july 1st
toronto
I CERTAINLY COULDN'T APPRECIATE HER TONE OF VOICE POINTED IN MY DIRECTION, and therefore my you-get-as-you-act mechanism reverberated her manner, and I crossed my arms, put most weight onto my right hip and leg to amplify the sassy attitude. The fact that I went from a sweet, short girl to the act I had put on now must've offended her ego since both of her thick, dark brows came together in a frown. Then it was urgent time to hit her with the final round.
"He's busy."
He's busy. An answer so vague it irritated one, because of the lack of essential information to nose out what kept the subject busy. And it sure got miss Where The Fuck Is My Son irritated – she stuck her small nose up in the air and exaggeratively exhaled, acknowledging the fact that she was a little pissed off.
"Then get him for me. I need to see him," she said.
"You're two days late – he's doing amazing now. I suggest you wait in waiting room, or get something to eat in the cafeteria. The food is delicious here." I put my hands on my hips and shrugged.
"If I," she took a step closer into my personal bubble, and I backed off a little, "say that I want to see my son, you're going to make me see my son, you hear me? I don't know why you're trying to withhold me from seeing my own fucking son, but if you keep doing it, I can assure you that you will lose your little job, darling."
Just when I was about to say the next thing to completely throw this woman into a hole of endlessly burning fire, my ears acknowledged the sound of two perfectly inflated wheelchair tires rolling across the neat hospital floor, and a little louder breathing than one normally did. "Nova."
Sending Hart's mother one last glare, I slowly turned around to meet Hart's eyes. The brown irises took the color of honey, because of the rays of sunshine peeking through the curtains in his room. As the bright rays seemed to annoy Hart, he held his hand in front of his face, and granted me that typical smile of his. I blinked slowly in response, and just looked down at my Converses. Each time I looked at them, they appeared to be even more messed up.
Hart breathed in before continuing to talk. "I saw you leave the oncology department, and I wanted to catch up with you, but yeah . . ." He looked down at his wheelchair and shrugged, "sort of had to take the elevator. And I see you've met Angela, my mother."
"I sure did," I muttered.
"I wonder what such a busy journalist would be doing in Toronto's hospital. I thought you were in Asia, or was it Europe? Oh right, you're here to visit your son who nearly died in a terrorist attack." He moved to his bed, passing his mother who hadn't said a word ever since he had come in with a dry smile, and turned on the television to immediately swap to Spotify. After typing in a song, he turned his wheelchair to his mother and patiently waited for the song to start. "I suppose you're not here to offer your sincere condolences with the passing of my father, so it must be an interview you're willing to do for your new article. It'll sell like hotcakes, because you know you're the first to interview Sean Feingold's surviving son – he's seen it all, the whole explosion, everything."
How sweet it is to be loved by you. The choice of song in this situation enhanced Hart's good sense of sarcasm, and the irony wanted me to laugh. James Taylor's smooth voice and the even smoother jazz music combined with the tension of an incoming fight had never been a better match before – it matched better than when I linked How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You) to when Hart was having fun with the children from the oncology department. It also was true what he had said; he had an ear for associating circumstances to songs.
As Hart climbed onto his bed without needing any help, Angela unapologetically fetched a little notebook out of her bag and looked at her son with begging eyes. I subtly made my way back to the exit of the room.
"Hart, I want to talk about how you're doing. I haven't seen you in such a long time. And then I just want to ask you a few questions – you know how important my work is to me," she said.
"I don't like the idea of you misusing the label of my mother to come in here and try to interview me when I told the hospital to not let in the press," he paused for a couple of seconds to look at me, "so mom, if you'll excuse me, I have a nurse who needs to help me with my medicine right now."
"Come on sweetheart," Angela was obviously getting pissed off and showed signs of aggression, but suppressed them as much as possible, "I have been utterly busy, but I'm here now, aren't I? I'm here for you now, baby. Please let me."
"If I don't take my medicine now no one will get their story." He nodded at me as a gesture that he was ready for his medicine, and his mom dumbfoundedly stared at him as I grabbed the pills from the drawer beside the door. Then she looked at me, and eventually put her notebook back in her bag and walked to the exit. "Have a great week, mom!"
And gone she was. I quietly walked over to his bed and laid the pills on his nightstand, where after I grabbed a glass and filled it with water in his bathroom. I handed it over to him, and smiled as he thankfully downed the pills and water.
"Doctor Sipps is coming in later to discuss the results of the tests with you, but I can already tell you that you're doing perfectly fine. You'll be able to leave soon," I said.
"I'm sorry about my mother," he awkwardly shifted in his bed, and pushed a hand through his hair, "I just-"
"You don't owe me an explanation," I reassured him.
He exhaled deeply. "Thank you."
I checked up on him, and came to some conclusions. "Looks like you don't need an infusion anymore. Leg's not healing as I want it to, so you have to be a little less rough on that."
I found myself getting caught up in his scent, as manly as ever, and laid my hand on his packed up leg, softly stroking it with the knowledge that he wasn't able to feel it. Not a word exited his mouth, and instead he just smiled and followed the movement of my arm. with his eyes. For a moment, it was just us in the hospital, just us and the music in the background. I realized a new song was playing. That's why I'm easy, easy like Sunday morning.
A sudden chuckle escaped my lips which caused Hart to raise his brows. "Why are you laughing?"
"I'm sorry—you just make me laugh," I bit my lip to contain some more chuckling and cussed in my head – I made myself look like a complete moron.
"I make you laugh? I know I look retarted in these stupid pajamas, but you don't have to laugh at me for that in my face, you know."
"No," I shook my head, not being able to suppress the chuckling anymore, "you just make me laugh. I don't—I don't know how to explain it, it's weird. Alright, this is my cue to leave."
Hart laughed as well even though he had no clue what I was talking about – and honestly, neither did I. Before walking to the door, I patted his leg and laughed a little longer.
"Nova," he said before I was out the door, "thank you for caring for me."
"I mean, I'm a nurse; it's what I do."
Amazing, now you make it sound like you don't care about him at all. I instantly regretted saying that when I noticed his face going a little downturned.
"Of course, it's what you do." He tried keeping up his smile, but it wouldn't work. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't get myself to it.
"Dinner's ready at seven, I'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
He nodded. I nodded. Easy intercourse, and that was rare for a social butterfly like Hart. I expected him to use more words, or find a reason to make me stay, but then I realized that it was not expectancy but hope. With those thoughts, I closed the door behind me, and just stood there for a couple of seconds wondering what I was wondering about. It was almost as if my mind was completely empty, and I didn't understand what was going on – I had never felt like that before. That was until I heard Hart's voice seeping through the door that separated us, and a wave of regret rushed through my body.
"She's a nurse, that's what she does."
And that while I barely ever overthought, I caught myself overthinking.