The Kissing Booth - Chasing Noah

Chapter 32

A/N: This is the edited version of Chapter 70 - Part 2

...

There was a time, when I was in the hospital with my mom, that I had snuck into a supply closet to be alone. My mom was in the middle of her treatment - when we thought that she was starting to get better - but her and my dad had become way too overbearing.

They were asking me questions about boys at school, if Lee had any cute friends. If I had any friends other than Lee. It was driving me up the wall. I realized later that they were only trying to make sure that I didn't spend the majority of my childhood holed up in a hospital room. I could just picture them:

"She's going to have a boyfriend one day and she's not going to have any idea what to say to him! We've been teaching her to always be so...sad," my mom would say.

But my dad would just brush it off. "Sweetheart, Elle knows more than you think. She's not the little kid she used to be."

And that would ignite a conversation about how mature I truly was and if I was ready for 'the talk' yet.

So yes, I spent some of my childhood in a hospital supply closet running away from my parents.

One day, I was perched on a water pail reading a book for my English class when I heard a cry through the walls. My first instinct was to share in the tears, to show my emotions. But I quickly realized that I was on the opposite wing of the hospital of my mom; these tears were for someone else. So I tucked the hardcover under my arm and crept silently towards the sobs.

The room was filled to the brim with flowers, greeting cards, even a life-sized gorilla. No, not a human life-sized gorilla. But a stuffed animal that was the size of a wild beast. I still remember that haunting detail to this day.

But through the jungle, I spotted a ghostly woman with a hollow face lying in the bed. Her hospital gown was buttoned unevenly at the shoulders and her snow white hair was falling in short wisps around her features. I couldn't help but notice that beyond her age, she was striking. As though if you saw her on the street you might think that she was going to scold you for being out of step.

On her arm was a young man, no older than 18, gripping the woman's hand as if she was his last chance at life. It seemed odd to me at the time that such a handsome boy could feel so much pain. I slowly walked into the room, barely noticing myself cross the threshold, and approached the boy. He must have heard my soft breaths, even though it felt as though my lungs had stopped working, and turned to look into my eyes.

His tears held so much pain that my young self was forced to look away. I couldn't bear to handle a piece of that suffering. So, never once meeting his gaze, I took the hand that wasn't already held, and I squeezed it. I gave it the biggest squeeze my small arms could muster and hummed.

I have no idea why, or how I thought it might help. Maybe I thought I was a wizard for a moment and was wishing for his pain to wash away. But for some reason, it helped and he smiled ever so slightly and shined me a thoughtful grin.

I stayed there for a little while, just holding his hand. If I had known that he was alone, that that woman was in fact dead and he was the only one there to comfort her, that she was the only one there to comfort him, I never would have left.

I never saw him again. I never talked to anyone about him. I never admitted to my parents where I truly was when they asked where I had been hiding.

But those moments with that complete stranger showed me how important it was to have a family. Perhaps she had been his family, but sometimes I imagine that they met playing checkers in the park. I imagine that they had grown closer as friends, leaning on each other when they needed someone's shoulder.