Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

31

31
The alarm blares under my pillow right over my ear, where I had left my phone last night and I have half a mind to smash it in pieces.
I set it the night before we were supposed to leave for Chicago and forgot since then to cancel it, getting caught between the chaos.

I slunk into the back of the ambulance without waiting for anyone's permission when they finally came to take her, every second of that excruciating wait seeming like multiple rounds of back and forth between 'how' and 'what if'.
I rode in with them to Northwestern Memorial, never once letting go of her hand.

He had asked me to take care of her, the least I could do was not let her slip away.

They rushed her into emergency, the gates shutting before me just in time.
Family only, they said.
I watched them turn around a corner and disappear along with her behind the bend.

Mr. Collins ran in after dark. By then I had already lost the sense of time.

I stuck around, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation between Mr. Collins and the doctor, hoping to steal a word or two away. Anything to put me at ease.
I couldn't make sense of the sudden relegation to inconsequence I found myself wrestling.

As he stepped away, I near hounded Mr. Collins.

"What did they say?"

He scratched his head as if debating whether to soften the blow before it lands.

"Nothing much. They say she's stable, but they don't know what made her sick."

I nodded, none of my concerns mitigated.

"They will be moving her to New York soon." He put his hand on my shoulder. "You should probably go home, Brooklyn."

I waited for him to change his mind. I did not want to leave her behind, I couldn't.
But when he smiled at me and squeezed my shoulder, I knew it wasn't my choice to make and suddenly remembered my place in all of this, in her life.

I drove home the same night. My Lolla was over. So was my summer.

I check my phone for calls, emails, and messages. From Anastasia.
Nothing. It has been a little over a week now.

A crippling indignity consumes me.
I have restricted myself to the four walls of my room again, declining all offers to attend dinner downstairs.
The very thought of sharing a table with my parents makes me nauseous.
Every time I close my eyes, I see my father's crooked grin. I knew it. I told you. You are naïve.
It makes my fingers itch to scratch and claw out the non-existent filth from my skin.
I should have known. Where does the rollercoaster go after it reaches its peak?
Down.

Around midday, a knock on the door startles me, making me bite down hard on one side of my mouth.
I let myself hope for a split second that my mother will walk in to announce Anastasia waiting downstairs for me, the same smile on her face. My heart jumps at the thought.
The door swings open to reveal Charlotte.
"Hi," she says, callously leaning against the door.
I nod, disappointed.
"I heard you came back."
I nod again.
"What happened?" She fakes a look of sincerity.
"My vacation ended," I answer.
"Almost four days before it was supposed to?"
"None of your business."
"Where's Ana?"
"Don't call her that," I snap at her before I can help myself. I regret it instantly after.
"Why not? Only you are allowed to call her that?", she jeers. I can taste the bitterness in her words.
"Ana. Sounds really good. What happened to her?"
"She got sick."
"Oh. How's she?"
"I don't know."
"Why?"
"You ask too many questions."
She ignores me. "Why do you not know how your friend-" she emphasizes the word, "-is doing? If she is healthy or not?"
"She hasn't told me."
"Haven't you asked?"
"No."
"Why?", she asks the same question again.
"Her dad told me he'll tell me."
Charlotte sniggers at me and assumes a seat on my disheveled bed. She looks me straight in the eyes, the blue in her eyes darker from spite, and my mind goes blank.
She's too close. She's too close. She's too close.