Because Of Joan

Chapter 3.

I hardly know how to reply to such a question. The word adventure does not appeal to my usual want for precision, as it does not specify where.

    "Where?" I ask.

    "It's a surprise," she simply states, taking a tentative sip from her mug of coffee. Suddenly, I remember my coffee, and take a drink as well. Snapping my lips together matter-of-factly I say, "-I don't like surprises." It's true. When I was eleven, Adaline threw a surprise party for me, and I refused to speak directly to her for a week. Uncle Conroy didn't approve, but who asked him?

    "Well...." this seemed to take Joan aback for a moment. "-I guess you'll just have to get over it then. I personally, love surprises."

    "And I, personally, do not."

    "Then surprise me by powering through it," she urges. I sigh and am forced to contemplate the inner workings of this girl's mind. Though I've grown somewhat fond of her, and despite her undeniable lack of manners, doing what she wants might very well get her to leave me alone. This I do not know for certain. I am, however, positive, that she will continue to annoy me about it until I acquiesce, so I say "Ok," and press the nurse button to let Nurse Montgomery know that I'm going for a walk. She helps me detach myself from the heart-monitor and instructs me on how to carefully wheel my I.V pole, which I've done plenty of times before when turning my music on and off.

    Joan seems as if she wants to help, but if she does I might have to make it known that I don't appreciate being touched, not even by the nurses, although I don't really have a choice in that matter. She, however, does not even make an attempt, and it crosses my mind that perhaps she doesn't even care if I trip or fall. She just wishes to show me her precious surprise. I walk slowly down the hall, trying to make it obvious that I am disadvantaged with my ailment to make my point known: that she ought to be more courteous to the needs and wants of others.

    Joan, however, does nothing and leads me to an elevator at the end of the hall. I struggle to wheel the cart of saline into the confined space, but eventually manage without any help. I take pleasure in small victories. When the doors close, Joan digs a key out from her jean pocket and places it in a keyhole labeled "Basement". As the elevator descends, I begin to question whether or not this was a good idea.

    "How did you acquire that key?" I ask her. She shrugs.

    "I borrowed it." She turns it around in her hand and smiles to herself, as if remembering something so amusing that it permits her to dismiss this supposed act of thievery.

    "So you stole a key from a hospital official?" There are many things I wish to do to this delinquent, none of them kind. Joan rolls her Coffee-colored eyes and regards me with what I can only assume is superiority and amusement.

    "No. On one of my visits I borrowed a key from a hospital official and pressed it into a bar of soap. Then, I made my own key. I returned it after what must've been five minutes, claiming that I found it on the floor." I had to hand it to the girl: this strategy was smart, although I still didn't approve.

    "Where exactly, are we going? And how did you have the time to do such a thing?"

    "I told you, it's a surprise, and if you live in this hospital long enough you'll find yourself doing just about anything to keep from going looney. Like making keys."

    The elevator doors open and we both step out into a cement hallway.

    "You live here?" I ask.

    "Oh yeah," she blows a loose tuft of blue hair from her face. "-Conceived, born and raised. I've never seen the sun. This is also my natural hair color." I frown and regard her with revulsion.

    "You must be joking."

    "Of course I am," she states.

    "So then... how?" I ask.

    "You obviously don't understand sarcasm. I've been in and out of this place for five years. Since I was twelve." I frown, because of course sarcasm is the answer. I can exploit paradoxes and irony easily, but sarcasm has always bewildered me.

    "What are you sick with?" I ask her. Another attempt at making what people call "conversation".

    "Besides of the hospital? Well, Atticus Harper, I'm as healthy as a horse." She stops at the end of the hallway and opens a door on the right. "After you," she says. I step into the room cautiously. A strong odor hits my nose and I reel with disgust.

"What is that stench?" I demand. Joan turns on a light somewhere, revealing a room covered ceiling to floor with tie-dye tapestries.

"Incense," she replies. "It's not for everyone." She plops down into a bean bag chair in the corner and pulls out a package of cookies. "Do you want one?" she offers.

"I'm fine. Thankyou," I say, still trying to adjust to the despicable stench. Joan completely disregards my repulsion, places another cookie in her mouth, and speaks through her full mouth.

"Y' wan' shee shomfin' cool?" she asks.

"It's rude to speak with one's mouth full," I reply. Joan responds by sticking her tongue out to show me wet chunks of chewed food.

"Says society," she answers after swallowing. "-anyway, do you want to see something cool or not?" I nod, even though I couldn't be more interested in her sordid affairs. Joan extracts a scrapbook from the nethers of her chair and indicates for me to sit beside her. I shake my head and she scoffs. "Come on, I don't bite!" I shake my head again and she laughs. "You're an interesting guy, Atticus Harper."

"It's just Harper," I correct.

"Alright, 'just Harper', come sit. There's an extra chair," her finger prods at a beanbag chair I hadn't noticed before. Hesitantly I pull it up and it rubs against one of the floor tapestries. Once I'm seated, Joan commences opening her scrap-book. The front page has a flyer on it that reads "Ruby Taylor. Abstract Artist. Art Show. Friday, July 3rd 7 pm. Seattle Police Department."

"This," Joan says pointedly. "Is Ruby Taylor."

"I deduced as much," I state.

"She's an abstract artist," she continues.

"I also deduced that much."

"I've been obsessed with her for a little over a year now..." For some reason or another, I find myself making a noise in the base of my larynx, much resembling the sound someone makes when choking. "I know right," Joan says, building off of the sound I made. "I can't believe me sometimes either." She turns to another page, which shows a black and white class photo from what must've been the 1970s, owing to the trend in hairstyles. In the middle of the crowd there is circled,with a thick black streak of sharpie eclipsing the faces of the surrounding students, a young woman's face of maybe sixteen: BMI: 24. She sports the usual hairstyle. On the page beside this one, there is another photo of the same girl only much older, and with a completely different hairstyle.

"She started working with abstract art when she was 48 years old. She's 63 now."

I am not clear on why Joan is telling me these things, but they don't seem entirely interesting, so I block out as much as I can and pray for when she'll let me head back to my room. Finally, she ceases her endless jabber and escorts me back upstairs, where I quickly tell her that I'm fatigued and wish to rest. For once, she actually respects my wishes and leaves. I fall asleep, hoping that this is the last of Joan, the coffee-eyed girl. I certainly cannot be left with this level of exhaustion every day.