He opens his mouth to share more, when we hear a man panting far away from the road, rushing in our direction, and wearing a funny suit along with a hat.
Is he a captain or what?
The boy narrows his eyes on him and mutters, “Here we go.”
And that’s when the man reaches us, gulping for breath and wiggling his finger at the boy. “You can’t run away, young master. We were so worried.”
Young master?
I giggle at the term, and the boy sends a smile my way. I think he should do it more often, because he is beautiful when he smiles.
“Don’t sweat it, James.” He gets up, addressing me. “I gotta go. See you around, kid.” Then he gives me his ice cream along with some money. “Buy yourself some more, but don’t get sick.”
I give the money back. “No, that’s okay. But thank you!”
He pauses, either shocked or annoyed. I’m not sure which by his face expression, but then he shrugs, putting the money inside his pocket again.
With this, he walks off, but not before I run back to him, and he raises his brow while James waits for him, stepping away from us as if giving us privacy. “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Why?”
I point at the concrete. “I will write her name here. And whenever you’re sad, you can come to the playground and look at her name under the sun,” I tell him, and tears form in his eyes.
But he doesn’t let them break through, because he clears his throat and says, “Katherine. My mom’s name is Katherine.” And with this, the boy joins the man as they go to the road where a shiny black car is waiting for them, all while I stand with two ice creams melting under the sun, the sticky substance sliding over my hands.
I should have asked for his name, but I didn’t.
Instead, I finished my ice creams and wrote his mom’s name, winking at the sky and hoping it will stay here forever so he can look at it and remember.
On that day, I came home bouncing, slipping through the back door and sleeping tightly.
And the next day, I decided to be a doctor who can do the impossible, so I won’t see boys sad like him anymore.
Or at least try.
Phoenix
The gates of prison buzz loudly as I step in front of them. The guard behind me asks, “Ready for freedom, Hale?” She nudges me a little bit with her elbow, tearing my gaze away from the iron-clad gates that remind me of those in Hades, keeping all the sinful souls locked in one place while evil god rules it.
“As much as I can be,” I reply, my tone indifferent, and I shiver a little under the harsh wind, hating how my washed-out suit, the same one I wore in the last hearing at the DA’s office, barely serves as protection from this weather.
“Probably lots of plans, huh? Saw a TV program about you. They said losing you was devastating. You did wonders even in your residency years.”
Did they now?
Funny how I remember it all very differently, down to the chief of the hospital who summoned me to his office with the board of directors present to inform me they were taking away my license.
What was it he said while every eye watched me with scrutiny and judgment, mumbling snarky comments under their breaths all while chanting how much money “my little situation” could cost them?
“The police investigation showed you were driving under the influence, right after you left the prison. Which means you could have been drunk while working with the patient. This is not how we operate,” he says, glancing down and shuffling between papers. “Phoenix Hale, your license is revoked, and from today, you no longer work for this hospital or anywhere else.”
I barely hold back the bitter chuckle threatening to slip past my lips while the gates screech loudly, grating on my nerves as they finally start to slide open, so painfully slow I wonder if it’s intentionally done.
Enjoy your freedom, suckers, but not before we slow time for you one last time.
The guard continues to yap, either not noticing my disinterest in this conversation or not giving a shit about my desire. Probably both, judging by my experience in this place. “Can’t wait to get back to work, huh?”
“Hardly. I don’t have a medical license. And I don’t want it anyway.” I picture all the faces of the people who came to my hearing, which was made public for some reason despite all the press, how many relatives of my patients came, and each one of them told the judge how crazy I was. Okay, so maybe they just explained how relentless I was whenever I wanted to fully understand the diagnosis of my patients and if it was right for them. According to them, it brought chaos to their life, and sometimes they didn’t think I was stable.
Apparently, no one fucking cares my obsession helped their family members. Just based on such behavior, the judge concluded I must have drunk constantly on the job, or at least that’s what everyone accused me of.
I busted my ass for them, and no one came to support me. What’s the point of doing goodness then, if everyone uses it against me at the end of the day?
“Well, I think—”
The gate finally slides open, and I throw over my shoulder, not bothering even to let her finish, “Goodbye.” And with this, I take my first step toward freedom, the sun shining brightly on me while the wind slaps me hard, flapping my suit jacket back, yet a smile curves my mouth, welcoming the cold.
I close my eyes, lifting my face up, and breathe in the fresh air that even tastes like freedom.
Because with the click of the iron gates behind me, I know that part of my life is over.
My body and soul will forever harbor scars reminding me of it, scars that will bleed and bleed with no medication or words to soothe it.
Although the sky is a clear blue, even the birds don’t fly around or chirp loudly, enjoying the beautiful day.
A roaring of a car in the distance snaps my attention to the road where I see a vehicle speedily driving in my direction, almost in a blur, and I gasp in surprise, wanting to step away from it. Yet I can’t do anything but stand frozen, the sounds reminding me of another car.
And the inevitable crash that followed with the woman lying on the concrete, bleeding to death.
Palming my head, I pray for the voices to disappear so the weakness keeping me standing still will go away, allowing me to distance myself from the car, but it doesn’t work.
Scrunching my eyes, I wait like a sheep ready to be slaughtered, and then the loud screeching of tires on concrete brings me back to the present. I focus my stare on the tip of the bumper as the car stops about an inch away from me.
Swallowing past the bile in my throat, first I notice the rusty paint of the vehicle and several bumps. A crack is on the windshield as if someone threw a rock at it. There are more scratches on the side panels, from keys I assume as a few not-so-flattering words are written on it.
The horn of the car startles me, making me jump in place, and I put my hand on my chest, breathing heavily while my gaze lands on the driver, who waves at me.
Since I’m standing frozen in place, he exhales heavily and gets out of the car, his pink hair the first thing I notice about him. He slides his sunglasses on top of his head, showcasing his green orbs, which oddly mismatch his completely black clothes. He’s so pale I can almost see every vein pop in his neck, and both his arms have sleeve tattoos that peek out from the T-shirt he’s wearing.