I hated hospital gowns. The strings cutting into your shoulders, the incessant draft, the self-imposed shame of wearing a giant baby blanket complete with ducks in sailor’s hats all because, technically, I was only seventeen and therefore still belonged in the children’s ward.
My mom was downstairs looking for something to eat, no doubt trying to decide between the hamburgers that tasted like greasy cardboard and the chicken strips that tasted like greasy cardboard. She’d go with the chicken.
We’d developed a routine a long time ago. Turn the TV to some awful reality show, open the curtains, and pretend we were on vacation instead of in the hospital. In fact the word hospital was not even allowed to be uttered in the midst of our little game. Instead we’d say resort or timeshare or hotel or we’d skirt around the specifics of the location altogether and just not say anything at all.
I usually preferred the silence, although it never lasted long. My mom would always start rambling about something and it didn’t take long for me to absorb her nerves and do the same. I hated being tethered to her like that but it had always been that way, two mirror reflections on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum, her fear sneaking up on me when I was trying my hardest not to let it. Because I was her daughter.
And that day as I lay in that hospital bed, trying to bury the hope and the anxiety and all of the other things pricking at my skin, I just couldn’t bury the fear. So I was afraid. Because I was sick. Because I was Elena Reyes’ daughter and as she slipped back into the room clutching a greasy bag of hospital take-out she looked scared too.
Dr. Sabine finally came in, eyes scanning a clipboard. She was flanked on either side by two strange men in identical lab coats. The older one stepped forward, one hand steady against his cane while reaching out to my mom with the other.
“Ms. Reyes, this is Dr. Banz and his associate Gregor Vogle. They’re two of the specialists behind this latest drug trial.”
“Good morning. It’s nice to meet you both,” Dr. Banz said. His voice was thick and muddled. Definitely German. He stopped, scrubbed his glasses, and then he smiled at me. “Good day today, Miss…”
“Bryn,” his associate offered. He was younger, maybe early-fifties, his coat buttoned and his hands stiff at his sides.
I felt someone stick me with the IV, the liquid running hot in my veins.
“Bryn,” Dr. Banz continued. “Yes. Very exciting day.”
I managed to croak out a, “Hello.”
“It’s so great to finally meet you, and under these circumstances…”
I wasn’t sure what circumstances he was talking about but I tried to smile anyway, to absorb his sentiment somehow even though my eyes were already fighting to stay open. He said something I couldn’t make out, patted my foot. I tried not to look at his associate who’d retreated to the corner, though his eyes were still trained on my face. His own looked pained and it made me feel cold.
Dr. Sabine stepped forward again, reiterating everything we’d been over the weekend before. The treatment’s experimental. Results are subjective. Might induce an episode. Blah blah blah. This might sting a little.
They finally left the room and my mom settled in a chair by my bed. She looked tired and it made me tired. So tired. I heard her say my name. She looked at me, stars cutting across her face, her features bleeding into static, and then I felt the light pull of the breeze as it rippled off the ocean.