He visited hospital less often.
Not because he cared less.
Energy.
One afternoon Lily drove to garage.
She was eighteen.
College applications.
She found him sitting instead of working.
“You sick?”
“No.”
“You’re sitting.”
“People sit.”
“You don’t.”
He glared.
“Why are you here?”
“Essay.”
“Terrible reason.”
“My application asks about person who influenced me.”
Marcus looked suspicious.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re not writing me.”
“Why?”
“Write your mom.”
“I have another essay about her.”
“Write surgeon.”
“Marcus.”
He stood slowly.
“Do not turn me into biker angel.”
Lily laughed.
“I wasn’t.”
“What were you writing?”
She read opening:
When I was seven, a man who looked like every warning my mother had ever given me walked into my hospital room wearing a pink hoodie.
Marcus stared.
“That’s awful.”
“It’s good.”
“I look like warning?”
“Yes.”
He thought.
“Fair.”
Lily continued:
He did not tell me my scar was beautiful. He told me I was allowed to hate it until I didn’t.
Marcus stopped.
That sentence hit him.
Lily continued:
Most adults wanted me to become grateful quickly because they were grateful I was alive. Marcus Hale was the first person who understood survival and happiness do not arrive on same schedule.
Marcus looked away.
“Stop.”
“You’re crying?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Dust.”
“In office?”
“Motorcycle dust.”
She laughed.
The essay got her into college.
Not because story magical.
Her grades strong.
Art portfolio strong.
She studied illustration and developmental psychology.
Emily assumed she would become child-life specialist.
Lily said no.
Then after college, she did exactly that.
Emily never said “I told you so.”
Out loud.
Lily joined County Medical at twenty-four.
Ellen Brooks had retired two years earlier.
There was a party.
Lily came.
Ellen saw adult woman with long dark-blonde hair, one magenta streak still above right temple, scar visible if hair tucked.
Ellen cried.
Lily said:
“Everyone in this hospital cries too much.”
Ellen hugged.
“You were terrible patient.”
“You were bossy nurse.”
“Correct.”
“What are you going to do retired?”
“Not answer call bells.”
“You’ll miss.”
“No.”
She did.
Marcus arrived late.
Pink hoodie.
Of course.
Ellen pointed.
“You still have that?”
“Different one.”
Lily laughed.
“Leah buys them.”
Ellen looked around.
Children’s hospital had changed.
New wing.
Better imaging.
Family sleep rooms.
Different protocols.
Some things same.
Fear.
Parents.