three brownie points to whoever can find the two shows i referenced

Will This Ever End?

CatCooper

 

    When you think of hospitals, what do you remember?  Everyone has something that comes to mind.  My mom thinks of a haven, as it was where we first escaped from the streets.  I’ll never know what my father thought of, since I’ve never known him.  My stepdad Roger won’t go near one, not after being told of his father’s death before me and Mom met him.  My little (half) brother Danny thinks of lollipops.  Of course the kid doesn't remember the whole broken arm thing, just the lime-flavored lollipop. 

   I think of Taylor Parsons.  Some might call him my best friend, while others who knew us ten years ago would deem him my worst enemy.  But any time someone says Taylor, I remember the person I trust more than anyone in the world…and the person who ends up in hospitals more than anyone I know.

   Which is why I wasn’t exactly surprised when Taylor’s mother called me from the hospital.  What did surprise me, however, was the pleading tone in her voice, the words repeated over and over again.  “It looks bad.  Gosh, Mandy it looks bad.”

   Despite the shock caused by her words, I was somewhat flattered.  When Taylor breaks his…well whatever bone he jacks up this time, who do you call?  Certainly not the Ghost Busters.  But, in as much seriousness as I am actually capable of, who do you call?  Granny Jane, check.  Reverend Sherman, check.  Mrs. Parsons’ boss, check.  Other random friends and distant relatives, check.  But who goes before all those, even Granny Jane?  Why Miranda Hendrix, resident best friend, of course!  That is, if I'm not already at the hospital because I was the one to take him to the ER.  

   So while I drive my truck to the hospital, the back of my mind is flattered and the rest of it is going crazy with worry.  The usual “What the heck happened?”, “What the heck was Taylor  But a new thought was drifts into the dissension.  “Will this ever end?” thinking?”, and “How long is he going to be stuck there?” are flying around in my head like a bunch of seagulls at the beach when a little kid has a bag of Gold Fish.

   The first time I ever went to the hospital to see Taylor while he was injured swoops in like a flock of flying monkeys.  At this time, all of the seagulls scatter and the monkeys take the little kid’s sandwiches.  And the monkeys play the memory over in my head as they munch on some roast beef and a few BLT’s while ridiculous tourists in the high tube socks take pictures.  

   We were in the second grade together when Taylor got his arm broken.  My teacher Ms. Cambridge had forced our class, well really I was the only one to be forced, everyone else liked Taylor, to make him Get Well Soon cards.  And with my luck, I had to deliver them with Mrs. Cambridge, since she took me home while my mom worked her second job or went to school.  I’d been complaining about going with her since we’d left the school, considering how mean Taylor and I were to each other at that time, and had eventually lobbied in silence.

   “Miranda,” Mrs. Cambridge said as she pulled into an open parking spot.  “You know this isn’t going to help you at all right?”

   I stared out the window, playing deaf.  I let my mouth fall slack and leaned against the window, like the people on my mom’s TV shows did when they fainted.

   “Miranda, I know you’re still awake.”  Mrs. Cambridge sighed.  When she got out of the car, I assumed she was leaving and quit my playing dead.

 

   I was proved wrong when my door was wrenched open.  She squatted next to me and, with a sparkle in her eye, said, “Gotcha!”  She smiled really hugely.  It was something I really liked about her, always smiling and everything.  I just hoped me and Mom could be that happy someday. 

   I scowled and stepped out of the car as Mrs. Cambridge got the box of cards out of the passenger seat.  Squinting at the building beyond the hospital parking lot, I wondered if I could be fast enough to get to it before Mrs. Cambridge could catch me.  As though she had read my mind, said teacher grabbed my hand and tugged softly.  I stayed rooted to the ground and stared up with raised eyebrows, daring her. 

   She crouched down to my height and ruffled my hair softly, getting a rarely seen smile out of me and breaking my tough girl pretense.  “Now, Miss Hendrix.  If you were sick or hurt, how would you want Taylor to treat you?”

   I rolled my eyes.  “With kindness and respect,” I huffed.

