Ignorance is Bliss

I’ve never really liked hospitals. They’re too white and fluorescent, and they smell too much like medicine—like they’re trying to mask the scent of death and disease. Hospitals are deceptive. They make you think that their only purpose is to help—to save—and forget to mention all the people they couldn’t. It’s a never-ending cycle. You’re born there, and a lot of the time, you die there.  I have never liked hospitals, which is why I currently hate my mother—the person who signed me up to volunteer in one over the summer. Apparently, my performance in academics this year was not to her standards, so she punishes me with free labor. I hate sick people, too. I don’t know how to act around them. They’re disgusting and they make me uncomfortable. They’re all so pale and clammy.

Like I said—disgusting.

The air outside is hot and humid, and even though the car isn’t that far away, by the time I get there, my back feels too warm and sticky. I sit in the passenger seat as my father climbs into the driver’s side and turns the key into the ignition. The SUV rumbles to life.

My street is quite inhabited. No one has any privacy and there is a surplus of barbecues and pool parties and those yard sales where everything is pretty, but not really useful. The houses are all well-trimmed with carefully tended flower beds and window boxes filled with colorful blossoms. The yards are always green and always meticulously mowed to where it almost looks like a golf course, and when I think about it—which is not often—I don’t really think there’s much point in keeping your yard so neat. It’s not like I think they should let it become overgrown, but they could take a little break; stop trying to impress people. Essentially, everyone on my street is fake.

I catch my reflection in the side-mirror. I have straight, mud-brown hair and bland amber eyes. My face is too narrow and my nose is too thin and long on face. My eye-liner is very thin. If it’s thick, it makes my eyes look misshapen. I am not pretty. I am plain and painfully average.

I focus back on my surrounds to find that we are pulling into the hospital parking lot. It is filled with cars—it always is. In Shoreline, California, people aren’t really the most cautious. There are a lot of reckless surfers, so there are a lot of broken bones and the occasional shark attack. The founders of this town were extremely creative—as you can see—with the name of it because really, Shoreline is simply a pretentious town lining the shore of Murlo Beach. Again, extremely creative. It may seem as if I hate this place, but I don’t. I’ve grown up here—lived here all my life—and I love it. I love California; love the sun, the sand, the summer. California is freedom and I love it. 

“Alright, Kayla. See you at five, okay?” Dad says. He adjusts his sunglasses—pushes them farther up the bridge of his narrow nose—and smiles. I don’t smile back because we are not on speaking terms; not after he sided with Mom.

“Yeah, whatever,” I say dismissively. “See you later.”

I hear him sigh before I turn and start towards the hospital entrance, hiking the strap of my bag up from where it had been falling off of my shoulder. The lobby is filled with anticipation, so thick you could almost feel it. I’ll have to admit, this afternoon’s crowd is interesting. Some people are poised at the edges of their seats, others are slumped against them, and some people are pacing. I hate it when people pace. It makes me nervous.

There’s a small, artificial-looking nurse in lavender scrubs behind the front desk, manicured nails tapping against the counter top as she talks animatedly into the old-fashioned, spiral corded phone. Her voice is high-pitched nasally. I clear my throat when I reach the desk.

“Can you believe that—one second, hun—I know! So Steph’s giving him another chance. Yeah, I know. Right?”

Great. The last thing I need is some bimbo-blonde nurse gossiping instead of doing her job. I scowl and try again. “Excuse me—,”