Those Bygone Dog-Star Days - Chapter 23 of 37
~ Chapter 23 ~
I always hated going to Saint Catherine's. Hospitals, as well meaning as they are, just aren't a friendly place to me. I know they try to make the hallways more inviting with warm, pastel colors and paintings done by local artists and children, but it all underscores the fact that people are there as part of their mortality. Modern medicine only delays the inevitable recourse that all of us meet in due time.
There's that. And there's the smell. The sting of sterile alcohol in the air that masks sweat, blood, shit, and urine. It, unlike any other smell, assails my nose and always sets me on edge. When it lingers I can't seem to smell anything else except that palpable poison.
As the stainless steel doors of the elevator - that reflected my trepidation - opened, Mom was there to greet me. She looked distraught.
"Mom," was all I mustered as I immediately embraced her.
"Caleb," she tried to smile but gave up. Her blood-shot eyes wandered across my face, "Rebecca's sleeping right now. She's going to be okay, I just wanted you to know that right away." She steered me to Becky's room with an arm around my shoulder.
Dad was waiting inside, seated on one of the small, metal chairs that lined her room. Just like Mom he looked like he hadn't slept in a few days and I wondered if that's what I looked like, too, barring my reflection from the elevator.
"Hey buddy," Dad got up and gave me a tight hug, "How was the ride?"
"It was fine," I awkwardly forced the small-talk. I looked towards Becky and my stomach soured.
Her left leg was completely in a cast and her left arm was bandaged to her neck. Nothing remained of her long hair as wrappings capped her head. Becky's once beautiful but now swollen face revealed deep-purple bruises. Bald-patches outlined contrasting stitches. Inter-venous tubes ran from bags of morphine or plasma, I didn't want to look too closely, to her right arm.
The room ate up any noise. Quiet as a grave, I thought sardonically but immediately felt ill for it. There seemed to be no sense of noise as we stood there, looking at my sister.
"It was a hit-and-run," Dad spoke up. I felt relieved for the noise, any noise, to break the overwhelming silence. "A delivery truck ran a red light and," he cleared his throat, "hit the front wheel well."
I felt his hand on my shoulder, heavy with the weight of the world.
"The truck was found a few blocks away and the driver was caught."
She looks peaceful. I thought, morbidly.
"Caleb?"
I snapped out of the daze I had fallen into, "Can I go get something to drink?"
"Sure," Dad squeezed my shoulder, "vending machine's just down by the elevators."
Almost a somber opposite to Becky's room, the 5th floor waiting area was a jumble of noise from the t.v. local news program and my feeding the vending machine my spare change, as many nickels and dimes as I could, to listen to the jangling of the coins. I chose a soda at random and listened as it loudly clanked downwards. I sat on the bare linoleum, resting my back against the front of the machine and held the cold can to my cheek hoping to cut down any swelling. It was then I noticed the news was talking about Becky's accident.
"...scription bottle was found on the floor of the truck and the driver has been arrested for suspicion of driving under the influence. The president of the delivery company, Marcus Hughes, issued a brief condolence to the family of the victim as well as cooperation into the investigation of the driver."
The pounding throb in my head started again and dots swam in front of my eyes. I could barely focus.
I felt cold.
Standing up and placing a hand on the wall, I made it back to Becky's room. My ears pulsed and I looked around. Mom was now at Becky's bedside. She said something but I didn't hear. Dad stood up and I saw his lips move.
"What?" I asked, feeling my head swim.
I stumbled into the bathroom of Becky's hospital room. Lights came on automatically and I felt a sharp pain behind my blinking eyes. Stepping up to the toilet I knelt down, closed my eyes, and vomited.
With each expunction I felt my skull expand inside my head. With each breath I tasted sour bile and bitter cold. My nose ran and stank of vomit. I smelled toilet water.
Each time my stomach surged, it sent its contents upward and outward, then rolled back into a fetid doldrum before rising up again in a tide of -
nothing.
But nothing didn't stop. I wanted it all out. I wanted everything out of me. I dry-heaved, I coughed, my eyes watered, and hot tears squeezed through my clenched eyes. I thought I moaned but my ears were heavy and I wasn't sure if I was hearing anything at all.
Becky was driving her car when she got in that accident. The driver who hit her was an employee of Mr. Hughes. I had driven her car when I went to talk with Mr. Hughes at his office about the death of Bo.
I was supposed to be driving the car, not Becky. I almost got my sister killed.
A warm hand placed its self on my back.
I passed out.