Street Smart

Chapter 149: Nick

Her hands were so cold and frail. The nails were acrylic, painted yellow — so hopeful. I didn't like that one bit. It was like a part of her was already dead, you know? Because they weren't real. They were just pretending.

    Her eyes were closed. I tried to remember what color they would be if they were looking at me, but I couldn't remember those kinds of details, especially from someone I hardly knew. I wondered what they were seeing, and what they would be seeing had her eyelids not been closed shut. Who would she see when she looked at me? Nick or Nicholas? Artist or scientist?...Or none of the above?

    Her hair was this clumsy, organized mess under her skull and on her pillow. Some of it was covered by a bandage, but that was mostly in the back where I couldn't see. I don't know, I liked it. I liked that they didn't make her look perfect, and that Elliot let her hair do what it wanted. It was all a bit more real and sensible. If she were awake, it wouldn't be perfectly tidy no matter how much she tried for it to be.

    Her entire body got me thinking, about everything. About how her mind was lost somewhere in the illusion of life, and how mine was just the same. Because she was here — we were both here, but we weren't at all. Claire, especially, was hidden from all the monopolies of life, concealed in a tidal wave of maybe misery and fear or love and empowerment. And I thought about all the voices that must be swirling around like a tornado, if any at all. But her heart was pure bravery. Anyone could tell you that. She was lying proud and tall, courage withstanding it all. While everyone else was just a puddle of doubt and worry. These issues are never really about whether the person sick can pull through, it's about whether their bystanders can survive it all. It's messed up, I know.

    But, we're human, and that's what we do. That's why we have stories of superheroes and villains. It's why we idolize those who can withstand the heaviest burdens of them all. We weren't created with Iron Man bodies. We were made human. More powerful, some would argue, but also more compatible to weakness. We haven't got metal to protect our hearts from being pierced with emotions. We're humans so that we can break down and shatter into something so feared and weak, we become recognizable. What I mean by that is, if we were strong enough to be in the comic books, we'd never know who we are. It's are breaking points that define us and our recoveries that leave us our legacy.

    That's why we praise one another to and for making mistakes. I'm all for it. Maybe my story would be different if someone with a pen wrote it, last detail and all, but that didn't happen. I lived. I'm just starting to realize that with all the mistakes I've made, I'm learning to make better decisions. I'm no longer focused on being the top man or getting revenge, like I ever had a solid chance at that. I just want to get to the point where I believe in myself enough to own it. I guess that's the battle Claire's fighting right now. While scientifically the doctors could feed her any kind of medicine that would reawaken her mind, she won't do it until she knows it's what she wants and what she can do. That's the beauty of being a human. You control it all.

    Elliot entered the room again a few moments later with a polite knock. He had given me a moment alone, respectfully.

    "Hey...," I backed away from Claire's bed a little and placed her hand back on the sheets.

    "It's all a bit strange, isn't it?" He walked past the bed and approached the window, looking out at the city of glittering lights. It was still fairly busy down below, though the sun had long been set. He was looking a bit more awake than earlier, but still an emotional mess.

    "Sure is."

    "You know, that should be me."

    "Literally, or are you just saying that?" I awkwardly spoke.

    "I suppose both. Literally in that she went outside to get that paper for me. She told me to stay and she graciously went. Meanwhile I'm milling about inside not thinking, 'where's my wife gone?' I could be the reason she dies...I am the reason for this."

    "Oh, don't say that. That's not true."

    "How can you say that?"

    "I just believe that everybody makes their own decisions. She chose to get the paper for you, you didn't make her. Anyways, how were you to know there was black ice out there? Or that she would step on it? It was nobody's fault."

    "Everybody always says that."

    "Maybe you should listen then."

    With a bit of a gruff poof of air escaping his mouth and a reconfiguring of his stance, I thought he was about to get very mad at me so I tried to prepare myself for whatever my foreign grandfather could muster up. But, I didn't get that. He was actually very sweet and unlike the man I had seen thus far.

    "You know, kid, you're really something."

    "Thank you?"

    "No, no. I mean it. You remind me of this guy I used to know back in high school, when Claire and I met. He was this incredibly intellectual guy, good looking, and witty. He would say these things and man, the whole room would just stop. You're definitely not him though...You're very much better off in other areas in your life, and you're just figuring out who you want to be, right?"

    I nodded. He continued on,

    "Well, anyways, you don't care about him...I just want you to know that you're a special kid, and...I'm sorry...Sorry for not trying harder. I get why you don't want to talk to me now...But, I just can't stop myself from thinking about how life would be like had, well, had we been in it. I hope that you would have liked talking to me, but I get this uneasy feeling that you wouldn't have. You are your mother's child after all."

    "Oh, well, our opinions have a tendency to conflict. Recently, especially."

    He didn't say much. With a smirk, he pulled his khakis up a little on his thighs and took a seat in a green cushioned chair by the window, keeping his sight towards the distance. I took a glance over at Claire, who still lay motionless. The room was eerily quiet. Every once in awhile the sound of a honk would drift through the glass window, but not much to disturb anything.

    "Well, honestly," I spoke as I took a seat, "I'm not sure what would have happened, but I do know that right now I want to talk to you. Maybe not so much as a grandfather, but...as a friend."

    "Really?" His whole demeanor perked up.

    "Of course."

    He smirked. Just one little expression, and suddenly the room began to feel less consumed with death. Life was struggling to breath free, and it was winning. It always wins.