Polaroids and Postcards | ✔️

Chapter 43: Della's Scrapbook

"Travel changes you. As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small. And in return, life-and travel-leaves marks on you. Most of the time, those marks-on your body or on your heart-are beautiful. Often, though, they hurt." - Anthony Bourdain

•••

Everything happened in a muffled blur of white noise and the resounding echo of my song pulsing in my head, like my own heartbeat had given up on me and given way to the music. Somehow I managed to get a car back to the hospital, race down the maze of hallways, dodge nurses and janitors, and fumble my way to the right floor.

When I found the right room, I froze. My blood ran cold, but I was sweating anyway.

It was eerily quiet behind the door. Too quiet. Too quiet for Della and Derrick to be having a conversation. Too quiet for anyone to be watching TV or cracking jokes. To quiet for things to be okay.

I braced myself before cracking open the door, peeping around the corner just like I had done back in Colorado-which to my disappointment, felt like ages ago.

Through the crack, all I could see was Derrick standing in the corner, staring at the bed with a pained expression. His arms were folded tightly into his chest, as if this simple act would protect his heart from the pain he felt. He rocked a little, back and forth, making no attempt to leave or sit. He was frozen in time... like a photograph.

I opened the door unceremoniously, my gaze instantly grabbed by Della. Her eyes were shut as if in sleep, but something about her body's stiff, awkward positioning sent a chill sweeping over me.

Derrick's eyes flashed wildly as I entered and he began to stammer much too fast for me to keep up with him. "She-she fell asleep, Jason! She fell asleep and I-and I-I thought she'd-I thought she was just-but they said... They said she's in-"

I approached the bed, not responding to any of Derrick's nonsense. I couldn't have, even if I had wanted to. I hardly heard anything above the sounds of my own muddled thoughts.

I grabbed Della's hand. It was cold and she didn't stir from her slumber. I silently begged for her to open her steely grey eyes and do anything. Anything at all... She could've slapped me with her icy hand and I would've thanked her repeatedly for it.

Derrick was still rambling like a lunatic behind me.

"I don't know if she's gonna-I don't know anything anymore! W-why does she have to-? Do you think she could wake up?"

I spun around, my voice shaking in anguish. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His usually tough demeanor was cracking at the seams. "They said she's unresponsive, Jason. But what does that even mean, really? They said it's like a coma?? But they said they don't think she'll wake up. SO IS IT REALLY LIKE SLEEPING OR IS SHE...??"

I jumped when he raised his voice. It broke the medical, icy veneer that had been suspended over the room that whole time. And it cleared my head enough to actually think straight.

"Unresponsive?" I repeated, looking back at Della.

For the first time since I'd entered the room, I noticed the giant heart-monitor beeping steadily in the corner. Had that always been there? I hadn't heard it until then. But now it was loud and strong-and I welcomed the sound.

Della was not dead.

"What did they tell you?" I demanded, turning to Derrick with a fierce tremor in my voice. "What did they say?"