He Came Through the Window

Part 8

(Holland's Perspective)

There was a chair in the far back corner of the room, a navy one with little, yellow spots all over it. Plopping onto it felt like colliding with a lumpy sack of potatoes, but it was the only thing I could sleep on that wasn't the chilled linoleum or a lone cot. The cot was for my mother to stretch out on, sitting vertically on the right side of India's bed. We were both less than three feet from her in case she was to wake.

My body was twisted uncomfortably in the chair, and my position didn't stay the same for more than five minutes. Throbbing, lingering shots of pain ran through my spine, and with closed eyes my teeth stayed gritted. The perpetual beeping of the cardiac monitor kept me from drifting off, and the awkward position my body was twisted in made it impossible to even somewhat relax. However, whenever I opened my eyes, I saw the same thing: a claustraphobic, dreary room taken over by the night's darkness. Faintly, India's white sheets, pale gown and head were visible in the dark lighting, but most everything else had been swallowed by the night. If she was at home, tucked in her fluffy bed in the room at the end of the hall, the room would be dimly illuminated by her purple butterfly light. If India was at home, the floors would not be chilled and scrubbed with horrible-smelling antiseptic, but they would be caressing her feet in their soft carpet. And if India was at home, she would be snuggled in a fuzzy cocoon of our late grandmother's quilts, but at the hospital she was shivering underneath thin, bland sheets.

I threw my head back against the arm of the chair, noticing my feet crossed and hanging over the other end of the sofa. I was too tall for that chair, and my back wasn't sturdy enough to succumb to the stiffness. My eyes opened reluctantly as I attempted to roll off the chair, only to land on my knees. Stumbling to my feet, I slid across the floor in my socks and caught a glimpse of India. Despite the chill in the room she had kicked her sheets to the edge of the bed and curled herself into a ball. Her arms and legs looked like twigs wrapping around herself, and her head was barely on the pillow, her chin almost touching to her chest. She seemed so helpless, and as I caught sight of all the IV's attached to her, I realized that she really was helpless.

India had becoming much weaker since I dropped Ayden off at her house. When the nurse helped her out of bed to go to the bathroom, she fell onto the floor, unable to gain control of her legs. Her nervous system didn't want her to walk. That was in the late afternoon before dinner, and she wouldn't eat anything after that. She claimed to be too naueasted, and after the nurses tried feeding her through a tube, the thin fluid came right back up all over the bed. She threw up in several little episodes spanning over an hour. And as the sky began to darken, Mom and I took turns rocking India in our arms as she sobbed and clutched her stomach.

"It hurts!" she'd cried into my chest, gripping my hand until it turned ashen. "Holland, it hurts!"

It took everything I had not to break down with her. Gritting my teeth together, I'd rubbed her back while whispering, "I know" in her ear. Three lullabies and several long minutes later, she calmed down.

India, smarter than most eleven-year-olds, knew where things were headed. She knew her independence was fleeting and her breaths were limited.

Swallowing a lump in my throat and grabbing at the back of my neck, I tried to shake the thought. Gently, I pulled the sheets over India and planted a kiss on her forehead. The breath seemed to catch in my throat as I stepped away from her, fists clenched at my sides and heart pounding.

"Holland?"

I was in the doorway when India's little, hoarse voice startled me and caused me to quickly turn around on my heels. She was rubbing her eyes, sorrowful eyes that looked at me painfully.