Transcend

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Whenever my mother walks into a hospital, she shrivels up into a ball of nerves. She doesn’t speak; she doesn’t smile; she doesn’t even make eye contact. People look at her funny, like they’re wondering if someone else is controlling her mind, but she doesn’t notice. Not when she’s in a hospital.

They ask me if she’s okay, if she’s going through something. I don’t know what to tell them so I shrug. “She looks fine to me,” is what I say. She kinda does. Because in hospitals, she acts no different from the way she did the month after Aiden’s death. I guess I was used to the pursed mouth, the pinched face, the cold stare.

There were days I’d pick fights just hoping someone was strong enough to dislocate my bones, to break my nose, to make me bleed. Something serious enough to get me admitted into a hospital. Then I wouldn’t be the only one my mother looked at that way. For once she’d look at me like she looked at everyone else. I wouldn’t be the only one she hated.

It was a crazy overreaction. I don’t know how I thought it was a good idea at the time. But then again, a ton of things were good ideas when they really weren’t.

The funny part about my mother’s aversion to hospitals is that she forces me to go along with her to visit sick colleagues and dying friends, then ends up acting like she’s been stabbed through her chest. When I can’t put up with the schizophrenic behaviour, I pretend that it’s killing me to be there just so she can use me as an excuse to get out. The truth is I don’t mind the visiting.

I don’t hate hospitals like she does.

Not even after the day I had to identify my brother lying there on the OR table. There were surgeons cutting into his body and I remember staring at him for what felt like forever because I couldn’t recognize his face. There was so much glass jutting out of skin. Shredded flesh. Dried blood.

A doctor sat with me after I managed to nod and tell them that the mutilated face on the table past the glass belonged to Aiden. A doctor patted my back as I dry heaved, desperate to purge my body of whatever crap was gutting my stomach. It was a doctor that forced me to guzzle water before I could pass out. Was it the same doctor? I don’t remember. Probably not. All I could see was a flurry of scrubs, plastic gloves and operating gowns.

A hard knot tightens in my chest. Damn. Why am I even thinking about this? Maybe it’s time to stop pretending I’m still unconscious. If the fogginess in my head is anything to go by, I won’t be awake for much longer. I could use some water before I pass out.

But I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to know who it is sitting next to me. There’s a cloud of drugs clogging my brain and I feel like shit. My mother’s face isn’t going to help.

I try to keep myself still, but it’s tough. My muscles are dying for movement. The arm that’s in a sling is starting to cramp. It would be better if I went back to sleep. Shut myself away from the world for a couple more hours. I won’t have to deal with doctors prodding my privates or nurses hovering over me. And I won’t have to deal with my mother. One son dies in a car accident, the other gets hit by a car.... I force myself not to groan.

When did I become such a wimp?

I open my eyes. There’s a loud whoop from beside me.

“Cal! You’re awake!”

I groan when Brody thumps my arm and a blinding pain shoots through it. It’s been two seconds and he’s already making my life hell.

“Sorry, sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry. His hair is a mess and his eyes are as red as a druggie’s, but there’s a huge grin splitting his face. He better not have swallowed my pain meds.