Alternative

December 5, 2008 at 5:04PM

Beth and I have seen each other about three times over the past few weeks.

I catch her up on homework assignments, and we take walks or eat something in the cafeteria. There are bursts of heavy tears punctuated by deep silences.

Sometimes she just asks me to sit and hold her.

Eventually, she lets me join her in her mom's hospital room.

Walking in, I feel absolutely terrified. Beth must have become somehow accustomed to it, but I'm shocked at how completely ravaged Amanda looks. So fragile and small. She's wrapped in white blankets and wears the hat that Beth knitted for her back in October. She must have lost like thirty pounds. And her face looks shriveled, like someone a hundred and ten years old.

I'm not sure she'll even recognize me after all that she's been through; but she does, and when I sit down, she actually takes my hand, offers a small smile. I can tell it means a lot to Beth that her mom approves of me being here.

"Nice to see you, Tim," Amanda says.

I clear my throat and offer a weak reply, "Nice to see you, too. I'm sorry you're going through all this."

"I'm glad Beth has you around."

I nod and look over at Beth. I feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I don't want to make this visit about me, so I will them to stay dry.

"Yeah, I'm glad to be here," I say.

"Can we get you anything, Mom? Beth asks.

"I'm okay right now, thanks," she replies.

Amanda takes my hand, grips it gently, and shuts her eyes. I look over at Beth; she smiles. The way Amanda grips my hand is so delicate. And strange. I can't imagine her ever doing that under regular circumstances. Unless we were saying Grace, I guess. But her defenses are down now. She doesn't care about decorum or ritual. It doesn't matter that I've only known her for a couple of months.

We're there for an hour or so, exchanging a word here and there with her, but mostly just talking to nurses about how to make her more comfortable.

She falls asleep and after about twenty minutes of sitting in silence, Beth asks if I want to leave the hospital and go somewhere,

"I'm starting to forget if there's even a world outside of here," she says.

"Let's go somewhere, then. And we can come right back."

"Great. Movie maybe?" she asks.

"Sounds good," I say.

Beth kisses Amanda on the forehead, and we make our way out, passing John in the hallway who's on a phone call.

As we make our way out of the hospital and into the parking lot, Beth turns to me and kisses me: like everything is okay or is going to be okay.

She takes a deep breath of cold air and makes her way to the car.

We drive her parent's car to the movie; it's snowy and dark outside. Her spirits seem temporarily lifted. I don't know where this is coming from exactly, but I decide it's better not to ask, to just let it be. The snowflakes are huge and everywhere and I imagine we're in a snowglobe that someone's about to shake.

At the movie theatre, I get a large popcorn, peanut butter M&M's and a large Coke, which Beth is excited about. She pours the M&M's into the bag of popcorn and shakes it up, mixing them together. We both take huge handfuls. She actually keeps it down, seems to enjoy it.

Watching the previews together, she turns to me and kisses me again. She smiles and looks at me with that spark in her eyes, the intensity I hadn't seen in months. I love seeing her this way. Maybe it's a good omen.

Neither of us are really paying much attention to what's happening on screen. We haven't been close to each other in a while and all we want to do is make out.

I've wanted to be close to her almost every time I've seen her in the last month, but I was never sure if it was appropriate.

But tonight, she was initiating. And I was happy to be there with her, like a real couple again.

After a few minutes of kissing, I start getting flashes of her mom lying in that hospital bed. And then it seems sort of weird us being here: making out, enjoying a movie, eating popcorn and candy, while her mom is suffering in the hospital... on the other hand, Beth deserved a break, deserved to feel like things could be normal again, even just for a couple hours. And it's not like she could spend every waking moment in the hospital.

We both check our phone when the movie ends. Beth stops cold as we make our way through the exit.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I have a bunch of missed calls..." she says.

Once we're outside, she starts running towards the parking lot.

We get to the car, jump in, and I drive us back towards the hospital as fast as I can.

"Dad?" she asks into the phone.

"Okay... okay. We're on our way back right now."

I'm afraid to ask what happened, so I just keep my eyes on the road and concentrate on getting us back to the hospital as fast as possible.

When we get back, Beth rushes towards her dad and Amanda's doctor. I stay back. The doctor speaks to them in hushed tones. After a few minutes, she turns back towards me and tells me what's going on. Amanda lost consciousness, slipped into a coma. The doctors are now saying that they aren't sure how much time she has left.

I can't process the information really. I decide it's better for me to take a walk, to let Beth and John be alone with her. The two of them go back into the hospital room, looking catatonic.

Walking through the hospital, I pass a bunch of people—patients, doctors, visitors—and can't help but think about how they're all just going to suddenly stop existing one day.

What happened to the life inside of people? Where did it go?

I realize I barely knew Amanda. There's so much about her I would never know, never understand. This one detail Beth had told me about her stood out above everything: the three of them used to go on hikes a lot when her parents were younger, still had the energy. They'd drive outside the city, find these beautiful trails and make a day of it. And Amanda had this weird, little quirk that Beth and John always made fun of her for: she couldn't drink water while walking; she had to be totally stationary, preferably sitting down or kneeling. If she tried to take a sip of water while in motion, it was a disaster; she'd drench herself, or start choking. So, every time she got thirsty, she'd take a knee, sip her water slowly, and the family hike would come to a screeching halt. I could visualize it. It was such a tiny, insignificant detail but it was all I could think about.

I get a text from Beth telling me that she'll be staying at the hospital overnight, that I should go home and get some sleep.

I write back:

Okay. Call me if you need anything.

I go home, try to sleep and wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat.