Forgetting Sylva

Out

"Honestly, I'm fine." Mum looks at me through narrowed eyes, and dad watches me, his expression blank. No anger or worry or any of those things in his gaze; simple fear and love, for me, in his eyes.

Lance, beside the bed I lie in, sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, hands open and empty, head bowed, takes a breath that sounds more like laughter, or a sob, but halted in its tracks.

"Lance." I reach over the side of the bed, and he takes my hand in his, looking down at it. By the expression on his face, I imagine he can still see the blood. At least he cannot feel it, there, slick and wet and forever ingrained: a memory. 

"I'm s-"

"Don't say you're sorry, Syl. Not for this," he says. His voice is soft and low, rough in his throat.

"What, exactly, happened?" mum asks. Disapproval is clear in her voice, but so is the fact that she's using it to stop herself from crying.

"We were just driving, and talking. And then I started to cough. No one caused this, mum. It's no one's fault. You know what the doctor said." That there is fluid in my lungs. That the thing in my head is bigger than we ever thought it would be. That this aching in my head is no normal headache. That I have not got long left; I am dying. That we knew this for a long time.

The door opens with a soft sigh, and we all look; everyone but Lance. It is Marcus, a worried, familiar look on his face, his cheeks slightly flushed, chest heaving as if he has run here. Which, judging by the shoes on his feet, he has.

He kisses mum on the cheek and hugs dad and rests his hand on Lance's shoulder for a second. "Hey," he says. Lance dips his head in acknowledgement. I feel a small smile curve my lips, because he is trying, for me. Because I know he doesn't exactly love Lance, I can tell, but he is being civil, and I love him for it.

Marc grips the rail by my bed, watching me for a moment. "Is she ok?" he asks, turning to mum, and I roll my eyes.

Lance's fingers slip from mine as mum explains in a halting voice, and he stands. And he leaves the room.

Mum stops talking. We all watch him leave, like we are puppets, and the strings for our heads are attached to him. The door closes, and the strings break with a snap. And everyone is looking at me, but I am looking at the door.

I look up at Marcus. Pleading. Because I'd go after him, if I could. But I can't.

He sighs heavily. "Really, Syl?" he asks.

I widen my eyes, and he sighs. Smoothes my hair from my face and kisses my forehead. "Only for you," he says, sounding tired.

I smile. "Thank you," I say. He shakes his head and leaves at a light jog, after Lance, out the door.

Dad looks at me for a moment. "You have far too much control over all of us," he says, finally.

I smile. "I never asked for it."

Lance is gone from sight, as if he simply disappeared. I stand in the corridor for a moment, debating with myself whether or not it is worth it, to look for him, or if I should just go back inside. But Syl asked me to. And he didn't exactly look happy.

I sigh and walk to the desk, smile at the nurse on duty. "Hello, Margaret," I say, my smile in my voice, where I always keep it, even when I don't quite feel like smiling.

The woman's face brightens when she looks up, her cheeks dimpling. Margaret is in her late forties to early fifties, and she's one of my favourite nurses. She has the kind of face that looks both old and young at once, and it is always warm and welcoming, a smile brightening her face and crinkling the corners of her eyes. She's always told me that I remind her of her son, and she's treated me as if I was one of her own. She's a lovely person. And she also has the capacity to catch more than most security cameras, a trait that can never be disadvantageous.