Chapter Twenty One
My mum takes me to visit Peeta after school. We stop at the garage for gas and I go inside, having a desire to purchase something for him. What should I get him? Chocolates are out of the question. I don't have enough money for a bear or any trinkets either. Flowers? That won't seem too girly or frilly, will it? I wander all the aisles and come up with nothing. Well that's just great.
As I'm exiting the garage, I notice some dandelions on the smattering of grass by the roadside. I pluck one of them from the ground and cradle it in my hand. It isn't much but I think Peeta will appreciate what it means. A part of me wishes I had kept the dandelion he had given me in First Grade for as long as possible. Instead I threw it away in disgust when Leevy informed me that if you touch the bottom of the stem, you'll wet the bed. I carry the dandelion back to the car and hold it in my cupped hand for the entire ride to the hospital.
"Peeta has something to tell you," Mum says as we enter the hospital building.
"Really?" I ask, my curiosity immediately peaked. "What is it?"
"You'll find out when you see him," Mum replies with a knowing smile.
We part ways as she heads off to the ward where she works and I go to find Peeta in his private room. I have it memorised. Every twist and turn engraved itself in my head during the rush to get Peeta to theatre. I'm glad that memory is over and the only time I have to relive it is in my nightmares.
When I find his room, I knock before entering. I feel like a stranger about to enter someone's home. "It's Katniss," I add for good measure.
"Come on in." When I enter, Peeta is shaking his head with a wide smile on his face. It's such a relief to see him smile. It feels like it's been forever.
Peeta is sitting up in bed. I wish I could say that he looks better. That a couple of days in the hospital have done him wonders but I can't. He's still very sick looking but the fact that he is smiling and does seem genuinely happy does take the years off his gaunt figure. All the same wires are still coming out of his body and his back his propped up with a pillow in an attempt which I assume is to ease the pressure off his broken ribs.
"Why are you knocking, you silly woman?" he asks me. "You're welcome to come in whenever you want."
"I know, I was just a bit . . . I don't know," I say, shutting the door and hopping across the room. "I didn't know what to bring you so I just picked this." I pass him the dandelion and, no joke, the sight of it makes his face light up like a star. "Oh Katniss, it's beautiful," he whispers.
"Is it?" I ask. "I mean, it's a weed."
Peeta shakes his head. "Some of the most beautiful things in this world are the things we see every day but dismiss," he tells me. "This has made my day, Katniss, thank you." When he looks into my eyes, I see genuine gratitude in the blue pools. I feel honoured to have made him feel so happy and I will do whatever I can to continue doing so for him.
"My mum said you have something to tell me," I say, sitting down on the seat beside his bed.
"Uh yeah," he replies, suddenly sheepish. "I've been put on a diet plan-one I'm not at all keen on-which my doctor says will ease me into eating properly again and . . ." He trails off and frowns, as if he believes what he's about to say isn't that big a deal.
"And . . . what?" I ask him.
"I, um, ate an entire bowl of soup," he mutters, too nervous to meet my eyes.
"Oh my God, Peeta, that's amazing!" I declare, lurching forward and hugging him. Peeta yelps and I move back sheepishly, having forgotten about his ribs. I sit down again and grab his hand. "That's fantastic, Peeta!"
"I didn't think it was that big a deal . . ."
"That big a deal?!" I exclaim. "Peeta, this is brilliant! It mightn't seem like much now but trust me, it's a stepping stone. You're on the road to recovery and you have no idea how happy it makes me to know you're co-operating with your doctors!"
Peeta plays with the fabric of the bed covers sheepishly but the proud smile on his face is hard to miss.
"Are they starting you off on soup or did you choose it or . . . ?" I ask.
Peeta pulls a face. "They tried a sandwich but . . . when they left I couldn't handle knowing I'd eaten it and I panicked and threw it back up."
I keep the smile on my face, knowing that frowning or looking upset in any way will probably remove any pride he had previously felt. It worries me that he threw up but I know something like this can't have a speedy recovery. Soup is good. Soup is food. He's eaten food. He will hopefully keep eating this when it's given to him.
