Marissa used to smoke two cigarettes in a row on cold nights. While not a remarkable detail about such a striking girl it opened a window to strike up a conversation after two weeks of polite nods and glances.
"Chain smoking, huh?" I felt like an ass as soon as the words passed my mouth.
"Um, yeah. Well I always have two when it's cold like this. I hate having to get adjusted to it all over again," she smiled with shiny glossed lips shivering a little as the wind picked up.
I didn't follow this exchange particularly well: something of a mumbled "oh, right" then an awkward grin.
"You've been coming here for a while?" she asked.
"Well yeah, my friends here and you know I try to hang out him for a few hours when I can."
"That's nice," she took another drag.
"What about you? I've seen you here a few times?'
"My dad is here," she answered without flinching.
These were the muted tones people spoke in when they were trying to imply the people they were talking about were going to die. IT was an ugly ritual at hospitals. The other one was the grotesque, overly optimistic mask you wore into the room, pretending that the person lying in the bed, hooked up to the machines was the same person you used to know outside of this blank, sterile environment.
I'd gotten used to it though. I always thought I sounded convincing when I'd visit. I tried to act like I was there for someone with a broken bone or a few cuts and scrapes. Frank's father explained to me before I was allowed access into the room:
"There is no place for negativity in that room. I know you're his friend and I appreciate you coming here but I f you can't handle this than I don't want you here. We want Frank to stay positive."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I offered back to the girl.
"Yeah. I'm sorry about your friend."
"So where you from? Around here?"
"No. Listen I'm sorry but I'm very cold," she smashed her cigarette into the tray and politely waved as she walked back in. Her raspberry scarf hung out of her long black coat and it looked like for a moment it might get caught in the electronic doors, I let out a weak sound to warn her but the doors closed uninterrupted.
Two weeks later Frank was still on tubes but he didn't' look good. I came outside to smoke after another front row seat of what would happen to me if I continued to do so. Marissa came out again. She was wearing the same thing as the night I spoke to her. Maybe it was her regular Wednesday-trip-to-the-hospital uniform. Regardless she smiled slightly when she recognized me leaning up against a beam holding up the overhang.
"Back again?" she asked.
"Always."
"She fumbled with her purse for a moment, finally finding the pack of cigarettes, she screwed one into her smile which quickly left her face when she realized she didn't have a light. But I was on top of this quickly sticking a flame in front of her Newport.
"Ah, thanks," she took a long satisfied drag.
"Long day?"
"Yeah, they're all long. But this one in particular, yeah," she exhaled.
"How is your father doing?"
"Actually really good, they think he might have gone into remission," she looked nervous like she might have jinxed this prognosis just by saying it out loud.
"Really? Well that's great. Isn't it?"
"I, um, yeah," her face imploded in on itself and she covered it into her hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
Normally I would stand there and let this unfold until she got herself together, but I went over and put my arm around her and she melted into my chest grabbing onto my jacket as the crying intensified.
"I'm sorry. I'm never like this...really, I just... I don't' know what to do."
"What to do?" I panicked; there was no way I was qualified to deal with this kind of a scene.
"I don't even like him. I hardly know him and now he is coming to live with me and my mom and I don't know I can be around for that," this lead to more sobs and clutching and back patting.
I said things like "It'll be alright" or "Don't' worry I'm sure things will work themselves out" things that don't really mean anything but sound like some kind of cosmic wisdom when you're upset.
We wound up in the cafeteria, sipping coffees and talking about our life stories, the best possible version of course; the one where the narrator is always the hero who has been wrong at every corner but remains fearless and honest throughout it all. Eventually the cafeteria closed and we were outside again, smoking cigarettes. It was late and I would have normally left.
"So what do you want to do now?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Do you just go home?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes I stay. The nurse lets me sleep in the chair."
"Well I guess there is a question I have to ask now that we know each other a little: Why do you keep coming if you don't like him?"
She paused for a long beat and I feared perhaps I'd gotten too familiar and was about to reap a verbal thrashing.
Finally she spoke: "I guess because he's my father, what does it matter if I like him?" she shrugged.
I let that float on the air for a moment then I shrugged.
"Makes sense."
"Come inside and stay with me," she reached out her knitted mitten hand.
"Stay with you? In your father's hospital room?"
"No. We'll find an empty room."
"Yeah but what if they put someone in there?"
"They don't. They don't do transfers til' the morning, now c'mon."
I threw my cigarette away and gave her my hand.
We found and empty room. It was still and completely black except for the strips of copper light shining in through the blinds from the parking lot. She took her coat off and threw it on the chair and kicked her sneaker off and I followed. The bed had one, flat, wrinkle-less sheet on it and a folded blanket at the foot. She knelt nervously on the end, her face dropped when a loud creak erupted from the springs in the mattress. She planted her other knee and crawled to the top where she pulled her sweater off and rolled it into a pillow.
"Sweater pillow," she smiled. I sat on the bed and lay facing away from her. She pulled the blanket over the two of us and wrapper her arms around me.
"Maybe tomorrow we can steal a car and drive to Mexico," she said and might have meant.
"Deal."
And then we fell asleep.
