Page 57 of Then There Was You
On his floor, I would have thought I’d be running, but that feeling from earlier has returned and makes my feet feel like concrete. I knock. And then again. There’s no bell or button to push. I text him that I’m here, suddenly hopeful that maybe he fell asleep or got caught up writing and lost track of time. Wanted to shower or clean the house from top to bottom. Make a four-course meal to surprise me, or go out shopping for apresent and get stuck in a long line. Shoot. I pat down my pockets like I might find a gift even though I know I don’t have anything for him.
Hope fades as seconds pass and minutes vanish with me still standing like an imbecile outside his door. “Get a clue, Sosie.”
I can’t seem to grasp that Keats would purposely hurt me like this. He wouldn’t. I know he would never lead me on just to get revenge. That’s not in his nature. So my mind wanders to the only other possibility . . .
“Hi,” I greet the nurse behind the glass by bending down to speak through the opening, feeling rude for interrupting her. “I’m looking for somebody, and I was wondering if you could . . .”
“Name?” Her eyes never meet mine, but her fingers are poised on the keyboard in anticipation.
“Keats Matthews.” I stand, rolling my shoulders back and thinking she can probably hear me without pushing my mouth to the small opening. “He’s around six.”
“Hold please.” Her fingers dash over the keys as she glares at the screen. Finally, looking up at me, she says, “There’s no one at this hospital by that name. Do they go by another name?”
Poet, but only to me. “No.” The clock on the wall catches my eye. More than four hours have passed since we agreed to meet, and I’m already at the hospital thinking the worst when the answer might be more obvious. And harder to accept. Betting on the long shot, I ask, “Have you had anyone brought in without ID?”
Her eyes stay on me for an uncomfortably long time as if I’m someone to be wary of, and then she says, “We had one gentleman brought in?—”
“Brown hair with this slight wave in the front, great eyes, brown with the secrets of the universe hidden inside.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Giant. Like six-eight?—”
“That’s not him.”
“Fine, he’s a giant to me. Probably six-three, if I had to guess like one of those carnival?—”
“Do you have a photo of him?” Her blank stare has me wondering when she lost the ability to show compassion.
Resting my arms on the counter, I lean down toward the opening again. “There’s this timer that keeps running out on us. So I would have a photo, probably hundreds by now, but?—”
The screech of her chair grinding against the linoleum has my spine straightening. “Stay here.” She just leaves me with my worries for Keats, wondering if he’s safe. My mind flashes through memories of Keats and me together, when the light hit just right and at the perfect angle. I would reach for the camera that wasn’t there, and the stark realization that I can’t remember when I last took a real photo. I left my camera hidden at the top of my closet, favoring the simplicity and convenience of my phone.
There’s no commitment through the basic lenses. There’s no expectation to take an award-winning photo, or one I can sell to make a living or build a career. I take photos of things that make me think or bring me pleasure. In that case, I should have albums full of Keats. But I don’t even have one.
Pictures don’t matter.He does.
I’m afraid they’ll require proof that I can’t produce to see him, so I wait and fret for her to return and hand me my fate.
I pull the hat from my head and scrape my hair back from my forehead. Twirling the hat around at my hip doesn’t help timetick any quicker. I scan the area and the nurses in scrubs behind the counter, the docs chatting quietly just around the corner. The waiting room is full, and the old TV hung in the corner has a static line running through it. My back stiffens as soon as I see her. “Anything?”
She stops and waves me down the hall. I hurry to catch up, both excited that I might have found him and terrified that I’ve found him in the hospital, which means he’s injured. Or worse. I’m holding my breath when she says, “It might be him. Are you open to seeing if?—?”
“Yes,” I blurt, my hands already shaking from the prospect that it’s Keats.
She turns on her soft-soled shoes and leads me four doors down from where we were standing. The door is already cracked open, so she turns and whispers, “Please don’t speak to the patient. He needs his rest. If you recognize him, we’ll get his information, and then you wait for him to wake up in the waiting room near the entrance.”
I’m already nodding, anxious to see if it’s him. “Okay.”
Pushing the door open, she stands against it with the handle tucked in her hands behind her back. It’s dark in the room, but even with the little available light, I’d know my Poet anywhere. “That’s him,” I whisper as if I need her approval. I hurry to his side without it and grip the railing of the bed. One eye is angry red, and his cheek on that side is swollen from a hard impact. With a bandage and an ice pack tucked under it, it’s distressing to see him in this shape. The loose neckline of the hospital gown shows bruising on his shoulder. Tears spring to my eyes as I imagine the pain he must be in. Looking back, I ask, “What happened?”
The nurse signals me outside the room. I don’t want to leave him, though. What if he wakes up when I’m gone? He’ll be all by himself. The thought makes me feel sick. It would be awful.“Miss?” A hard nod toward the door is all I need to know I’m on borrowed time. I reach down and gently touch Keats’s hand, and whisper, “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
When I turn, his fingers grapple for mine. “Spark?”
I rush to caress a part of him not swollen or in pain, but I don’t know where it’s safe to land. I wrap my fingers around the railing and lean over it. “I’m here, Poet. Right by your side.”
The squeak of the nurses’ shoes alerts me to look back and catch the eye roll as she shuts the door. “I’ll be back with the paperwork,” she says, knowing it’s futile to argue with me. I’m not leaving him. Not ever.
“Hey there, you had me worried.”
Wincing, he groans in response. “Sorry I didn’t show.”