"Hey, that's fine," I say. "You've still eaten. Focus on that." I feel like a bit of a dork because I'm physically unable to keep the smile off my face. "So are they doing anything else? Is there anything else they can do? Or do you just stay here until you eat yourself to a comfortable weight?"
"Well, I have an in-hospital counsellor," Peeta tells me. "I have to talk to him every two to three days about," he nods to his arms, probably in reference to his self-harming.
"Has your family been to see you?"
"My dad and Rye have done," Peeta explains. "Jamie has been away at College and the visiting hours don't fit well with his classes. Dad says he's going to try and visit over the weekend."
I frown at our joined hands. "What about your mother?"
There's a pause and when I look at Peeta, who's frowning as well. "Dad says that she's minding the bakery but I know he's lying."
"What makes you say that?"
"My mother doesn't like weakness," he explains. "It disgusts her. I don't think she wants to see me. What am I saying? She doesn't want to see me."
I imagine the woman who I heard roaring at Peeta that night in the rain. I suppose it isn't that far-fetched to believe that that woman despises weakness. What made her so strong? What gave her the right to pass judgment on others based on their strength? I touch my forehead, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. I wish I could meet this woman so I can smack her across the face.
"I'm sure that's not true," I say. What else am I supposed to say? I don't know Peeta's mother. I believe him when he says that she hates weakness-which makes me despise her-but I can't say that I think she's horrible because he's never expressed animosity towards her himself.
Peeta smiles, like he appreciates my saying this, and gives my hand a squeeze. When he doesn't say anything, however, I try to find something else to talk about. Something that hasn't anything to do with illness or family. I don't want my visits to constantly be about discussing frightful topics. There has to be something I could say to begin a conversation . . .
"Is Annie and Finnick dating?" I blurt out.
Peeta's eyes widen in surprise and he asks, "What makes you ask that?"
"I saw them kissing," I clarify. "But once they saw me Finnick flipped his lid and told me that I didn't see anything. Are they dating in secret or something?" The look in Peeta's eyes confirms my suspicions and my mouth falls open in surprise. "Oh my god. Really? Since when?"
"You really can't tell anyone," Peeta insists. He sounds so deadly serious it takes me by surprise. "Finnick will leave Annie if anyone else finds out. That will kill her."
"Why would he leave her?" I ask.
"Katniss. Finnick is on the football team. Annie sits with me and the girls at 'Loser's End' as you guys call it," Peeta says. "Finnick won't let love ruin his reputation."
"Love? What the hell do you mean 'love'?" I demand.
Peeta leans back in his bed and picks at the tubes in his nose. "Annie and Finnick started dating a couple of months after yourself and Finnick broke up. It was fast but they grew close extremely quickly. Their relationship was like an avalanche. Once the first signs of affection appeared, they tumbled downhill into love within minutes. And by minutes I mean a few months."
"Oh. Wow." I can't believe something like that has been going on without anyone knowing. Who else has been hiding their true feelings because of the fear of losing their creditable rep? How many people-like Finnick-have disguised themselves just to stay popular? Was being popular so important?
I think of myself. The things I had been willing to sacrifice just to stay on top. I never thought that I was the only one who behaved this way but I didn't for one second think that those like Finnick would go as far as hiding true love. Then again, I didn't believe that those like Finnick would fall in love with someone who could ruin their reputation. Now that I'm aware of it, the rage for the school system grows stronger within me. If only this food chain idea had been denounced before it truly began then everyone's lives would be easier. Except instead of snuffing the idea, Snow threw gasoline on it. Who let him be the principal anyway? How did such a horrible man get such a powerful position?
Peeta doesn't say any more about his friend's relationship and I don't push it. It's clear that he promised Annie that he wouldn't say anything and going into detail that's unnecessary to explaining what I saw is something he refuses to do. So instead, we play cards against humanity.
"What's there a ton of in heaven?" I say, setting the black card down on the bed. I shuffle through my white cards and pick up the one most relevant to the black. "Nazis."
Peeta laughs. "Nazis, really?"
"God's an asshole," I grin back. "What have you got?"
Peeta puts down his own white card and I snort with laughter. "Crucifixions?!"
