The Prince and the Punk [EDITING]

Chapter 36

Janice

"Hey, how come you don't wear a white coat?" I ask Dr. Forrest on one of my less pitiful days.

"Don't you think the green is better?" she replies with a smile.

"Yeah, I mean, it's a cool green," I say. "It's just really different. Sometimes you walk in and I forget you're a doctor."

She chuckles. "I like green. People do, too. It's supposed to be comforting because it reminds us of nature. I figured, most of the people here haven't seen anything green in a long time, and considering how rough things tend to be for our patients, I like to think it helps a bit."

"That's... really cool, actually."

"I know it is," she replies with mock vanity, exaggeratedly tossing her tightly curled hair. "Besides, I can't blend in with all the other doctors. A girl's gotta make an impression."

I laugh.

Days like these are the good days, and as time moves on, there are more and more of them.

One day, a nurse cracks open my door. "Janice, you up for a visitor?" she asks.

"Yeah," I reply.

I fully expect Max to stroll through the doorway, but instead, a man of about seventy limps into the room with a cane. He's frail for his age, and it looks like the slightest wind might blow him out the window.

"Janice Elliot?" he croaks.

"Yes?" I've never seen this man before in my life, and I'm startled that he knows my name.

He clears his throat, sitting down in the room's single cushioned chair and nervously drumming his fingers on his cane.

"My name is Warren Slater," he says, immediately capturing my full attention.

"Slater?" I ask, my voice cracking at the name. "You're his..."

"Father."

I gape, not knowing what to say.

"I... apologize for coming uninvited, but I wanted to meet you. My son, he—he told me a lot about you."

"He did?"

Warren nods. "He mentioned you every time he wrote to me." He shakes his head. "Anyway, I just wanted to... meet you, as I said..." He trails off, like he's trying to remember how to finish the thought, and I consider the possibility that he doesn't know.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I whisper after a long pause. "I miss him, too. Every day. I-I wish I could have done more."

"I think you did a lot for him. He was never very... Well, you know how he was. It was good to see him care about someone."

I've never seen an old man cry, and the tear that runs down his face is absolutely heartbreaking. I lost a boyfriend, but he's lost his son. I can't imagine a worse pain.

"It's been rough since the funeral," he says. "Seeing them lower my youngest son into the ground.... I thought you might understand."

"I missed the funeral," I murmur.

Warren nods. "It was a nice ceremony. As nice as... those things can be. He got full military honors and everything. The whole family was there—all his brothers and his friends. You call me up sometime, and we'll go visit him."

"Thank you, I will." It's a lie, but a pleasant one, and he seems to know. Neither of us asks for a way to contact the other, and without words, we understand that this is a one-time meeting.

He stands to leave, relying heavily on his cane. Halfway to the door, he turns back to me. "I remember why I came," he announces, hobbling back to me. He rummages around in his pockets for a minute before pulling out a chain with something silver dangling from it. When he drops it in my hand, I realize I'm holding Slater's dog tags.

The tags are supposed to be light, but they feel heavy and cold in my hand. I take a shaky breath.

"I have enough of his things," Warren says. "And those in particular hurt to look at. So... I figured you might want something of his."

I close my hand around the gift. "Thank you," I whisper.

"You take care of yourself, sweetheart." He leaves, and I stare at the door long after he goes through it.

I slide the chain over my head, and the ID tags on the end of it weigh like Slater himself is hanging onto them. I wrap a hand around them to remind myself that he isn't.

Not for the first time, I feel his absence. I feel it more than I think I ever felt his presence, and I would give anything to go back and change that. People say you never know what you have until it's gone. I never gave much thought to the idea, but then again, when you have something, the last thing on your mind is what losing it would feel like.

Sitting in the white room, watching the sun set through my window, I feel like nothing—nothing more than the selfish piece of shit I am. It's like I'm rotting from the inside out.

I don't deserve the token I've been given, but I still keep it, unable to bear the thought of separating with more of Slater than I have to.

I wonder what he thinks of me. I wonder whether he's looking down on me from somewhere or if he's moved on and forgotten already. If there's a Heaven, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's there. If he's wandering around somewhere in the aether, I know it's close by. Sometimes I stare at a spot in the room and I swear I can feel him, like there's a screen or a wall between us and he's just on the other side.

Sometimes it feels like he must be a ghost. Other times, I know he's somewhere underground, and I don't think he's going anywhere.

Above all, I miss him. I wish he was here, and I wish I knew what to do with myself now that he's not.

++++

That was kinda heavy...

Anyway. This felt like a Cure chapter.

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