Chapter 17 Lucy
LUCY
{Over twelve years ago}
Young Lucy. Three weeks later.
Welcome to Brightfield House.
The sign was huge. A smiling sun replacing the circle at the top of the oversized caduceus. White, various shades of blue, bright yellow.
The sealed medical file on my lap was thick enough to double as body armor.
Almost twelve years of treatments, failures, and false hopes compressed between sterile manila covers, labeled with barcodes instead of my name.
Mom said she’d copied everything for me to keep.
Strangely, the documents looked like the originals.
Creased from worry.
Stained from dripped coffee.
Stamped in bright, smeared ink.
I sat in the hospital's transfer bay. The wheelchair was locked in place, wheels unable to move.
I felt uncomfortable sitting in the environmental suit, mask fogging as I breathed too quickly, my nerves frayed to shreds.
The oxygen tank behind me hissed softly, and even though I was used to the sound, it made my skin crawl today.
Outside the hospital, fifty or so feet away, an ambulance waited to claim me.
Its back doors stood wide open, giving the impression of a predator waiting for prey.
An EMT was inside, checking supplies and readying for the trip to Brightfield House.
The driver was standing nearby holding a clipboard.
I scanned the area, spotting my parents beside an older minivan. It wasn’t familiar, and I wondered why they weren’t driving the sleek SUV they’d bought only a couple years ago.
Mom leaned against dad, and he wrapped one arm around her shoulders.
They seemed so far away, and they looked so small from where I sat.
The distance between me and my family had been growing wider every day. Now the gap was no longer something I could bridge.
The sound of sliding doors drew my attention to the right.
A nurse was striding outside holding a banker’s box labeled in bold red lettering—Personal Belongings.
Patient: Graves. My entire existence whittled down to one box: pitiful homemade calendar, books, tiny treasures, even Hoppy—the threadbare, tattered, and faded rabbit—was somewhere inside sealed in a plastic bag.
I watched as the nurse went to the ambulance and handed the EMT my things, then she strode to my parents and said something. Soon after, the trio was moving in my direction. They entered through the door the nurse had exited from, then looped around to join me in the elevated bay.
"You look good today, Lucy," Dad said, his eyes skipping over the suit and mask and wheelchair and oxygen tank. He deliberately avoided directly locking gazes. His hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Strong.”
“I look like a banana,” I tried to be funny, tried to say something that would give us a heartbeat’s break from this shitty situation.
Dad just looked confused for a moment.
“She always looks strong,” my mom suddenly spoke, her voice trembling slightly. “Our strong Lucy.” She moved around the wheelchair and stared down at me. “I know wherever you are, you’ll be okay because you’re so brave, Lucy.”
Why did that sound like a goodbye? We hadn’t even started the drive to Brightfield yet, so why was mom acting like we’d already arrived and they were leaving me behind?
“So damn strong,” Dad seemed to repeat himself in a daze.
“Yes, honey. She’s strong.” Mom shifted her focus from me to my dad.
He looked like a lost little boy right now.
I suddenly felt like I was missing something important, and if I realized it too late, something terrible might happen.
This wasn’t their normal sadness or joy.
This wasn’t hope. It was… grief? Resignation? I wasn’t sure.
What was strong anyways. What did ‘strong’ look like to my parents.
Was it the way I held myself upright in this stupid wheelchair despite the fatigue weighing down my limbs? Or was it just the fact that I wasn't actively dying at the moment? The bar for “good” was sea level these days.
“They’re backing the ambulance up,” the nurse interjected, “the guys know you’ll be following them, so they’ll try to make sure you don’t fall behind. If you do lose sight of them, don’t worry. Just keep following the directions. You’ve got navigation, right?”
“We’ll use our phone.”
“Great,” the nurse smiled, then moved behind me. “I’ll help settle you. Did you decide if you want to stay in the wheelchair or lay down for the trip? It’s over three hours.”
“Sitting is fine.” Even as a I said it, I knew I’d regret that. Sitting for so long hurt like hell.
“Fantastic. The ambulance is equipped with a docking system for wheelchairs, so you’ll be safe as houses. If you decide you need to lay down, just tell the EMTs. They’ll pull over and help you.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I bit my lower lip, waves of anxiety washing over me, as the ambulance with its rear doors still open finished backing up to the bay platform.
