One Last Thing ✅

thirty-seven things

The room is cool and dark.

I hear Grams snoring from the couch near the window. Doctor Knowles told her to go home and get some rest, that I was safe here, that they'd watch over me and make sure I didn't try again.

But Grams insisted.

She mumbles something. I sit up slightly, raising my ear, but her words don't make sense. Snorting, she curls toward the window.

I push myself into a sitting position, wanting to get out of this bed, to escape from this prison made of uncomfortable pillows and scratchy blankets. The main obstacle is the IV that's poking into my arm. I bite my lip and rip myself free, thinking that it doesn't hurt half as much as my old pocket knife. But this is a jagged type of pain, and I gasp inwardly, using all my strength not to cry out.

Grams mutters something again. I hold my breath, willing her to start snoring again. She is quiet for a long, uncertain moment. Then she snorts and eases back into her slow breath, quick snore, slow breath pattern.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed and push off with my good hand. Standing up too quickly, I feel the blood rush to my head. I have to lean over and breathe deeply until I feel normal again. Then I straighten and tiptoe to the door, slip into the hall.

After the darkness of my hospital room, the florescent lights hurt my eyes. I look both ways, making sure there's no one headed in my direction. A clock on the wall across from me says it's almost three. Swiftly, I walk down the hall, wrapping my hospital gown tightly around me. The cool air snakes up my naked legs. I wish I'd taken the time to look for some clothes, but then remind myself it's best that I didn't wake Grams. She needs the rest.

An elevator beckons me from the end of the hall. I pick up my pace a little, anxious to get off this floor. I stab the down button impatiently. As I wait, a nurse walks out of a room and into the hallway. I turn my head and try to act nonchalant, as much as a girl in a hospital gown can. Lucky for me, the nurse looks like she's half asleep and wanders into the next room without even glancing up.

Ding.

The elevator door slides open, and I hop inside and impatiently jab my thumb at the button to make the door close again. Then I examine a map on the wall, trying to decide where to go. I'd left my room without a plan, fueled only by my desire to get out of confinement. I can't really go outside into the cold night wearing this tissue-thin gown. I'm not even wearing a bra. Tracing the lines of the map with my left index finger, I pause on "Nursery, 3rd floor."

Of all the places in a hospital, the nursery is probably the best. Every other floor is filled with suffering people; whether they're sick or loving somebody sick, both groups are in pain. But a nursery is filled with happiness and hope, the promise of new life.

If there's anything I need right now, it's hope.

I hit the "3" button and wait for the familiar sensation of sinking. The elevator drops and then catches, causing my stomach to lurch. Finally the elevator dings and the doors part, revealing a large room lined with cushioned chairs and plastic plants. A young man naps in the corner of the room near an electric fireplace. I spy a table with a basket of cookies and a pot of coffee arranged on a pretty tablecloth.

Cautiously, I step out.

The doors close behind me.

Everything is quiet.

Peaceful.

Across the room, next to a set of double doors, there's a sign reading "MOTHER/BABY UNIT." I walk over to it and look through the window, spotting another man walking away from me, a bundle of blankets pressed close to his chest. A tiny face peers out, and the bluest eyes I've ever seen fix on me. The man disappears into a room, taking the little angel with him.

A strange feeling takes hold of me—a curiosity, almost. A yearning to see, to understand this miracle of a brand new soul. I put my hand on the door handle and push, but it doesn't budge.

Locked.

Of course.

To keep people like me away.

Destroyers of life.

Defeated, I turn back and face the waiting room. There's no way I want to return to my own hospital room, which seems so cold and uncomfortable compared to this place. The fireplace flickers invitingly, so I choose an empty seat across from the dozing man. I watch his face, wondering whether he's an expectant father or some other relative, an uncle perhaps.

At that moment, the double doors swing open, and a nurse pops her head out. "Mr. Jensen?" she calls, and the man sitting across from me shakes into action, his eyes wide open. "Your wife is asking for you." He leaps up and hustles toward the doors, and follows the nurse, who turns and leads him down the hall. The doors start to close behind them.

Without thinking, I jump up and hurry over before the doors can shut all the way. I catch them just in time. As they click behind me, I scan the walls and spot a sign that says "NURSERY" with an arrow pointing to my right. I walk as fast as my feet can carry me, worried that another nurse will catch me and insist on walking me back to my own room.

I walk down one hall and then another.

Suddenly, I am confronted by a wall of babies. They are lined up in little bassinettes, each facing the window with little pink or blue signs announcing their names. There's a Kyle, a Lisa, a Nolan, an Ashley, a Tyler. A Taylor, a Savanna, a Rebecca, a Dallas. At the end of the line, there is a tiny, pink baby called Kevin. I connect with him almost immediately. All the rest of the babies are sleeping, but he is awake. He isn't crying. He just seems to be staring out the window, at nothing.

At me.

I approach the glass and peer through.

"Hello," I whisper, even though I know he can't hear me.

This little boy before me—he is an enigma to me. We learned about something called tabula rasa in school. It's this philosophical idea that kids are born without any preconceived notions of the world. Like blank slates. Their experiences shape who they are, who they become.

So, this boy before me.

Kevin.

He's a blank slate, a stark white soul with no smudges yet.

Yet.

I wish I could go back.

If only.

I reach up and touch the glass with the tips of my fingers. I'm pretty sure babies aren't able to see that well when they're first born, but Kevin coos and wiggles his head from side to side.

I could swear he's smiling at me.