15

                                    

                                          
Almost every afternoon, there's a chemistry study group in the library. It's about fifteen of us, working through problems and sharing notes - thank god everyone likes Eliza, who got us invited. Everyone's so smart there. I listen more than I talk, scribbling down notes so fast sometimes I can barely read my own handwriting. There's a sense of unity, though, that we're all nervous for the exam, that we all can't wait for winter break, to see our families, to relax a little.

                          
After, I hop the city bus to the hospital. Sometimes I study on the ride. Usually I call Cameron.
                          
"Hey," Cam says today. "Watching the game tonight?"
                          
"I'm gonna try and catch the end of it."
                          
"It snowed here in Toronto today. Just a dusting. My teammate from Florida, he got a kick out of it." I hear the smile in his voice, the steady rhythm of his breathing, his softness and genuity almost tangible through the phone.
                          
"I bet."
                          
"Heading to the hospital?"
                          
"Yeah."
                          
"You sound tired."
                          
I rub my eyes. "I am, a little."
                          
"You should go to bed early. And don't say exams are soon. You can't do well on tests if you're tired. See? I'm a fountain of wisdom. The best boyfriend."
                          
I smile. "The best."
                          
"And then right after, you're done with the semester. Mom's already excited for Christmas, you know. The decorations, the turkey, the stuffing  - god, she's already stressed about the fucking stuffing."
                          
"I can't wait. I really can't wait."
                          
"I read War and Peace again the other day, you know. Well, not read the whole thing. Just had an hour or two to spare and picked it up. The nice hardcopy one. You've heard of it?"
                          
I smile and shift in the seat. "Yeah, the name sounds familiar."
                          
"I don't know, some cute guy gave it to me."
                          
"He sounds like a keeper." Cameron laughs. I love it when he laughs.
                          
The bus squeaks to a stop, exhaust coughing loudly, and people around me shift from their seats. "I gotta go," I say, glancing out the window. "I'm at the hospital."
                          
"Okay. I'll talk to you later."
                          
"Good luck with your game tonight. You're going to do great."
                          
The hospital is busy, patients and nurses talking loudly in the hallways. I clip on my nametag and head to the pediatrics unit, tugging my sleeves over my hands. The hallways are awash with bright light - the building seems to hum with life. Is it irony, that it reeks of life in a place where people die? 
                          
There are lots of kids I love to talk with - Katie, who loves math too, and David, whose favorite comic book is Spiderman - but Willem is probably my favorite. And Max, of course.
                          
"Hi, Sam!" says Max. He's sitting in the waiting room, a picture book open on his lap, grinning broadly at me. His shirt is bright orange, and all the energy in the room seems to be drawn to him. "Mom, look! It's Sam!"
                          
I smile. "Hey, Max. What are you up to?"
                          
Max pushes his picture book aside and leaps up from the chair, grabbing my hand. "Come on, let's go say hi to Willem."
                          
"He's not sleeping?"
                          
"No, no, he's awake. You know what?"
                          
"What?"
                          
"I painted at school today."
                          
"What did you paint?"
                          
"Me and Willem at the zoo. I'll show you later. My teacher said it's good."
                          
"I'm sure it's great."
                          
The hallway is alive and humming with activity, the faint buzzing of machines and murmurs of conversation. I listen for medical jargon, for words that I'll have to look up later, for Latin words, for numbers and measurements. An old man is pushed by in a wheelchair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, and I'm reminded of Tom - something in my lungs constricts.
                          
Willem's room is at the end of the floor. The large window at the end of the hallway overlooks the evening Boston street, red and green and yellow lights distorting through the glass. 
                          
"Hello," says Willem as we enter the room. His voice is quiet, swallowed in his throat, and he flips through a thick novel - some mystery book. He loves those.
                          
Max immediately switches on the television, and I sit down on the chair. Willem's eleven years old, with pale blue eyes and a cautious smile. I saw a photo of him before chemo started - hair so dark it was almost black, nearly covering his eyes. Quiet and reserved. He doesn't talk that much, not nearly as much as other patients, but I think we're similar, in that way. He doesn't act his age. To have such an acute sense of mortality at eleven - I couldn't imagine. 
                          
"How are you?" asks Willem, setting down his book.
                          
"I'm good, Willem. How are you?"
                          
"Tired. But I don't want to sleep."
                          
It's with Willem that I think of Tom the most, feel an enormous stretch of love thousands of miles away. Maybe they're the same, Willem and Tom. Quiet souls. Fighters.
                          
"What do you want to do?" I ask. "Need anything?"
                          
"No, I'm okay. Want to hear about the mystery I'm reading?"
                          
"Yes."
                          
"It's in this small town, and this man was found dead in the barn. I just started it. But my guess is the detective's husband did it. I don't know. Just a feeling. I'll tell you if I'm right." Willem rubs his face. "I'd like to be a detective. Like Sherlock Holmes."
                          
"You'd be really good at that."
                          
"Maybe. I'd have to practice a lot. What do you want to do? Do you want to be a detective?"
                          
I have an answer on the tip of my tongue, but then I think about it. "I don't know what I want to do," I say honestly. And something swells in my heart, like fear. 
                          
"You should be a nurse. You're good here. I like talking about books with you. You're even nicer than Nurse Jenny."
                          
Max pipes up. "I love Nurse Jenny!" 
                          
"I like talking about books with you too, Willem," I say. And I do. I like being here, helping, forgetting about chemistry. 
                          


                          
A/N alrighty folks... the exams are close, winter break is soon, and part 1 will be wrapping up! any predictions?