chapter 6
I was surprised, to say the least, when Peter pulled into the parking garage of a large teaching hospital. He hadn’t told me where we were going on our date, just that I should dress comfortably. He smiled at my weary look. I hate hospitals. Hate them with a passion. Sure, a hospital had kept me alive when I was injured, but that just meant that I had a thorough knowledge of their inner workings. I might visit one voluntarily if I was dying. Maybe. Visit one when I wasn’t even sick? Na-uh, no way, no how.
Peter clearly saw this on my face. “You asked me once, what I do with my time.” He gestured toward the main building. “Well, this is it.”
I gave him a deadpan look. “What? You can’t just wrangle up your food the old fashioned way?”
He gave me the look. Seeing that expression on his face, I could see the power and superiority that truly coursed within him. It was horrifying. “Come on, chicken,” he said firmly. “Suck it up.”
I snorted and unbuckled my seat belt. We made our way into the hospital and Peter steered us toward a bored-looking older woman behind a giant desk. Apparently, he was a regular here. The woman- Lisa according, to her nametag- lit up when she saw him. We obtained a pair of volunteer badges and headed for the elevator.
I fingered my plastic badge curiously, impressed. It was a real badge; not just one of those stickers you write your name on. Peter had obviously put some thought into this. I took a deep breath and told myself to relax. He seemed to want to share this part of his life. It was a good gesture. Suck it up.
We got off on the fifth floor. I wheeled off the elevator, taking in the Disney characters painted on the walls. Oh.
Peter led the way to a small play area in the middle of the floor. A group of kids were waiting for him. They were all smiles and crazy energy- even the ones with bandages and I.V. poles. I could see a nurses’ station on one side of the area. Hallways with patient rooms stretched out in each direction, with brightly colored figures painted on the windows.
A pretty blond nurse was rounding up the kids. She gave me a brief, friendly smile before turning to beam at Peter. “What will it be today?”
Peter smiled in response, and shot a questioning glance at the kids “Paint?” At a chorus of agreement, the nurse hurried off to get us some supplies. Peter introduced me around and greeted some new patients. Then we painted.
It was the most fun, and the most heartbreaking, thing I had ever done. The children ranged from toddlers barely able to walk, and attended by strained parents, to one hesitant teenager with one side of his head shaved. The sutures stuck out like dark railroad tracks spanning the entire side of his scalp. The little ones seemed to love the fact that my wheelchair put me on their level. One adorable little girl of about five or so asked to sit on my lap. I was scared to let her, afraid I might disrupt the long IV trailing from her arm. But Peter stooped and picked her up, raising her high then plopping her in my lap amid a chorus of giggles.
I watched his green eyes sparkle with joy as the children swarmed him. I was as enraptured as everyone else in the area. The staff all managed to stop and sneak a peek at our group at some point in the afternoon- not that I blamed them. Peter came to the children’s wing about once a week. Sometimes he visited the various adult floors too. “I’ve been blessed with this life,” he explained on the way home. “You must make the most of the precious life you’ve been given.”
I mulled this over on the ride home. Sure, my life wasn’t as far-reaching as Peter’s, but the depth of his sentiment touched me. My life had been forever altered by my accident, but nonetheless, I had survived. For what purpose? What would the world be like if everyone sought to make more of their lives by enriching the lives of others?
*****
When I was a little girl, I used to write stories and poems in my journal. My best friends and I would act them out, running around the house and yard like little fiends, driving my parents crazy with our antics. When I got older, more important things took up my time, things like school, and homework, and boys. I stopped writing for some time.
And then fate bitch-slapped me. When I started to wake up a little, and get some awareness of what had happened, I was angry, hurt, and confused. My brain was feverishly working to make new neuronal connections as I learned to do even the most basic tasks all over again. I needed an escape, something outside the walls of the rehab unit. During one of my therapy sessions my mother mentioned, in an off- hand sort of way, how I used to write. That’s when my Occupational therapist handed me a pen and a little notebook.
My psychologist had urged me to journal, but it held no interest for me. I could barely hold a pencil, and typing was a chore. I spent all day processing what had happened to me; I didn’t want to spend my free time that way too. But writing fiction was different. This was escape- something I could immerse myself in until the next therapy session, the next trial.
It was very difficult at first. I started with single words. Eventually I wrote short poems, then stories. As I emerged from the fog, they even started to make sense.
In the years since my accident, I wrote almost daily. I kept most of my work on my computer, but the really good stuff- the poems and stories and little bits of insight that had deeper meaning to me- I printed and put in a binder on my bookshelf. That way they were easy to grab when I want to look at them without starting up the computer.
I dreamed of the color green that night. My mind was filled with the soothing color of nature and growing things. Bright green grass, muted green moss growing on a rock, green leaves dancing overhead, green birds twittering in the branches of the trees, a deep green sea of wild grasses where I lay down and watched an iridescent green butterfly dance across the sky as soft tendrils of grass caressed my cheek.
I woke up to deep green eyes the color of emeralds. Peter smiled down at me, his graceful fingers caressing my cheek. “I brought you breakfast.” I stretched and grinned back. Making my way out of the bathroom a while later, I found orange juice and a breakfast sandwich waiting for me. The little deli down the street makes amazing breakfast biscuits, but I can never manage get there in the morning and get to work on time.
Peter looked at me in surprise when I wheeled past the table and turned on the computer. I blushed self-consciously under his silent questioning gaze. I never shared my writing with anyone. It was for me. And I had never written with company- it always felt very private. But I had to get my dream into words before the feeling of it left me.
Peter brought me the orange juice and I sipped it while I waited for the computer to start up. When I started to peck at the keyboard, he looked over my shoulder curiously. I gave him a warning look and he backed off. His eyes had a hint of silver to them-probably thanks to the intense emotions I had been putting off since he woke me.
He paced to my bookshelf and took down one of the thick binders where I store my writing. Plopping down on the sofa, he lifted it questioningly, “May I?”
I frowned. “How did you know about that?”
He grinned slyly, “You kept glancing up there while you were picking at that keyboard.”
I frowned. I must have been unconsciously thinking that the poem about his eyes belonged up there- with the important ones.
Peter flipped through my work as I typed. Motor control is not my strong point, so of course typing is slow, but it’s better than hand writing things.
Finally, Peter stood and took down another binder. “I need to go to work,” he said, gathering his things. “Can I take these?” He had several pounds of my writing tucked under his arm.
“Why?”
He dropped a kiss on my forehead. “Because they’re really good; I want to read them tonight.”
I shrugged. “Fine,” I said, a bit fearful of what he might find in there. “Oh, hang on.” I hit print, then handed him the newest addition to the binder. “This is what I was dreaming of when you woke me up.”
He tucked it into his breast pocket to read later and I smiled hesitantly, wondering what his face would look like when he figured out it was about him. My smile faded as a sliver of apprehension worked its way in. Every since my accident, I felt that if something good happened, then something bad must surely follow. I crushed the nagging voice that wondered if I had the right to be happy, and went to see Peter out.