Within These Walls (5 page)

“Whatcha reading?” Abigail asked, her springy chocolate brown curls bouncing behind her as she flopped on my bed.

“It’s actually a book about a girl right around your age, maybe a few years older.”

“You’re reading a kids book?” She ducked down to try to inspect the cover of the worn paperback in my hand.

I’d read this particular book several times throughout my youth, and my copy of it had been well used.

“
Anne Frank. The Diary of a Young Girl
. Who’s she?” she asked.

“She was a girl who lived during World War II, and this is the diary she kept.”

Inspecting the cover a bit longer, she stared into the black-and-white face of the young Jewish girl looking back at her. “I keep a diary,” she replied.

“You do? So do I.”

“Really? Aren’t you a little too old?” Her noise scrunched up as she looked up at me.

I could see the tiny freckles dotting her rosy cheeks.

“Absolutely not!” I pretended to be offended, but then I added, “But I do call mine a journal just to be safe.”

I tickled her ribs, and she let out a little giggle.

“What do you write about?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Papa gave it to me for my birthday. He told me to write what’s in my soul, but I don’t know what a soul is exactly, so I usually just write what I did at school and stuff I like.”

That’s right.

I now remembered Grace telling me about Abigail’s grandfather. He was a writer and quite the talker. Grace had said she couldn’t make it out of his room without getting hit on or hearing one of the colorful stories of his past.

“Your soul is kind of like your heart. So, I guess your papa was telling you to write what you feel here,” I said, pointing to the place where her perfect tiny heart beat inside her chest. “Here, why don’t you borrow this?” I suggested, handing her the book from my hands.

She hesitantly took it, and her eyes floated up to mine. “Are you sure? You weren’t done with it.”

“I’ve read it enough times to have it practically memorized. It’s your turn.”

Her face lit up with a smile, and she dived into my arms, giving me a hug so big that I had to brace myself from the impact. I laughed and wrapped my arms around her small body.

She reluctantly let go and jumped off the bed before straightening her summery pink dress.

“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks again for the book. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”

“No rush. Take your time.”

She made her way to the door.

I called out to stop her, “Oh, Abigail? Did you by chance leave pudding in my room?”

“Pudding? Like the kind my mom sticks in my lunchbox?” she asked with a curious look.

I huffed out in frustration, “Never mind.”
Back to the drawing board I go.

ANY DAY NOW, the cafeteria lady was going to stage an intervention for my all-consuming pudding habit. Either that, or she’d come up with some ridiculous nickname to call me.

Oh, wait—she already did that.

“Hey, Puddin’. Just the usual again tonight?” she asked with a sweet grin.

I nodded as I paid for my pudding and bottle of water, and then I headed back to the elevator.

Over the past week, I’d gotten used to the girl’s schedule in room 307. By eleven, she’d usually be asleep, and I could slip in, unnoticed, and drop off the tiny chocolate snack for her to see in the morning.

It had started out as only a one-time thing. That evening, when I’d seen her licking that chocolate off her finger, I had felt like I was seeing humanity for the first time in years. It was crazy, considering where I worked. Hospitals seemed to be a place where humanity soared. Lives of loved ones or patients themselves would be put into the hands of someone else, and out would come every base emotion imaginable—overwhelming fear, unending love, unsurpassable joy, and heart-rending pain. Everything would be thrown into one messy basket.

Being inside these hospital walls, I’d seen it all, yet I felt nothing anymore. I’d become immune to it all.

Megan’s death had been like an atom bomb to my psyche, obliterating every emotion I’d possessed until I saw nothing. An emotional overload, I guessed one could call it.

Every patient I would treat was just another blank face carrying me to the next.

The only reason I was here was Megan. It had nothing to do with taking care of my next patient or connecting with that person’s family. I couldn’t remember how to feel anything anymore.

Then, I’d seen her. As if she didn’t have a care in the world, she had been eating pudding without a spoon while staying in a hospital, like it was the most normal thing in the world. At that moment, I’d experienced the slightest sense of something other than pain again.

And I’d been supplying her habit ever since.

I didn’t know how long I was going to keep up the charade or if I could continue without being caught, but it was the only highlight of my day that didn’t feel overwrought with emotionless shades of gray.

With one pudding cup snug in my pocket, I was the epitome of stealth.

I slipped through the door quietly, ignoring the fact that I looked like a creepy stalker, and I stepped into the darkened room like I had a purpose.

I did work here, so there could be a dozen reasons for me entering a patient’s room.

Delivering a fudge snack pack was probably not one of them.

Like the many times before, I tried not to linger as I entered the room, but with each passing visit, it became more and more difficult.

The first night I’d decided to do this, I’d quickly done this drop-and-dash routine. I had gone in and out without a second glance.

But then, I’d met her. I’d come to her room and found myself face-to-face with the girl behind my late-night pudding runs. She was shy and timid, her gestures clumsy and unpracticed. She was so different from the polished and sophisticated girls I’d grown up with. Even her name was awkward. It sounded like the classic Eric Clapton song “Layla,” but hers was spelled all wrong.

She had made me curious. I’d suddenly wanted to know what else in this world would make her smile.

