There was never a time when a hospital smelled like something good. It was always the rubbery cleaner smell that could make anyone feel sick just from the memories it could bring back. For some reason hospitals always smelled like latex, even though it's not allowed in them anymore. Frank thought this was very odd as he walked through the automatic sliding doors, carrying a bundle of pink daisies. The sound of his checkered shoes thudding rhythmically with his swaggering walk was muffled by the drone of busy passers-by, wheelchairs, and murmured conversation. The draft from outside caught in his jaw-length hair, causing a few strands to tangle in front of his face. He pushed them away, tucking the locks behind his ears. He pulled his frayed, olive-green hat off of his head and stuck it in his bag. His eyes followed a pink petal as it detached from the center of a flower and dropped to the ground, swirling back and forth as if on an invisible mobile. Being in the unfamiliar Arizona hospital forced his normally cool and laid-back senses to peak, becoming more aware of his surroundings as he walked to the reception desk. A red-lipped woman spoke calmly into the receiver of a phone that she had cradled between her cheek and shoulder. Her nails were clattering at a brilliantly clean keyboard, filling in information that would be filed away into some unknown space.
"Thank you. We'll give you a call. Have a nice day." Were her final words before placing the phone onto its base with a click, then squeezing a generous amount of hand sanitizer into her palm and rubbing it in briskly.
"May I help you?" She asked Frank in a tone that clearly showed that she had been asking the same question day after day and had trained her voice to be cheerful. Her hazel eyes peered into his over red cat-eye glasses.
Frank cleared his throat and nodded once.
"Yes, please. I'm here to visit Mary…" he trailed off and looked down at the tag on the flowers, "Sinclair. Mary Sinclair." His look of confusion was quickly replaced with a smile as the last name rolled from his lips.
"Mary Sinclair, Mary Sinclair. Mary Sinclair-y. Mary Sinclair. Got it." He repeated the name a few times silently in his head to make sure he didn't forget. He had never met her before.
The receptionist nodded once then turned to her computer screen looking up the name at a quick pace as the phone began ringing again. The red flashing light on the base caught Frank's attention for a moment, his eyes then quickly flickered to a purple post-it that the woman had placed on the counter. The phone was again cradled between her cheek and shoulder and she was jabbering her generic welcome into the receiver. Frank plucked the square paper from the desk then turned with a small wave, heading toward the room number that was provided in large, looping script.
A sinking feeling captured his heart as his eyes scanned over the blue ink several times:
Mary Sinclair, room 313, Chemotherapy Radiation Ward.
With a sigh he followed the signs pointing toward various hall-ways and corridors in a labyrinth of multi-textured wall-papers, squealing medical carts, and bustling staff members, eventually reaching room 313, chemotherapy radiation ward. His heartbeat ceased for but a moment as he took in a careful breath and gently brought his knuckles to the pale wood of the door. After several short seconds, a quite "come in" was heard, and the door was slowly pulled open. A middle-aged woman in pink scrubs stood at the doorframe, gesturing for Frank to enter. He nodded and stepped in onto the pale blue tile, gazing into the middle of the room at a risen hospital bed. A young girl sat on the edge of the bed, looking back at him with wide, clear eyes. They were the first things Frank had noticed about her. Not her thin, suffering frame, not the smooth skin of her scalp, but the clear blue brilliance and life that rested in her irises. She rhythmically tapped the toes of her shoes together as she sat on the quilt, grinning broadly.
"You're really Frank?" She asked with an awe-struck voice. Frank nodded and smiled.
"Yep, that's me. You're Mary?"
Mary nodded her head, her fingers nervously twisting the fibers that splayed from the torn knee of her jeans.
There was a maroon cushioned chair next to the hospital bed, Frank walked over and took a seat in it, handing the flowers to his newest acquaintance.
"For you." He said with another smile. She took them with a "thank you" and set them carefully on her bed-side table next to a few other arrangements.
"These ones are the prettiest I've gotten." She said, gesturing to the pink daisies. Beside them sat various bouquets, most containing roses or carnations.
"I'm glad you like them," he replied, not really sure what to say. Though very personable, Frank found this situation exceedingly stressful and somewhat awkward. There were so many things that he was trying to be so careful not to say, for fear of sounding rude. Sometimes there are those moments where it's nearly impossible to know the right thing to say. The only thing that is certain is that there are particular questions that are not appropriate to ask and specific observations that are no appropriate to make out loud. Frank was terrified of letting his nerves get to him, causing him to slip up and say something that would be offensive. Things such as "How are you?" "What's wrong, exactly?" and "When do you get out?" are prime examples. He settled with a standard question, not wanting to hesitate, leaving and awkward silence.
"So, what have you been up to?" He crossed one leg over the other and tilted his head to the side. Mary folder her hands in her lap and looked up slightly, just with her eyes.
"Um…not a whole lot. I've been drawing and reading, I guess. Listening to music, playing with my dog. He's allowed in here sometimes so I can see him."
Frank nodded, listening. His calm composure was just a facade hiding his thundering heartbeat and racing thoughts.
"Oh, cool," he said, tapping his one foot on the ground nervously, "what kind of dog?"
"A pug, his name is Bixbie. My mom got him for me when I started therapy. Animals are supposed to be calming and good for you." The more she spoke, the more surprised Frank was. The cheerful sound of her voice was not fitting for the atmosphere she was in.
"That's rad." Frank said with another nod, now feeling over whelmed. His sweating hands seemed to be wrestling the edge of his hoodie as he scrambled for something else to say. A few minutes passed as they sat in silence. Frank didn't seem to notice the time had gone by until he felt her hand drifting near the side of his face, her fingers gently running down the strands of his dark hair. Her lips were held in a sad smile as he brought his eyes up to hers.
