Polaroids and Postcards | ✔️

Chapter 43: Della's Scrapbook

"They-they keep throwing medical terminology at me, man! I'm trying but they... They don't seem to know what to expect either."

I shoved my way past Della's brother and marched to the door, throwing it open and paraded through the hallway. I grabbed the first nurse I could find and demanded to know where Doctor Marshall was. She quickly jerked away and fluttered down the hall into a another room.

"Can anyone tell me where the hell Doctor Marshall is?" I didn't care if I cursed or yelled. I wanted results and I wanted them immediately.

After I stood there with my hands on my hips for long enough, everyone realized that I wasn't playing games, and soon enough Doctor Marshall came swinging around a corner.

"Mr. Lovett, you're disturbing everyone on this floor!" he huffed, frowning reproachfully. "Your whole family, I swear..."

I swallowed a harsh laugh, ignoring his mumbled comment. "What happened to her? She was fine when I left. What happened?"

Doctor Marshall closed his eyes for a moment, regaining his composure. "Della is in an-"

"-unresponsive state, I know," I cut him off, staring a hole into his skull. "Why?"

"While the surgery repaired the area of the brain where we saw the bleeding, there are other factors at play here. The surgery is not what caused this, if that's what you're asking."

I huffed impatiently. "Get to it, doc. Is she going to wake up or not?"

Doctor Marshall sighed, crossing his arms. "You are aware of Della's preexisting condition, are you not, Mr. Lovett?"

"The cancer? Yeah, why?" I didn't have to ask, though. My heart had begun to ache in understanding as soon as he said those words.

He then began a long monolog about how her body had been fighting so hard-he kept saying that... 'Fighting' like she even had a chance in the first place. Her broken body wasn't able to rest and repair like it needed to... Cancer was spreading at an unbelievable rate... She wouldn't be able to handle treatment... blah, blah, blah...

It was all just medical-sounding fluff to cushion the blow he was building up to.

"-she's not going to wake up, is she?" I interrupted, shoving my hands in my pockets and focusing on my shoes. It was more of a statement than a question, but I think Doctor Marshall had been around me enough the past few days to know how I communicated; I wanted facts, not fluff.

His shadow wavered on the floor for a brief second and then he bowed his head. "It would not surprise me if she passed this weekend, Jason. It would be a miracle if she was to wake up."

My vision suddenly became blurry, but it was most decidedly not because of the concussion.

I finally nodded, clearing my throat.

"I'm sorry, Jason," Doctor Marshall offered, trying to be considerate. "I know this has to be hard to hear."

"Yeah, well... Tell me something I don't know." I spun around to stalk back down the hallway to our room, but something made me pause and look back at Doctor Marshall.

He had turned away, like he was about to walk in the opposite direction, but I could tell from his stature that he had deflated a little, standing less tall and poised than he had before. He passed his hand over his eyes and his shoulders slumped dejectedly. He seemed tired.

"Hey..." I croaked, blinking back the stinging sensation.

Doctor Marshall straightened up and turned back to me with an expression of concern-as if he was afraid I had seen him in his vulnerable moment.