I follow him down the hall toward a glass window. Behind it, a dozen children play in a small room. Most are bald, and all of them have tubes in their bodies. Their ages are mixed, and I imagine they all are older than they look. They are laughing, enjoying the assortment of toys available. They take no notice of us standing, staring. Maybe they are used to adults watching them, searching for a sign that they are on the mend. I can imagine doctors like David jotting down notes. The patients’ every behavior critical. The way they share toys or handle conflict an insight into the state of their health. Or maybe they just don’t care who is behind the window. It is irrelevant to them whether they are passing or failing an unknown test. Because they are already facing the greatest battle of their lives. One that determines if they will be the ultimate victor or the greatest loser.
“You want me to take pictures of them?” I ask.
“With them,” he corrects, waving to a young boy. He turns toward me but my eyes remain on the children. “Did Sean mention various forms of therapy to you? Such as animal therapy?”
“Yes.” Studies showed that an animal’s unconditional love helped to heal what medicine could not. I often wondered what it would have been like if I had one growing up. Would a dog or cat have been strong enough to diminish my pain? “It can work miracles.”
“Yes.” He seems pleased by my knowledge of it. “We are searching for additional ideas to help patients heal or at least get on the path.”
“You believe photography is the answer?” Photography was the only answer I found. Spending hours looking through the lens saved me from turning my eye inward and focusing on my own life and loss.
“Art in any form is powerful. The children have plenty of crayons and paper for their artistic endeavors. But we have never offered photography. I would be fascinated to see what effect it has.” He points out a little girl whose new growth of hair barely covers her head. She walks slowly so as not to topple the attached IV stand. “She loves looking at picture books. Imagine if she could take some of her own.”
“Teach a class?”
“That might work better for the adults. With the children, maybe gather a few at a time and show them the basics. The hospital will of course provide the cameras and supplies.”
“A printer. They would love to see their pictures right after they take them.” Ideas start to crowd in my head. “They could create a book of their photographs. Something to take home with them.” Those who survive to see their homes again.
“Is that a yes?” He rubs his hands together, a mixture of excitement and relief. “We’ll deal with some human resource formalities and then you can start immediately.”
“Wait,” I say, trying to slow the train down. “Don’t you want to see my portfolio?”
“When Sean told us your agent called, the board researched your work,” he admits. “The pictures are brilliant.” He motions toward the children. “We would be very lucky to have you.”
“Thank you.” A child, maybe five, catches my eye. He has stacked his Lego bricks into a tall building. After showing everyone his feat, he pulls one arm back and with a swift chop tumbles them all to the ground. A human instinct, I muse. Destroy that which we have built.
“I had no idea who you were or the quality of your work when we last spoke.” He looks contrite. “I feel foolish.”
“Please.” His admiration sends a slow tingle down my spine, where it intermingles with fear, a hellish symbiosis. I can’t be sure if it’s knowing my father is in his room below us lying near death or having enjoyed the last few minutes of conversation with David, but the feelings overwhelm me. Remind me of what I can never have. Never be. “I appreciate your kindness.”
“So what do you think?” He holds on to his stethoscope, pulling it tight around his neck. He glances down at his feet before meeting my gaze. “It’s great work if you’re interested.”
Turning away from the children, I step out of their line of sight. It makes no difference to them, but it keeps me from seeing their suffering. That is the most difficult part. Children, blameless from birth, harmed for no reason. Whether their pain comes from the hands of a parent, a stranger, or God, it is impossible for me to accept. Innocents, never schooled on how to fight, still just learning how to live, have to be strong and wise just to survive. Maybe that is my undoing. I have never learned. How could I when I am still running? “Let me think about it.” I start to walk away, dread settling inside me like a lost friend. As I pass the window, I see the young boy raise his hand in celebration, all the Lego bricks lying at his feet.