Sing

CHAPTER 9.

MONICA

On my way out, a song hit me. I ran into the cafeteria to write it down. I texted Lil and asked her to meet me out front in fifteen minutes and got myself tea.

I’d been in that fucking hospital forever. What looked sparkling clean in every corner the first day, looked dingy, dirty, and worthless on day four. I could spot the black scratches on the pink cafeteria tabletops instantly and the little dust bombs sticking to the legs of the chairs. I hated the tea. It was too hot, the Styrofoam on my tongue made the liquid acerbic, and Jonathan was sick. I hated the greasy eggs and potatoes. Hated the stink of vinegar that seemed to be on everything. I hated being kicked out of Jonathan’s room because there were too many people in it.

But on the day of the surgery, the cafeteria sparkled again. The Christmas lights were the most cheerful shades, the tinsel and garland festive and joyous, and the fake tree in the corner, with toys for sick kids under it, made my heart swell with pride for human generosity.

My god, what do you get a man like Jonathan for Christmas?

I got into the chair I always sat in and took out my little notebook and clicky pencil. Everything about this had sucked, but I was writing. A lot. I didn’t even know if half of them were songs, or opera, or part of something so much bigger, but I couldn’t stop the verses or the tapping of my foot as I laid them down. In the days I’d been at the hospital, waiting for the hours I could see Jonathan, my tea usually went cold before I gulped it down.

I moved the Notice of Public Auction to the front of my notebook, so it wouldn’t be in my way, and began writing. Another Styrofoam cup appeared at my side when I was still neck deep in a song about an imaginary ass-fuck that was disguised as a poem about something else entirely. I looked up at a man, six foot four, sixties in a movie-star kind of way. He smiled at me.

“We meet again.”

“I’m sorry?”

He held out his hand, and I knew that even though I didn’t know him, I did.

“My daughter told me my son’s girlfriend was often down here. I thought it might be you.”

J. Declan. Shit. Jonathan wouldn’t like me here. And just when I was getting used to that hateful table.

I shook his hand briefly, then stood. “Yeah. I was just going.”

He sat down. “Looks like you were in the middle of something. Can you just ignore me? There are no other seats.”

I looked around. Every other table was full. I was a single person taking up a four-seater. In the middle of writing, I hadn’t even noticed.

“I’ll make room for the rest of the family.”

He laughed to himself. A silent chuckle. No more than a breath.

“What?”

“If my boy is the sun, I’m Pluto. Smallest. Farthest. Still in orbit, however. Have you seen him?”

“Yes.”

“How does he seem?”

“The same.”

“And his mood?”

“Hard to tell through the wisecracks.”

He nodded, looking into the cafeteria. Kids screamed. Mothers yelled. A mop slapped against the edge of a yellow bucket. To our right, a man wept while a much younger woman comforted him. I glanced at Declan. He looked far away, and I felt sorry for him.

“You should talk to him,” I said as I stood up. I hadn’t seen the outside world in too many hours, and Lil would be outside in a red zone in four minutes.

“I should.” He said in such a way as to imply that he would if it were an option. I wanted to say more, but I remembered what Jonathan had told me, and what Margie had said about his shitty hobbies, so I excused myself and went home to try and manage my life.