Chapter 2 #2
“Sounds good. Text me if you need anything.” She squeezes my arm before turning and leaving the room.
Sunny shifts in her crib, trying to move her legs even though the one is pinned by the blanket wrapped around her. She stills and continues to breathe steadily as she sleeps.
I reach down and finger one of her curls. They must have bathed her before putting her to bed because she smells like soap, not gasoline or soot.
“Sleep well, baby girl,” I whisper, then turn and fetch Aunt Melody’s laptop from her bag so I can email Dr. Ryan.
I sit and open the computer, remembering I didn’t ask Melody for her password. Thankfully she has a guest user option.
I log into my school email account and find a slew of emails from students.
I swear, college students are idiots. I’ve worked as Dr. Ryan’s TA since my first year of grad school, and I absolutely love it.
I don’t, however, love it when students email stupid questions that are answered in the syllabus.
I glance over the unread student emails and find the last message from Dr. Ryan.
Alis,
I know we discussed meeting this Thursday morning to go over next week’s teaching schedule, but I need to shuffle appointments and meet with you in the afternoon instead. Does 2 p.m. work for you?
Best,
Dr. Ryan
Thursday. That’s two days from now. Nope.
Won’t work for me. How am I supposed to tell him I can’t work for a while?
Will he need to find a new TA? I’m not his only grad student, so I’m sure he can easily find a fill-in, but if I’m gone too long he’ll have to find a permanent replacement. Ugh. Please, no.
Working as Dr. Ryan’s right hand is the most coveted student position in the English department. I spent my entire four years of undergrad working my ass off to maintain a 4.0 GPA and never missed an opportunity to establish myself as Dr. Ryan’s favorite student.
I’m kind of a fan girl. Not like a creepy or inappropriate fan girl. I’ve just followed Dr. Ryan’s work since high school. I’ve read every journal article, book, essay, etc. he has ever published. His expertise in eighteenth and nineteenth-century French literature absolutely blows my mind.
I’m captivated by novels. The ability to escape reality and venture into imaginary worlds or even transcend time is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever experienced.
I knew from a young age that I wanted to major in English or literature and eventually become a writer.
That desire cemented in my soul when fifteen-year-old me toured Grant University’s campus and sat in on a lecture by Dr. Jonathan Ryan about Gustave Flaubert’s debut novel, Madame Bovary, and its contribution to literary realism.
The rest, as they say, is history. After graduating with my bachelor’s I entered into the master’s program, studying under Dr. Ryan, and eventually secured my place as his TA.
No one, and I mean NO ONE, would ever walk away from this job.
Except me, it seems. Maybe not. Maybe I can step away for a week or two and then pick up where I left off. I can help him find another student to fill in for the few classes next week and then I’ll be good to return after that.
Dr. Ryan,
I’m so sorry, but Thursday isn’t going to work. I had a family emergency last night and I won’t be available for the rest of this week. Also, I don’t think I’ll be able to teach next week either.
It’s a lot to explain over email, but if you’re free to talk on the phone sometime today I can give you the details.
As for next week, I’m happy to reach out to Brad or Michelle to see if they are available to teach. Let me know how I can help, and when you’re free to talk.
Thanks,
Alis
Right. That takes care of that. I close the laptop and lay my head back on the chair, staring at the ceiling.
One. Two. Three. Four. I count, making my way across the first row of tiles, skipping over the light, and then resuming my tally as I work toward the wall.
Seven. Eight. Pivot. I count down the next row, then the next, moving my eyes from tile to tile.
Why do hospitals have tiles in their ceilings?
And why do they use fluorescent lighting when everyone hates it?
I finish my count — 52 tiles, not counting lights, in case anyone was wondering — and move to stand as the door opens and Aunt Melody reappears with sustenance.
“Smells good,” I say, walking toward her to relieve some of the burden from her arms.
Melody’s smile shows excitement — something I haven’t seen or felt in the last twenty-four hours. “The cafeteria here is awesome! They serve Starbucks coffee and cook food to order, so I was able to get fresh breakfast burritos and some cut-up fruit.”