   Mrs. Cambridge frowned.  “Are you just saying that because you think that answer is what I want, or do you actually mean it?”

   I pursed my lips for a moment.  “You’re a smart lady.  I think you know the answer to that.”

   She bit her lip and grinned widely once more.  “You know, I used to have a boy who would tease me all the time.”

   “Really?” I asked, uncertain of why anyone would want to tease somebody as nice as Mrs. Cambridge.

   “Mmhmm.”  She nodded.  “And you know who he is now?”

   My eyes got really big as I thought about it.  “A prisoner!” I squealed.

   Mrs. Cambridge gave me a confused look.  “Now why would you say that?” 

   “Well, I thought maybe they sent him to jail for being a meanie-head!  Duh!”  I tapped the side of my head, like it was something most people should know. 

   Mrs. Cambridge laughed loudly.  “No, he didn’t go to prison.  We’re married.”

   “Why would you wanna marry someone that mean?” I asked, dumbfounded by her decision. 

 

   “Well, sometimes when a boy is unkind to you, it doesn't mean he dislikes you.  The exact opposite, really.” 

 

   “What?”  I raised an eyebrow.  “You don’t make sense sometimes, Mrs. Cambridge.”

   “You’re a smart lady.  I think you know the answer.”  She grinned. 

 

   I laughed and took her hand, slightly less happy as I remembered who we were there to see. 

 

   A really nice nurse showed us the way to Taylor’s room once we got inside.  She even gave me a Coke!

   But all the warm fuzziness caused by said Coke faded when I saw Taylor, drinking a smoothie, happy as could be. 

 

   He wasn’t fazed, of course.  “Mrs. Cambridge!  Randy!”  I narrowed my eyes at the undesired nickname while he tried to jump out of his hospital bed.  “Is that Coke for me?”

   Mrs. Cambridge giggled.  “Nope, but these are!”  She set the box of cards on a tray as his mother pushed him back into bed.  

   “You may be sick,” I hissed, eyeing his sling, “but ‘Randy’ is not my name.  MI-RAN-DA!”

   “Well, MI-RAN-DA, they gave me some happy juice today.  You should try it!!!”  Taylor snickered.  

   “My mama says not to eat candy from strangers, so I think juice gets put in with that,” I sassed.  

   Taylor snickered again and sucked on his smoothie.  Mrs. Cambridge grinned while Taylor’s mother laughed loudly.  

   “Well, aren’t you just adorable!” she cooed.

   I smirked.  “That’s what they tell me.”

   Despite the fact that his mom loved me, Taylor and I still fought for the next two years. Then came fourth grade, with all the awkwardness of girls and boys becoming friends.  Taylor and I stopped hating each other so much and became…sorta friends.  And then fifth grade and another hospital visit, which the flying monkeys threw at me while they attacked one particularly obnoxious tourist. 

 

   “Oh my gosh!  Taylor, are you okay?” I screeched as my former tormenter rubbed his head after falling off the monkey bars.

   “Ugh…” Taylor moaned, pulling a hand through his auburn curls.  “Randy, do you have to be soooo loud?”

   I rushed to where he lay, but not before he puked all over the place.  Ignoring the barf at my feet, I helped him up with shaking hands.  I looked over to see our teacher Mr. St. James sprinting towards us, cell phone drawn.  He started asking Taylor questions, to which he groggily replied slurred answers.  A few minutes later, Mr. St. James told me to stay with him while he waited for the ambulance at the front of the school.  It was all a blur to me.  The only thing that really stuck with me was “Keep him awake.”

   Huh.  And of course my bookworm’s mind got started with that, remembering a book I’d read the year previously, in which one of the main characters is forced to stay awake because of a head injury.  “Gosh, Taylor can’t be hurt that bad, can he?” I thought.  “Well, of course he is! He blew chunks all over the place and has a headache!” I berated myself mentally. 

 Taylor yawned and smiled tiredly at me.  

   “Taylor, Taylor,” I said my voice panicky and cracking.  “You can’t fall asleep!”