What made her laugh? Why does she quickly tug the collar of her shirt whenever I enter the room?

Curiosity wasn’t something I’d experienced in a while, and it had me lingering a little longer each time I entered her room at night. Eventually, it would become my ultimate undoing.

“Ouch! Shit!” I hissed under my breath as my knee collided with her bathroom door that had been left open.

I froze, listening for the slightest movement. My mind jumped ahead, trying to think of any plausible reason for being in her room at this hour.

Changing her sheets?

No, dumbass, she’s in them.

Heard a noise and just coming to check things out?

Yeah, okay. That could work.

Never mind the fact that I was the one making the noise.

Five seconds passed by as I stood in the shadows like a statue, my ears on high alert as I waited for any movement that might signal my need for a cover story.

But nothing happened—no movement, no screaming or shouting.

So, I continued with my weird late-night mission. That was what guys with nothing else to do did at night, right? Delivered pudding to hospital rooms in the dark?

Totally normal.

Pulling the small little snack pack out of my pocket, I carefully dropped it along with the plastic spoon on the wooden tray table next to her bed. I wasn’t sure if eating the pudding with her finger was a chosen thing or not. Everyone had their quirks, so I figured I’d give her the option. Hygiene was an awesome thing, especially in a hospital.

The moonlight from the window lit up the wisps of her hair, making it appear as if a golden halo surrounded her face. She looked innocent, yet a wisdom beyond anything I’d seen seemed to shine through her very pores. I wanted to reach out and touch a single strand just to see what angel hair would feel like between my fingers.

Instead, I turned away. I’d done enough loitering for tonight.

Much quieter this time, I stepped lightly to the door. I reached for the doorknob and turned it slightly before making my exit.

Then, a light voice behind me uttered, “You were definitely not on my list.”

Busted.

Knowing there was little I could do to escape, I stuck my hands in my pockets and pivoted around on my heels. I found her very much awake. Sitting up in bed in a loose T-shirt and shorts, she assessed me quietly with her knees pulled into her chest.

“Your list?” I asked., turning to flip the switch on the wall that turned on the overhead light. Standing in the dark while she was awake now felt awkward and weird.

“Yeah, I made a suspect list of those with the greatest probability of being the person behind the pudding drop-offs. You were definitely not on it. Huh, I’m not wrong very often,” she said with a bit of surprise.

“How does that feel?”

“What?”

“Being wrong.”

“Oh…well, I kind of like it. It’s thrilling.” She gave a sheepish grin.

“So, who was on your list?” My hands still in my pockets, I took a few leisurely steps back into the room.

“Oh, um…well, there was my mom. She was almost immediately taken off. She leaves too early. She teaches morning classes now. She didn’t used to because she would teach me in the morning, but obviously, that’s not a problem since I’m not in high school anymore, and—oh, wow, I’m babbling.”

“So, you didn’t go to school?” I took a seat in the tired, worn-looking chair in the corner, hoping that it would calm her nerves.

She looked down and fiddled with her fingers a bit. “No, never. I was homeschooled.” she answered slowly. “My mom teaches at a local community college. She used to be a professor at UCLA, but when I started kindergarten, she decided to give up her position as chair of the religious studies department. Instead, she taught nights, so she could be home during the day. I always hated that she gave up the career she’d worked so hard to obtain just to teach algebra and American history to me throughout the years, but she never seemed to mind—or at least, she never showed it. My grandmother filled in at night when I was younger, and then after she died, a nurse helped,” she said the last part quietly.

“Who else was on the list?” I asked, moving her away from a topic I had a feeling was rough for her.

“Grace,” she answered.

“Who?”

“Grace. She’s a day nurse. She has long black hair and wears Disney and Hello Kitty scrubs even though she works nowhere near pediatrics.”

“Oh, you mean Snow White?” I asked.

She snorted, and it made me smile. No one I’d known back home would ever snort in public. It was a good, honest sound.

“That’s a good nickname for her. It’s perfect.”

“I didn’t come up with it. One of the other guys around here did. He said he heard her singing, and he swore that birds were flocking to the window to listen. So, from then on, she became Snow White.”

“She loves to sing. But I figured out it wasn’t her either. So, that left Abigail.”

“Oh, Nash’s granddaughter? I’ve seen her around. She’s sweet, but she’d never share pudding with you. Kids don’t share pudding snacks,” I said with a small grin.

“That’s a good rule to live by,” she answered quietly before asking, “How’s the knee?”

My eyes flew up to hers in surprise. “You were awake?”

She nodded. “How else did you think I was going to figure out the secret identity of my pudding delivery person?”

“Hmm…smart woman.”

“Glad you noticed.”

“Do all smart women eat pudding with their fingers?” Leaning back in the chair a bit further, I arched my eyebrow in question.

Her mouth fell open in embarrassment. “Oh my God, you saw that?”

A brief nod and a slight grin that I couldn’t contain were my only answers.

She started babbling again,

“I normally use a spoon. Like a normal person. I mean, who licks pudding off their fingers? Gross. And my hands were clean. Like, really clean!” she squeaked.