“Perfect.” And it does sound perfect. Good thing I didn’t decline her offer for breakfast. I set the drink tray on the side table and work free the cups.
Sitting down on the couch next to Aunt Melody, I hand over her coffee before taking a sip of my own.
I’m not a huge coffee drinker — I prefer tea — but warm, liquidy, caffeinated heaven is in this cup.
We eat in silence, hoping Sunny will continue sleeping as long as possible.
Poor kid needs it after what her body went through yesterday.
After finishing our meal, Melody collects the empty trays and wrappers, setting them aside to be discarded later.
A tranquil calm settles over the room, only broken by Sunny’s soft breathing.
The ambient light filtering through the window casts a warm glow, bathing everything in a gentle, comforting light.
It seems at odds with the turmoil roiling in my mind, the storm of worries, fears, and uncertainty regarding Belle’s condition.
As we sit there, side by side, the reality of the situation descends upon me yet again, knotting my stomach and clenching my heart. This room, with Sunny sleeping innocently, unaware of the gravity of the situation, feels like a refuge, a pocket of normalcy amid a sea of chaos and despair.
I see Aunt Melody silently wiping away a tear that escapes her control, and it reminds me of the tightrope we are all walking on — trying to maintain a brave face, to be strong for each other while grappling with our own personal turmoil.
It feels like we're in the eye of the hurricane; the quiet room a stark contrast to the whirlpool of medical terms, scans, and the painful back-and-forth of hope and despair that circulates the ICU.
A soft knock on the door breaks the silence, and the door opens to reveal a nurse with a kind, empathetic face. She comes in, steps quiet, and nods towards us before going over to check on Sunny.
“I hope I am not intruding. I just came to check on the little one. How is she doing?” The nurse asks, her voice a whisper that carries the weight of understanding, as she peeks into the crib.
“She's sleeping soundly, thankfully,” I reply, matching her hushed tone.
The nurse smiles a sad but warm smile and nods.
“That’s good to hear. Sleep is the best medicine at this age.
It helps in healing.” She checks Sunny’s vitals quickly, expert hands moving with a tenderness that speaks of years of caring for the little ones.
“Everything looks fine. Call us if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” Melody and I murmur almost in unison as she retreats, leaving us to the peace of the room once again.
My gaze drifts back to Sunny, her chest rising and falling with even, deep breaths, the peaceful expression on her little face bringing an ache to my heart.
It's both a blessing and a curse, this innocence. Shielded from the fear and uncertainty clouding the hearts of the adults around her, yet blissfully unaware of the gravity of her mother’s condition.
I reach out, letting my hand find a place in Aunt Melody’s, seeking the warm, grounding connection of another human being, another heart that is beating with the same rhythmic pulse of fear and hope.
We sit there, holding onto each other, the silence thick with unspoken words, yet full of understanding and shared pain. We both know we are in the waiting game, a cruel and torturous passage of time where we grasp at straws of hope, preparing ourselves for both miracles and heartaches.
It's a moment frozen in time, yet it feels like an eternity, a slow tick-tock echoing in the recesses of our minds, a constant reminder of the delicate thread that life hangs by.
“Melody...” I find myself whispering, breaking the silent pact we seemed to have formed. “Do you believe in miracles?”
She squeezes my hand tighter, her eyes welling up with tears as she tries to find words, any words that could encapsulate the tempestuous sea of emotions swirling within us.
“Yes, Alis. I have to believe in miracles,” she whispers back, her voice choked with emotion. “Sometimes, it's all we have left to hold on to.”
Her words linger in the air, a fragile thread of hope, woven from love, resilience, and a desperate plea for God or the universe or fate to be kind.
A whisper of faith that miracles can happen, that Belle will wake up, that our family will be whole again.
A desperate grasp onto hope, because sometimes, hope is the only thing stronger than fear.
It’s a bridge to tomorrow, an anchor in the storm, a beacon in the darkness.
We hold onto each other, a pillar of support in a trembling world, holding onto the glimmer of hope that flickers in the shadowy corners of the room, praying for the miracle that will bring light back into our lives.