The Edmonton Hospital is a dump. No, I'm kidding—it only looks like a dump from the view of the ambulance bay. Inside, they've been doing plenty of renovations, and it's probably one of the most high-tech places in town. It's actually the hospital for three or four surrounding towns as well and the only one with a Psych ward for several hours of driving.
Brightly-coloured triangles dot the sleek grey floor, and glass windows stretch down the hall. At this time in the morning—7:15—only worried relatives and hospital staff occupy the floors, but I've seen what it's like during the day, when quickly-shoved on shoes and food-stained t-shirts dart off in inconspicuous directions, hoping that they/their mother/their friend/their distant relative is alright.
(I just hope that I'll make it through the day without breaking down completely)
Reagan and I walk down the main hall, while she holds a map of the general hospital in her hand and I stride along on my half-tippy-toes and attempt to see the map over her shoulder.
In the email that she was sent, she was told that we had to meet at Nurse Station 3 to meet with the training representative that was supposed to talk with us about a job at the hospital. As I think that; as my train of thought goes off into circles of operating rooms and registered nurses and just hospitals in general, one thought sticks in the shadows.
This is all happening too fast.
It was only yesterday that I woke up in tears. Only one day ago that I called Reagan from the phone in the hall closet and stood in the stuffy little enclosure for an hour crying about Adam. His life. His death. The fact that his death somehow had happened a year ago.
Yesterday, I ran downstairs in my pajamas sobbing and left the house with tear tracks running down my cheeks. We met up at the cemetery then; Reagan and I. I hadn't told her where to meet me, but she knew. I didn't look at his grave—I never look at his grave—but while the sounds of my somewhat distant wailing filled the graveyard, I came up with a plan; a totally ridiculous and spontaneous plan, but a plan nonetheless.
We had to do something for him. Adam deserved more than a few bouquets of roses and lilies or a three-week choir dedication at the elementary school. And so right then, standing on a well-kept, grassy field with rotten corpses locked underneath in picture-perfect caskets, Reagan and I made a pact.
(well, actually, we swigged down a bottle of tequila between the two of us first, but that's irrelevant)
As we laughed at our tipsy selves, we slashed our palms with a shard from the broken bottle and swore that we'd help others not become my brother.
A transcript of our conversation:
[3/5/16; 1;34 PM]
Reagan; And whaddya say we get a job at the hospital?
[Reagan twirls around dizzily and topples to the ground}
Reagan; Don't the clouds look pos-tive-ly mons-mons-tro-trous today?
Cate; Hahahahahaha. Haha. Ha.
[Cate leans over on "Frederick Templeton's" headstone and laughs melancholily. Slurs her words]
Cate; So, so funny. Hahaha.
[Cate tries to straighten up from the headstone]
Cate; Le's get a job! A job at...a store or something...somewhere. Hahaha.
[Cate's shoulders shake]
[Reagan lifts her pointer finger up and draws at the air with it]
Reagan; Le's get a job...at the hopita...hospital.
Cate; Yes! The hopita...hopita...hospit...hopital. Le's get a job there!
[Cate lies down next to Reagan]
Cate; Do you have anymore-more tequila?
And then we sobered ourselves up and splashed water at each other's faces in the church's washroom.
(at least, we did that before the pimply twenty-year-old that worked there yelled at us to, Get out and stop making a fuss!)
YOU ARE READING
It's all in Your Head
Teen FictionA year ago, Cate Xylyk's then-nine-year-old brother was murdered. Now she's attempting to get over it by applying for a job at the local hospital with her best friend. But the job isn't the only thing she turns to, and she slowly gets deeper into a...
