Chapter 22 Leif
Leif
The first thing you’ll notice about space, they told me, is the darkness.
They said it like a warning. But it’s not a terrifying darkness, I thought as I beheld it for the first time. It’s not confining, and doesn’t crush you. They forgot to mention that.
It’s just as infinite as I always knew it would be.
So first, darkness. Then, the world comes into focus around me.
There are my parents, their faces slack in sleep, their hands clinging to each other, their chairs angled toward me.
Even in my confused, barely there state, my heart clenches at the sight of them, at the pain of seeing me here.
I suddenly remember that time I was sick as a kid.
That desperate expression on their faces. The soft pleading in my father’s eyes.
How could I have forgotten?
Then the pain comes in. It hits me all at once, all over my body, in all my bones.
I wiggle my toes, because that’s what they say to do right, to see if you can move? The blanket shifts at the end of the bed. Relief washes over me. I wiggle my hands next, but it’s not seeing them that has me freezing, forgetting my pain.
It’s the softness shifting through the fingers of my hand. My fingers are entangled in hair—hair that cascades from the face of an angel, asleep as she leans onto the bed.
Noelle.
In front of her is a book I recognize. But my eyes go to the items spilling out of it. There’s an envelope with my name on it. And under that, a photo.
I try to reach for the letter, but my other hand lifts only an inch before dropping. I see why—it’s got a cast on it, from elbow to hand.
Movement flickers in the corner of my vision. There’s a person there. An older woman with salt and pepper hair in a plain uniform, a broom in her hand. Her name tag reads Jojo.
Her mouth opens when she sees me, a gasp on her lips. “You’re awake!” She turns toward the door, presumably to call for help.
“No!” I say. The word is a croak. “No,” I try again. It’s a little clearer. “Please. Not yet.”
I curl the fingers in the cast, beckoning her toward me. “Please.”
She glances to the door, then to the monitors next to my bed.
“Please,” I repeat.
She comes a moment later.
I ask her haltingly to read the letter. “That’s me,” I assure her. “She wrote it for me.”
“I can wake her up—”
“No. Please not yet.”
The woman seems to do battle with herself. I might be getting her fired. I’ll make it up to her. I’ll tell them it was my fault.
Finally, Jojo lets out a breath and slips the letter out of the envelope. She reads it out loud, biting her lip in the middle, her eyes going wide. But she finishes, and sets it down, her eyes wet. “I’m getting the nurses now,” she says.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I turn to Noelle. It hurts to change the angle of my head, but I’d walk through fire to say this to her. I’d go to the sun.
With all the strength I have, I shift the hand in Noelle’s hair. I stroke my fingers across her temple.
Noelle stirs. Her eyes open. When they meet mine, she sits up, gasping.
“I wish for you,” I whisper. “I always wish for you, Noelle.”