"Better that Nazis!" Peeta says.
"Oh god, you win this one," I say, passing him the black card. It's wonderful spending time with Peeta like this. Without the worry of being judged by others or of his illness. It just feels so good to just sit and have a laugh with him. While I'm reshuffling the black cards, I ask, "How do you shower in this place? Is there like a communal room or do you get your own?"
"There's one in the bathroom, through there," Peeta answers. "Do to the nature of what's wrong with me I'd doubt they'd make me use a communal one." He picks at his catheter thoughtfully. "I hope anyways."
"They wouldn't," I say. "It wouldn't make sense."
"I haven't used it yet, mind you. I'm not strong enough," Peeta replies.
"Can't Nurse Paylor help you?" I ask.
Peeta shrugs. "I'm not all that keen on her seeing . . . well . . . you know."
I stop shuffling the cards and stare at him. "It's her job to help, you know," I remind him. "She's not going to judge you."
"I keep saying that to myself but trying to convince myself of things is very difficult," Peeta explains to me.
This does seem to be true, especially with the point we are now at taken into account. If Peeta had been able to convince himself when we were Juniors that he'd lost enough weight then we wouldn't be here now. Maybe a part of him knows, he just can't convince the rest of himself that it's true.
"You can't not shower," I say. "We still don't know how long you'll be here for." I scratch my head, trying to think of a solution to this problem. I'm suddenly reminded of when Prim was sick with the measles. She had been so tired and weak that I used to sit her in front of the bathroom sink and wash her hair over it. She didn't need to remove her blanket or do any work. I called it playing hairdressers as to keep her smiling.
"I could wash your hair over the sink for you," I tell Peeta. "Is there a sink in the bathroom?"
"There is but I couldn't possibly ask that of you." Peeta replies, shaking his head like the whole idea is ridiculous.
"Don't be silly," I say. "It's no problem." I stand up and only liberate one of my crutches. Walking without them is getting easier which makes me hopeful that maybe my leg is healing faster than expected. I examine the wires hooked into Peeta's arms. "Are these important?"
"They're taking my vitals, I think," Peeta answers. He sounds weary, still unsure about letting me do this for him. Now that the idea is planted in my head, I really want to do it. I want to do something to help, even if it's a minute thing like giving him a hand to wash up.
"Are you allowed to take them out?" I ask.
"To go to the bathroom, yeah."
As I peel the little patches off Peeta's arms, he fidgets nervously with the bedsheets. I pull the cannula out of his nose, hoping to god that he'll be able to breath on his own for the next half hour which I'm fairly confident he will be because he told me it's only for when he's resting anyway. Once everything is out except his catheter, I lean over the bed and pull the drip in which it's attached to around to the same side as me. "Okay, I think the best way to do this is to hook your arm around my neck and we do this as a group effort."
"Katniss, your leg"-
"Is fine," I interrupt. "Come on."
Peeta hesitantly does as I say and hooks his arm around me. I wind my own arm around his small waist and help him out of bed. While I lean against my crutch on one side, Peeta clutches his drip in the other. If anyone walks in, they're going to think we're both bonkers. Walking to the bathroom is comical as we both have things holding us back. It's not really walking as much as it is lumbering. I think it takes us ten minutes on a whole just to cross the room.
"Look at us," I laugh. "We're so pathetic."
Peeta grins as well. "Honestly, I was expecting it to take us longer."
The bathroom has all the appliances that you would find in a disabled bathroom in a shopping mall. Inside the shower cubicle, there's a seat which I pull out for Peeta to sit down on. "I used to do this for my sister when she was sick," I explain to him as I yank the shower head off its holder and turn the water on. "She always said it was very soothing."
"But she was your sister," Peeta says unsurely.
"Your point being?" I ask, adjusting the temperature with the little knob on the wall.
"It's okay for you to do things like that with your sister."
"Peeta, I'm washing your hair, not sharing a bath with you," I chuckle. Peeta falls silent and look over my shoulder at him. He's staring at the floor. "Hey, it's okay, you know. If old Katniss had been here, demanding to wash your hair . . . I'd be worried as well. But it's not old Katniss. It's me. New Katniss. The better Katniss. I'm not going to abuse your trust in me."
