4.1: Many Faces of Worry

“Please try not to move so much.” I did not think someone with such a soothing voice could still scold me so well.

The nurse tugged on my arm, signaling me to hold it up so she could wrap a cuff around it. She squeezed the pump in her hand, crushing my bicep within the cuff. After a few moments, she held the pump and meticulously examined the meter strapped to my arm.

“Your blood pressure is normal, and your heartbeat is sound,” the nurse reassured me. “Would you like some water?” she asked.

“Actually,” I spoke softly, still a bit dazed by my sudden awakening, “Yes, I would. Thank you.”

“I’ll be right back then. Don’t try and move on your own, because we’re still running tests.”

“Ok, I won’t,” she paced out of the room quickly, turning the corner the instant she passed through the doorway.

I tried to remember why I was in the hospital in the first place. Didn’t I fall asleep in Mr. Tinker’s class? Unless I didn’t actually sleep; I must have fainted.

Remnants of tears still streaked down my face. I was surprised the nurse said nothing about it. These were not subtle tears either. Anyone with decent vision could spot them when they hang over my hospital bed like she did. Clearly I was in strife.

I heard small mutters outside of my room, “Is Elijah in here?” “The nurse said this was the room.”

Someone here to visit me? There were only two people in the world I could think of who would come.

A figure walked into the room, “Yeah, he’s in here grandma!”

It was Wyatt, with the same baggy cargo pants and indigo shirt he wore during class. Maybe the dream did not last as long as I thought it did.

Mrs. Sands plodded in behind Wyatt, wearing a contorted frown of grief. “Elijah? How do you feel?” she asked in a somber tone.

“Like I had a really good nap,” I responded.

“But, on your face…” she pulled her head closer to study me, “Are those tears?”

I turned away, a bit ashamed that I was crying in front of my best friend and his grandmother, “Just a nightmare,” I grinned, still looking away, to keep their worries from taking over.

When I turned back around, Wyatt was giving me the same writhe pout his grandmother did. Their resemblance was uncanny: the same dark complexion, the same frown lines in the same places. I thought Wyatt would give a similar scolding just like Mrs. Sands.

The End

42 comments about this story Feed