A Brown-Eyed Girl

Chapter Six

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Chapter Six

           

She had been eight the first time it happened.

She was on her way back from fetching him a 7-UP from one of the many vending machines smattered throughout the hospital. After having been stuck in one room for over five hours, the waiting and tension were starting to get to her. Thinking walking would help, she offered to go fetch the 7-UP. It was what they drank in family when someone was sick; her dad insisted it was better than orange juice. In the back of her mind, she was fervently wishing it was true, that one bottle of clear, lemon-lime soda would fix everything. Mature for her age, she had known it was a ridiculous, even ludicrous hope, but she was unable to dismiss it completely. The more child-like side of her, wanted there to be some magical cure or solution, no matter how outlandish.

It was a long trip there and back, winding through the hallways. There was one stretch where the walls were made of glass, offering a view of the inner garden. Or would have if it wasn't pitch black outside. A raging storm swept torrents of rain against the windows and it ran down the whole surface in rivers. It looked like one of those high priced works of art, except it wasn't peaceful. It was wild, unsettling, ominous. She increased her pace, keeping her head down so she would not have to look at the windows. Suddenly, the regulation hospital room seemed almost welcoming.

            She caught the flash of lightening out of the corner of her eye, but the abrupt clap of thunder still made her jerk, the 7-UP sloshing around in the bottle gripped tightly in her right hand. She turned the corner into a normal, solid hallway, and relaxed marginally. She hesitated outside the room, her stomach clenched with a strange feeling.            

            Later, she realized it had been a premonition.

           

She forced herself inside, an after passing over the bottle of pop, she had tried once again to get comfortable in one of the chairs in the spartan room. They were hard and uncomfortable, despite having fabric covered seats. It was a difficult process, one that involved a lot of wiggling. The cheap chairs’ armrests were made of a single band of metal forming a curve from the end of the seat to halfway up the back. Earlier on she had pushed two of them together, even her small legs cramping from trying to stay curled up in only one of them after two and a half hours. Now, she had formed a sort of small chaise and could actually stretch out her legs, if she managed to slip them under the two armrests.

After situating herself, she had gone back to reading Brighty of the Grand Canyon. Normally she avoided anything with pictures in it, but that book was her favorite. That night she had started it for the umpteenth time because its now yellowed pages were familiar. They were a source of comfort in the world of beeping machines. A friend to turn to as an escape from the acidic smell of antiseptic.

Then he had needed to stand, had asked her mother for assistance. They had moved toward the corner bathroom, him leaning on her. Her nose buried in the book, she hadn't looked up until her mother gasped.

 But she was in time to see her father collapse to the floor, her mother unable to support his weight. He had been shaking, thrashing unnaturally. Her mother screamed for help, running out of the room. She tried desperately to follow but her legs were stuck in the chairs, tangled between the armrests. The beeping had changed to the shrill of alarms. The sound filled her with dread, making her movements more frantic. Her thrashing only made things worse. At one point, her shoe got stuck, and she dropped her book. She was trapped, her panicked gaze continually drawn to her father’s now prostrate form.