near wrapped his car around a tree that day he left the harmonic scene outside my house. The black Porsche emitting streaks throughout the neighborhood. In the polish remained against the tree trunk, just north of my house. That black Porsche has crashed, I recalled, cracked and due for termination.
The people who were once frantically moving pass me so, were now at a steady slow pace leaving gushes of wind to follow which hit me in the face, reminding me of the chaos and that I was still standing in the midst of it. Ha, I'll bet they thought I was crazy, glancing at them from the cross lines of the door. Watching as their lips move but not hearing anything becoming of it. They watched me from the outside. I was still standing from the outside.
"Beatrice?" Mama mouthed. "He wants to see you," she was still in her scrubs. My mama the surgeon. The lady who can stand being in a hospital, filled with impending death and people who are hurt. She can stand it. She's my mom. She's the surgeon. I hate the lure that arouses from the smell of hand sanitizer and disinfectant wipes. That is why I don't travel to the hospital often, I sit in my car when bringing mama food - on the outskirts of the street. Not the garage. I do not like the hospital.
Mama lended me her hand and led me in. She tugged on me through the white halls, up the elevator, and on the way to his room- 4th floor. It was at the end of the hall probably since he's nearly eighteen, and he'd soon be moved further up, off this floor onto the adult wing.
Once we arrived at the door, I was scared to walk in and this fear of being at his door, sent shocks down my spine as I became lightheaded. The tears begun to flood my sight. The only thing abundantly clear was that...Miles is in the hospital. Miles is sick. Miles may die.
I was gasping to control my breathing, hyperventilating to stay alive. No doubt, I was still alive.
The nurses were in and out of his room, and they talked poorly about his condition, as if he wouldn't make it through the night. so I followed the light panels to the playroom where I drew pictures of butterflies and recalled the butterflies that landed on the picnic blanket back three years ago near the lighthouse. The butterflies were storming the trees right before we hit the sand. They'd vacate when we got to close so we admired from afar.
A girl named Maddie drew butterflies too. She's nine and a budding artist. Her butterflies were flying in the ease of spring, beautiful green trees with dark brown bark, a blue sky with no clouds - something beautiful and easy. But mine remained in the midst of a slight panic because there's always an loom of something, no matter what. They were escaping whirly winds of tornados or madness, whichever you prefer.
"Bea?"
Was it incredibly unpleasant that Miles' mama knew who I was yet, I did not recognize her until she spoke of him, in such a vague way, her melancholy nature contradicting everything Miles is. I could have assumed that she was the speaking to the wrong person but he had her nose, it was evident. Her feet even fell in the same untimely manner as his, crossed at the feet and she wore Birkenstocks.
She stroked my hand like we'd known each other forever. Despite Miles being sick and this being his mother here probably wanting to reason with me to go back and see him "just for a little while", I did not want to leave the playroom. I enter a hospital, smell the sanitizer fuming the air and I want to remain as young as possible. I want to draw pictures in the playroom, unbothered. Even though I'm on the pediatric intensive care unit, I am inclined to believe children still have a sort of moral innocence; that they don't truly get hurt. I want to believe it. And I want to stay.
