Chapter 3

Tonight is my third night in this hospital, and if anything, I'm feeling worse by the minute. It's not just the boredom choking me, but the memories too. When I was in high school, my sister would be stuck in hospitals for months on end. Due to her Leukemia and fragile immune system from her treatments, she was always sick. It didn't matter what precautions we took to prevent it; it never seemed to help.

I was always by her side after school, wearing masks so that I could read to her. She loved it when I read Harry Potter books, especially when she was too weak to hold up heavy books. It was our thing—me reading to her while she looked at me with star-struck eyes. There was so much love and appreciation in them, and I knew right then and there that I could never let her down. That's why, despite my hatred of hospitals, I stuck around.

Now though, I have no desire to be here. Mainly because I'm now the one in a hospital bed. Maybe I'm naive since hockey is a contact sport, but I never expected to be hospitalized over an injury. I always thought I'd have something along the lines of a broken arm, not a cracked skull. I definitely would've never even dreamed of it being due to a petty fight I started.

Although, to be fair, you don't mess with the goalie. It's an unspoken rule in hockey, and Meyers knows that. Everyone knows that. He played dirty by hitting me with his hockey stick, and I hope he at least got suspended for a couple of games for it. Fucking coward.

I've been stuck here for three days now, and though I know I'm supposed to be out of here within a few more, I can't help but struggle to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I consider myself a carefree guy for the most part, but damn this sucks. There's really no way to be that happy when you're stuck in a room with nothing to do but watch TV, which I can't even do much of with this damn concussion. I've considered going to sleep, but I'm way too keyed up for it. I need to get out of here.

There's a knock at the door, and I rest my head back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling before letting out a soft breath. The door opens a crack, but then no one comes in. Instead, I hear arguing from the other side. One voice is heated while the other is placating, and my brows furrow in concentration as I strain my ears to try to hear what's going on.

"I don't need help!" Bailey growls. "I said I'm fine."

Bailey comes into the room, carrying a bunch of supplies in her hands and setting them on the bedside table. She starts opening wrappers, not once looking in my direction as she clearly fumes, her nostrils flaring slightly. Another nurse peeks her head in, grimacing for a second, then giving me a soft smile. She shakes her head and leaves.

"You don't have to be so rude, you know," I blurt out.

Bailey looks up at me, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you even care?" She opens a pack of something with a tourniquet, and I swallow hard. "It's none of your business."

I chuckle, and she stiffens. "If you didn't want me to make it my business, then you shouldn't have done it right outside my room where I could hear you."

Bailey's face blanches. Then she quickly shakes it off, pursing her lips. Even through her anger, she's beautiful. Her full lips are pursed, and there's a little wrinkle between her eyebrows as she frowns.

"I need to draw your blood, Mr. Anderson," she says softly, yet her frown hasn't disappeared. I can tell she's irritated, but I don't pry, especially not when she has a needle in her hand. "You ready?"

I gulp, nodding my head too quickly. It's not that I'm scared of needles. Not exactly. More apprehensive than anything. I just don't enjoy getting poked.

"I guess," I mumble.

"Extend your arm for me," she demands, and I narrow my eyes. Not even a please? However, I do as she says, giving her my arm and pumping my fist because it's not my first rodeo. They've been poking me every day since I got here. "There you go."

Bailey wraps the tourniquet around my arm, pressing on my veins, and then she cleans the area with an alcohol wipe. I wince from the cold wipe, but it's nothing compared to the way she shoves the needle into my arm. No warning, no gentleness to be found.

I groan because, holy fuck. What did I do to deserve this? Have I been mean to her? Or is she just this way with everyone? "Ow," I growl. "That hurts, Bailey."

Bailey looks up to make eye contact with me, then rolls her eyes. I drop mine to the tube that's filling up with my blood. And just when I think we're done, she replaces it with the next one. My head feels a little woozy, but I breathe in deeply through my nose and the feeling slightly dissipates.

"You'll be alright," she replies with a tight smile, letting go of the tourniquet and then pulling out the needle. You're kidding, right? "All done."

"That actually hurt."

"I'll be back later, Mr. Anderson."

I nod once. Well, I won't be here.

She gathers the trash, puts the needle in the sharps container, and then wordlessly exits the room. I look around for a moment, spotting my bag, then get out of bed. I can somehow feel how cold the floor is through my grippy socks, and I hurry up to get my sweatpants out of the bag Jeremy brought me yesterday. Being in this gown is not all it's cut out to be. Yeah, easy access for my care, but I refuse to show all my goods to the rest of the hospital.

Getting the sweatpants and a long-sleeve shirt from the bag, I dress myself as quickly as possible. My IV is in my hand, so I'm extra careful with it since I don't want a new one, and then I open the door silently. The lights are brighter than in my room, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I slip out without a sound. There's not even one nurse or nurse assistant in the hallway, and I hurry toward the elevator. Thankfully, there's a sign with a directory for the hospital, and I press the eleventh-floor button that will take me to the cancer ward.

The elevator doors open, and silence greets me. It's eerie and lonely in here, and tears spring to my eyes from how sterile it feels and looks. I hate that these kids are stuck here, many times without anyone by their sides, just cruising through a life full of pain and heartache.