"I miss hair." She said with a small laugh, returning her hands back to her lap. Frank swallowed with difficulty and just barely nodded.
"Mine used to be brown too, see?" She pulled a small book from her night-stand and opened it, flipping though pages.
"My parents brought me a photo album so I could see pictures of my friends and stuff. They don't get to visit very often. We'll, they could, but they don't. I think they're nervous or something. They don't know what to say or do, or they feel awkward or sad. I'd really rather have them show up and say something really stupid to me than not show up at all. It's not like I'd be angry at them or expect them to say the right thing. There is no right thing to say. Nothing can really make it better or make it go away, and nothing could make it any worse than it already is. I'd just be happy seeing them again." She thumbed through the pages as Frank sat in a stunned silence, his mouth slightly open from shock. He couldn't believe what a valid point that was, and he also couldn't believe that none of her friends had come to visit her.
"Here," she said, holding up the photo album and pointing to a picture, "that one's me."
Frank leaned forward to look at the picture, a filmstrip from a photo booth containing several pictures of three girls making various faces in each frame. The one she pointed to had long brown hair with slight waving curls. The other two girls were blond.
"They're my best friends." She said, closing the book and replacing it on her table.
Frank nodded.
"They seem cool." Lame. He had no idea what to say, and the prickling feeling in the inner corners of his eyes were not helping him.
"Yeah they are. I miss them." Mary shrugged and swung her legs back and for on the edge of her bed.
"But it's not all bad, not having hair," she said, watching a nurse walk by outside, pushing a medical cart, "I never looked good in hats before. My hair was so thick it would stick out funny. Now I actually look alright in them."
Frank shook his head in amazement, wondering how she kept so upbeat.
"Hats are great," he said with a smile, reaching into his bag next to his chair.
"Here." He pulled his olive cadet hat from his bag and handed it to her. "You can have it, if you'd like."
A huge grin broke across her face as she took the hat and placed it on her head. She was right, she did look good in hats.
"Thanks!" She said, beaming up at him. "I don't have one like this."
"Now you do." Frank chuckled and shrugged.
"Mary, how old are you?" Frank asked, wondering how it was possible for a girl so young to be going through something so horrible.
"Fourteen. Fifteen in July."
"You seem older," he said, glancing over at the closed book.
"Yeah, all this kind of made me think a lot and grow up a bit, you know? I won't have a chance to grow up later, so I really have to do it all now. When doctors come in and tell you that you've got three months to go, you start doing a lot of thinking really fast. You try and do as much as you can, because you're never going to be able to do it again."
Frank's breath hitched in his throat. Three months? He looked up at her, eyes full of sorrow.
"Wow." He said his voice but a whisper. Mary just shrugged.
"Yeah, I guess. It's really not worth getting all sad over, though. We all know we've got to go some day; it's jus a matter of when and how. And I know that this is my "when and how". I'm really actually very thankful that it's this way, because now I can expect it. I know that I have time to do things I've always wanted to do and say things that I've always wanted to say. Yeah, it's painful, yeah it's hard, and yeah, I'm going to get more and more scared as those three months come to an end, but I'm glad that I can at least be prepared."
There was something about the calm way she spoke that made Frank feel even sadder. She was the kind of person the world needed, but she was being taken away. Hot tears began slowly rolling down his cheeks.
"Oh, don't be a baby, Frank." She said, smiling. "As I said, we all have to go; it's just a matter of when."
He nodded again and chuckled as she handed him a tissue.
"Thanks."
"No problem."
The more he spoke to her, the more amazed he became. So much life coming from something so close to death seemed to be nearly unfathomable. There was no explanation for why she was so full of light when she knew that she would soon reach certain darkness, but Frank found it fantastic none the less. He was most surprised at how much she kept him laughing. Her sense of humor was great. There conversations varied from her old school, to Frank touring, to her new puppy, to the bands new album. Within the hour, a nurse came into the small, brightly lit room, and told Frank that the visiting hours were now over and he would have to leave his new found friend after saying their good-byes. He smiled sadly at Mary, his heart tearing in two.
"Thank you for coming." She said, standing carefully and giving him a tight hug. Frank returned the embrace and nodded tearfully, knowing that he would never see her again.
"Thank you for letting me," he replied, stepping back away from her toward the door, hesitation causing his feet to move at a slow place.
Unsure of what else to say, Frank gave a small wave of his hand, said "good-bye", then walked out of the hospital and returned to his hotel room. By the time he arrived, tears were cascading down his cheeks to the floor. He walked into his hotel room quietly, greeted by equally silent band-members. None said a word as Frank sat on the edge of his bed, his expression blank and eyes red.
"Guys, we've gotta finish that new album."
Three months later
The lead singer stood on stage, the lights blistering down onto his frame. The white glow they cast matched the new color of his shortly cropped hair. Frank sat beside him on a stool, acoustic guitar resting on his knee. The other members stood in their places, waiting for the count off.
"This song," he started, pacing the stage like a caged beast, "off of our new album, was written…for a very special reason…"
The crowed cheered, thrilled that there would be new material. The smile on Frank's face only covered up the sadness he felt. He was thankful that the crowd would only see the smile. He slowly became lost in his own mind; all sounds around him had become muted. His fingers slowly picked at the stings on his guitar as they were supposed to, and he only snapped back into reality when a tear began sliding down his face as he heard what Gerard was singing. "…Baby I'm just soggy from the chemo, and counting down the days to go, it just ain't living and I just hope you know that if you say goodbye today I'd ask you to be true. Because the hardest part of this is leaving you…"