Read this excerpt of a short story at a student reading at the NYU Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House after I was accepted into the NYU Writers in New York: Creative Writing Fiction program and worked with writers Helen Schulman and Elissa Schappell. (2018)
“Deacon hates hospitals,” Lewis says, trying to explain for me.
“And why is that?” Amelia asks.
I think about the loaded question for a moment. Growing up, hospitals were essentially my second home. Especially during summers, we would all pile into the car at 10:30 AM sharp, get to the hospital around 11 AM, and we wouldn’t be kicked out until 9 PM. The nurses told us we had to leave because we were tampering with the “healing process,” as if staying with Zahlia was the thing making her sicker, instead of the actual cancer. Sometimes, my dad would push me to the frontlines, and I would trick the nurse on call to let us stay just a “wittle bit wonger.” Apparently, the forced lisp helped. And the puppy dog eyes. We could sometimes manage to stay closer to 11 PM if I milked it enough. That was one of the benefits of having a terminally ill younger sister: no strict bedtimes ever. The hospital became the place where I had all my influential milestones. The hospital was the place where I had my first kiss with Lauren Richardson when I was 12 in the stairwell between the ICU and the cancer treatment floor. She was so swayed by the story of my sister while she was doing her volunteer rounds around the hospital that she planted one on me right then and there. The hospital was the place where I had my awkward prom photos taken in the main lobby with the receptionist posing as my date – my mother’s idea, I swear. And the hospital was the place I said my final goodbye, her hand squeezing mine one more time before it became limp and cold against my fingers.
Of course, I say none of this.
“They just give me the creeps.” I decide to leave it at that.
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