Once it was parked, the nurse unlocked my wheels and rolled me into the waiting vehicle.
The EMT helped her dock the chair and, after a few quick signatures, the nurse rejoined my parents in the transfer bay.
I waved at them weakly.
“We’ll see you at Brightfield, Lucy,” mom said, waving back. “This is going to be the right move; I just know it.” Why was there a lie in my mom’s eyes? Why did my dad look so tired right now?
“I trust you,” I told her. I’m not sure what made me say those specific words, but they felt right. Though mom’s face going slack and my dad’s brow furrowing in response made the unease in my belly bloat painfully.
More than four excruciating hours later—when my body felt like it would never recover from the jarring potholes and bumps—the ambulance parked in front of a beautiful building better suited for the English countryside than the middle of red rock Utah.
When the back of the ambulance opened, several people were waiting just past the bottom step of the Brightfield House.
A tall, kind-faced man in a white coat. A brunette woman with large, round glasses.
And one shorter man with an expanse of freckles so thick if you played connect the dots, he’d be all ink and no skin.
After glancing at each person in turn, I marveled at the building behind them.
Two stories, stretching left and right as far as the eyes could see, and crawling with trailing vines, somehow surrounded by a veritable oasis of trees and flowers.
A fountain in the middle of the circular driveway bubbled happily.
The two EMTs helped me exit the ambulance, then they brought down my wheelchair.
“I don’t need it,” I protested, even as my legs shook from sitting too long.
“Protocol,” one of them said pointedly, then positioned the wheelchair directly behind me, pushing against the back of my knees until I gave in, folding down into the leather sling seat.
I twisted in the seat at the sound of an approaching vehicle.
After a few moments, the older minivan came into view.
Dad parked behind the ambulance and cut the engine, but neither of my parents seemed in a hurry to exit.
It took the tall man in the white coat walking over to them, for mom and dad to shake themselves back to life and step out into the fading sunlight.
They all shook hands and then headed toward the building.
The doctor’s voice carried as he and my parents moved closer.
“I assure you that Brightfield House has the most advanced treatments. It's the premier Omega Care Facility in the country. We’re miles ahead of any other option. Lucy will have the best of the best here, guaranteed.”
“It should be the best, considering the cost,” Mom adjusted the collar of her shirt.
“Yes, well, I don’t handle that side of things.
My only job is to provide Lucy and the other amazing patients here the best care possible.
” The doctor skirted around the likely exorbitant cost of residing at Brightfield as he came to a stop in front of my wheelchair.
Surprisingly, he knelt so we were eye level with one another.
“Brightfield is a home away from home, Lucy. I know you’ve been shuffled around from facility to facility for a very long time, but things will be different now. ”
“Things will be different,” I shrugged, the effect lost within the confines of the bulky protective suit. “Like I’ve never heard that one before.”
The doctor grinned. “Oh, I’m sure you have.
Just like I’ve never had a patient greet me with sarcasm when I say Brightfield is a singularity in the medical world.
This is a place where you aren’t just your medical chart.
You’re not just your disease. Here, you’ll be Lucy first, and all those other things second. ”
Looking away from him, I stared at mountains in the distance. I wanted to believe him—that Brightfield would offer me something that the dozens of other hospitals and doctors and nurses hadn’t. But doubt was easier than trust for me, even at the tender age of twelve.
“You’ll see, Lucy.” He patted my suited knee. “Just give us some time to prove it.” When he stood up and moved away, my parents pushed into view.
"Everything’s arranged," Dad said, rubbing his hands together roughly, then shoving them into his pockets when he couldn’t seem to stop the nervous gesture. “You won’t need to worry about a thing.”
“We saw the room a few weeks ago. It’s huge. You’re going to love it.” Mom gave me a weak smile.
“Great,” I managed, wondering if I should be excited over having a bigger prison to call my own.
“This place is just for Omegas, Lucy. The staff here understand your situation better than any other people in the world,” Dad said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself instead of me.
The EMT that had ridden in the back with me, appeared holding the banker’s box. The shorter, freckled man took it wordlessly, then continued to patiently wait.