   “But I'm tired,” he murmured.  

   “Later alright?”  I craned my head to see if Mr. St. James was back, only to find the teacher with whose class we shared recess keeping all of the students away from us.  “You can take a big long nap later, just not now.”

   “But later I might not be tired,” he whined. 

   “Well, I guess you’ll just have to deal with it, ‘cause you’re not falling asleep on Nurse Randy’s watch!” I snapped, using the once despised nickname. 

   “You’re pretty when you’re mad.”  Taylor giggled. 

   I sighed heavily.  “And you’re just silly all the time.”

   "Am I pretty?" Taylor asked solemnly.   

    I took in his reddish hair, amber eyes, and freckled cheeks, which I knew would dimple adorably the minute he smiled, and tried to forget things like the puke and sirens in the distance.  “Yes, you’re very pretty,” I said with as little sarcasm as I could muster.  It was the truth, after all.

   I still tease him about that day; he has no memory of calling me pretty or asking if he is pretty and doesn't know my answer to that forgotten question.  I went to the hospital with Mr. St. James that day, seeing him there for a second time.  It became somewhat of a tradition after that, me visiting him, despite the IV’s and occasional blood.  Said tradition brought us closer together and gave us someone we could always count on.  Especially last year, when I ended up in the position wordlessly claimed by him. 

   I rubbed my wrist as the police officers left my hospital room, wishing I could’ve had to go into the bad part of town another day.  Any other.  And, as if on cue, Taylor burst through the door, out of breath, eyes on fire. 

   “Miranda,” Taylor breathed.  He rushed to my side and hesitated as though he had considered giving me a hug but thought better of it. 

    I stuck out my bottom lip and pouted.  “It’s a black eye and a sprained wrist.  That shouldn’t stop you from hugging me!”

   He sighed in relief and embraced me tightly.  “Good, ‘cause I needed to know you’re okay,” he whispered into my hair. 

   “I am.  As usual.”

   We broke apart and, after examining me carefully for a few seconds, Taylor asked, “What the heck happened?”

   I frowned.  “Basically, you’d think a half-black girl could go up to the ghetto she grew up in without getting mugged.”

   “Maybe not one as white as you.”  He snickered, becoming serious once the “getting mugged” part registered.  “What did the guy want?”

   “Just my purse.  The guy had a knife, so I gave it to him.  He punched me, I fell on my wrist at a wrong angle, and drove up here,” I recited in one breath, bored with the thrice-told explanation. 

   “But you didn’t call me?  Or your mom?  Or my mom?  Or…me?”  He looked like a poor, little, kicked puppy. 

   “Think I wanted to stay out there, Copernicus?” I sassed, eyebrows raised. 

   “Guess not.”  Taylor frowned.  “Sure you’re okay?” he asked. 

   I grabbed his hand with my uninjured one, looked Taylor straight I those burning, deep, amber eyes, and said, “I’m positive.  My mom’s even bringing us each a smoothie from the cafeteria while we wait for me to get released.”

   

   “Well, darn!”  He slapped his leg lightly.  “Mi madre is bringing them, too!”

   

   “Eh…”  I shrugged.  “You really can’t ever have too many smoothies.”

   “As long as they’re mango.”

   “You know that’s right.”  I grinned.  “Now let’s talk about you calling me ‘Miranda.’  It’s just unnatural…”

   Musing over our many smoothie/hospital trips causes a lone thought-seagull to fly in and try to snag a BLT while the monkeys throw peanuts at the tourists.  “If we’ve done this a gazillion times before, why does it bother me so now?”

   I pull into a familiar parking spot and walk familiar path, attempting to shake off the feeling that I am in uncharted waters. 

  I find Taylor’s parents in the waiting room and dash over to them.  Seeing the tear tracks on Mrs. Parsons’ face, I my throat seems to close in, making me unable to ask what happened. 

   

   A voice interrupts my thoughts and causes the flying monkeys to stop the chaos.  “Family of Taylor Parsons?”