My sister would sob every time we had to leave her, especially since both of my parents had to work full time and I was too young to spend the night with her. I can't even imagine how alone she must have felt. No amount of reading to her or holding her hand could erase everything she lived on her own. The number of times she was poked and prodded, the MRIs, the PET scans, the surgeries, the chemo, radiation, and well, the never-ending pain all of that caused. And she had to go through it on her own, for the most part, as a teenager.

Her cancer journey was long and arduous, lasting many years. At first, she was very sick, but chemo started working, and she got better for a while. She even went into remission. But eventually, she relapsed again, and she had to do a bone marrow transplant. I had never seen her sicker than that. Not even when she was throwing up multiple times a day from the chemotherapy.

She had to be in the hospital for months on end, and her immune system was so deteriorated that she was constantly either sick or fighting some kind of infection in her body. After that, she went into the shortest remission ever, and when she eventually relapsed again, she did chemo and radiation one more time. It didn't work, and she started clinical trials.

Missing out on my childhood and my parents hurt really bad, although seeing her slowly dying, a walking corpse, hurt even worse. Many times not even moving, just perched on her bed, barely breathing. My best friend, the one who forced me to play Barbie dolls with her. The person who dressed me up in princess dresses and makeup and painted my nails. I let her do it because I loved her, because any ounce of her attention brought me joy.

And the day she died? It was the worst day of my life.

Courtney's breathing is shallow, strained. Her breaths are coming out in gasps, and her eyes can barely open. She looks skinnier than ever, gaunt. Her cheeks are hollowed, and her eyes are sunken in. It brings a sharp pain behind my ribcage, and I struggle to breathe too. This perfect girl, the one who has been my biggest cheerleader since we were little. The one who built snow castles with me and threw snowballs at my face. The one who held my hand before doing something scary and always told me everything would be alright.

I know I'm about to lose it all.

"Please don't leave me," I sob, holding Courtney's frail hand. It's all bones, and I'm being as gentle as possible, not wanting to hurt her. Except it's hard when all I want to do is hold on and never, ever, let go. "I'll give up hockey. Please, God, I'll do anything. Just don't take her from me."

Courtney's eyes open slightly, the blue peeking out through her lashes, and she gives my hand a gentle squeeze—barely there. She smiles through her pain, and this time I'm seeing double. Blurry. My vision is completely fucked up, but it's nothing compared to the pain in my heart. She coughs, a wet rattle coming from her lungs, and I flinch.

"Theo," she rasps, a wobbly smile on her pale and chapped lips. Her bottom lip splits slightly and blood bubbles up, making her flinch. She's on a lot of medications, and I can tell she's struggling to stick with me right now. They're trying to keep her comfortable, they said, to help her pass peacefully. Fuck that, I don't want her to go at all. I hold her hand tighter, and I know it's probably hurting her, but I don't let up and she doesn't complain. "I'm here, brother."

I sob, my shoulders shaking, "Don't leave me." I repeat. "Please, Court…I can't do this without you."

Tears stream down her face too, and she sniffles. "I love you." Her voice cracks, and I swear my chest splits down the middle. "I'll always watch over you."

"I wish you didn't have to go to Heaven," I sob. "I wish you could just keep being an angel on Earth."

Courtney sobs. "I know." Her hand shakes in mine. "Me too."

Her eyes close, and I panic, the beep from the machines becoming slower. I look up and see that her heart rate has dropped, and my chest begins to heave. "Wait—please."

"I'm so scared, T."

"I'm here, Court." I drape my body over the bed, trying not to crush her, but still hugging her to me all the same. Her head falls back on the pillow, her body so limp and bony. She can't even hold her weight up anymore. My body shakes with my sobs, and I hold her tightly. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"I love—" she sighs, "You."

And then a flat line.

She was eighteen years old—too young. And at only twenty-two years old, I was ignorant of how much her death would impact my life. How grief would hurt me, change me. My parents tried to prepare me for the stages of grief, but no amount of preparation could possibly get me ready to face them.

Five nurses are at the nurse's station, and I lean on the counter slightly, giving them the brightest smile I can muster—one I don't feel like giving. But I do it all the same, because I'm here to bring light into these little kids' lives. My gift to them. A little bit of sunshine from my sister, if you will.

"Hey," I say softly to the nurse next to the call light phone. "Do you have a recreation center?"

She smiles back, "We do." Pointing me in the direction of the rec room, she nods. "But there's no one there at this time."

I get that, especially since it's nine p.m. Except I'm not leaving here until I see some kids. "I'd like to read to some of your kids—the ones that don't have any parents with them."

Malia—the nurse—nods slowly, and tears spring to her eyes. "O-okay." She clears her throat, then says, "I'll see what I can do. For now, you can go wait there."

I go in the direction she pointed me to and find a set of open glass double doors. The space is huge, with a big circle-time rug, a bunch of recliners, an art corner, and even a little nutrition area. I scoot a chair into the middle of the room, positioning the recliners all across from me, and sit and wait.

I miss you, Court.

Always.