Peeta nods, like he already knows this.
The water reaches a temperature I'm satisfied with and I press a towel against the lip of the sink before telling Peeta to lie back against it. I gently wet a small section of his hair and ask, "Is that okay? Not too hot or anything?"
"No, no, it's fine," he replies. His voice quivers a little and my heart stutters. I don't want him to be afraid of me in this way. He needs at least one person he can trust with the intimate stuff like this. It seems that his family is out of the question. He doesn't want the doctors to see him so vulnerable. His friends are at the study programme during visiting hours. That leaves me. Maybe if I do this right, he will trust me to help in this way more often.
"The homecoming game is next week," I say, trying to start a conversation while I work.
"Do you think you'll go?" Peeta asks. After a couple of minutes of being tense about this, he has relaxed a bit. Not completely but more than what he had been earlier. His eyes are closed to avoid the little splashes of water that rebound off the sink from getting into them. I almost miss them. I like staring into those deep blue crystals while I talk to him.
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I don't know if I want to see Glimmer prancing around at the front of the squad. She'll have her skirt hiked up so high those in front row will see things no sane person should be granted visual access to."
Peeta chuckles. "She does have a knack for the provocative," he agrees. A pause. "Are you going to attend the dance?"
"With who?" I ask bitterly. "I don't know if going stag is really the right thing to do."
"I thought this whole 'make Gale Hawthorne jealous' thing was all going to cumulate at the dance? I thought that's what it was all leading up to?" asks Peeta.
I shake my head. "Madge is back in town."
Saying this is enough and Peeta nods. "I see," he says. "Has Gale dumped Glimmer yet then?"
"I don't think so," I say. "I haven't heard anyway. It's only a matter of time though." I look around the bathroom and grab a small bottle of shampoo. "This is not enough to last you three days!" I exclaim. "Let alone longer than a week. Next time I come, I'll bring you a bottle."
"That's okay, Katniss, really," says Peeta. "You don't have to."
"You're right," I reply. "I don't. But I want to."
I squeeze the shampoo onto my hand and put it through Peeta's hair. I've never realized until now how soft his hair actually is. I'm actually enjoying doing this for him. And maybe I spend a bit longer than necessary pushing my fingers through it to rub the shampoo in. I shake myself to my senses and rinse off my hands.
"So," I say, "if you hadn't went into cardiac arrest . . . would you have went to the dance?"
"I might have done," Peeta says.
"Did you have a particular date in mind?" I ask, picking up the shower head and rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. I lean back against the shower cubicle and lift up my leg. An ache is beginning to set in from standing too long.
Peeta is quiet again. I worry that I've crossed a line. "I had someone in mind," he eventually says, "but it would never have worked."
"Do I know them? Do you want me to talk to her for you? Or him? I know you probably won't be able to attend the dance but I could ask them if they're interested in dating you? Drop a couple of hints, talk you up, that sort of thing?" I ask.
"Still wouldn't have worked."
"Why not?"
"You can't talk yourself up, Katniss."
It's my turn to be quiet. I completely forgot that Peeta had feelings for me. He more or less told me that day in my house. That day that I kissed him. As we remain in silence, my eyes fall on his lips. The lips I stole his first kiss from. I can't help thinking about how I want to do it again. About how Peeta is so much more of a better person than Gale. How where Gale uses brute force and ignorance, Peeta uses kindness and sensibility. If there were a contest to evaluate who is better for me, Peeta would win by a landslide.
But just because he used to have feelings for me doesn't mean he still does.
When I'm finished, I switch off the shower and grab a towel from the linen closet. I help Peeta sit up and dry his hair, even though he tries to insist to let him do it himself. As I remove the towel, I snicker at how his hair stands up in all directions, sticking upwards with static. Peeta laughs as well and his eyes focus on me.
It's like the beautiful azure blue of his eyes make my decision for me. The conclusion I really should have come to long before now.
Peeta is who I should be with.
I lean forward and press our lips together.
A beat.
He kisses me back.