The Most Painful Things

Eight

 I'm not aware of falling asleep, but when I wake up, a warm sunlight is streaming through the window behind my seat. Mrs. Marlow is shaking my shoulder. 

"We can see him now," she says tersely. She turns on her heel, and I follow anxiously. 

We pass many crowded hallways, full of woman with tears in their eyes, and little children clutching their parents legs. We pass people being hurriedly rushed through on gurneys, with IVs and other things clipped to their bodies. 

Finally, we reach the ICU. We go to Room 617. 

The three of us stop outside the door, not wanting to leave it shut and never know what is inside, but terrified to open it and be forced to know what's inside. 

We have an unspoken arguement about who should be the one to open the door, until, thankfully, the doctor makes that decision for us. He opens up the door, and jumps back when he sees the of us with our faces pressed up against it, clearly not expecting to us to be there. 

"You. . . You must be the Marlows," he stammers, readjusting his glasses.

"And guest," Mr. Marlow nods to me.

"Yes, yes, the crying girl who came in with him," he nods. "Come come."  He waves us into the small room. 

My stomach drops when I look at John. He is so, so pale, nearly as white as the sheets. He looks so weak, so defeated lying there, with a dozen machines hooked up to him, that I almost cry. Almost.

The doctor quickly explains what is happening, with a lot of medical terms I have never heard of, but all I can think about is John's face and how fragile, how broken he looks. I saw him only yesterday, but he has radically changed. I remember the boy I once knew: his tan, full face, and wide blue eyes that were always smiling. I remember his laughter, which he never could contain, and his trademark smirk that went along with practically everything he said.

 No, I think forcefully, these are the thoughts of someone remembering someone who is dead. John's not dead. . . yet. 

The doctor leaves us alone with John. His parents instantly rush to his bedside, Mrs. Marlow sobbing and clutching his left hand. Mr. Marlow strokes his unresponsive son's hair, almost absentmindedly. I inch closer to John's right side, not wanting to intrude on a family moment, but when no one objects, I pull a chair up next to him. I grab his hand and hold it to my cheek. There is a slight warmth to it, which is reassuring. 

Finally, after who knows how long of us staying like that, a nurse comes in. "Mr. and Mrs. Marlow, we have a room for you at the Ronald McDonald next door if you would like," she whispers. 

Mr. Marlow nods. "I'll go get some of our things, Jenny," he says, taking the key from the nurse. He follows her out the door, leaving Mrs. Marlow and me alone with John.

Nurses pop in and out to check on him, but I never leave his side. I don't know how many minutes, hours, or days I stay there, but I know that every second I spend with him is just one even closer to his death. 

Mrs. Marlow leaves at one point to go and get some sleep. Mr. Marlow hasn't come back into Room 617 yet, so I assume that he went to their room.

I wake several hours later to Mrs. Marlow shaking my shoulder, my faced pressed to John's sheets. He still hasn't moved. "Aiden, sweetie," she whispers softly. "Go and get some rest. I'll stay with him, and let you know the second anything happens. You can stay in my room; Greg went home."

I numbly stand up, allowing her to press the key into my hand. I start to walk away, but with a jerk realize that my fingers are still locked with John's. 

Suddenly, John stirs. Mrs. Marlow gasps with delight, and throws herself on John, calling her husband simultaneously. 

"Aiden," John whispers. I rush to the other side of his bed. 

"How're you doing?" I mumble, grasping his hand. 

"Spectacular," John gives a small smile. 

I grin, thrilled that he's awake and talking. But even as he says that, I can see that all the drugs they have coursing through his body are beginning to pull him under again.

"Aiden," he repeats, playing with a strand of my hair. "Don't forget me. . ." he whispers. 

I shake my head, fighting back tears. "Never."

"Don't forget the fun. Don't forget the laughs. And. . . don't forget that. . . that I love you, Aiden," he whispers, getting quieter and quieter. I don't even think about how cheesy this sounds.

My heart shatters as I whisper, "I love you, too."

He smiles, his normally bright blue eyes almost empty, something that scares me horribly. But, he pulls me in, with what I'm sure is the most strength he can muster, and kisses me softly, one hand resting on my cheek, the other still twisted in my hair. 

Mrs. Marlow bursts into tears, making me pull away from him, and by the time I look down, John's eyes are closed again. 

"I'll. . . I'll leave you two alone then," I choke out, leaving as fast as I can.

I cry openly as I run out the doors of the hospital. I have tried so hard not to let my emotions take me over these past few days, but now, I can't help it. Once I start, I can't stop myself.

I collapse on the bed in the room across from the hospital, and, as lame and unlike me as it is, I cry myself to sleep.