• Thunk…Thunk…Thunk…
    “Andrew!”
    “Yes, Ma’am?”
    “Be a dear and stop throwing that, will you? It could become a bother to the other patients.”
    The small, yellow tennis ball was caught in mid air. Small hands dropped it into an ancient, decaying knapsack. The hands then came back to rest on a denim-covered lap as short fingers rose to fiddle with the hem of a dirty maroon T-shirt. Vibrant green eyes stared up from under a mop of unruly chestnut hair to meet the kind grey ones of the hospital nurse.
    Brightly painted red lips parted to reveal a blindingly white, and overly wide smile as the young nurse replied, “That’s much better, Andrew! Why don’t you take out your notebook and crayons and do some coloring? I’ve heard your mother will be ready for visitors in about half an hour. Why don’t you make some new pictures for her?”
    Andrew watched the nurse- a nameless, nearly faceless woman in the army of them that the hospital staffed- make her way down the hall before turning the corner. Briefly wondering how her face hadn’t split in half with the smile she turned toward him on her departure, he turned to his knapsack. He admired the moth-eaten exterior for a moment. His small fingers ran over the peeling label that read “PROPERTY OF ANDREW BARTHOLOMEW SINGER”. It was his name, as well as his father’s, from whom he obtained the ancient bag. His mother had given it to him eight months earlier for his seventh birthday before things went bad.
    Andrew had took out his crayons and unlined notebook, and began to draw pictures of what he remembered the small house they’d lived in until his mother had to go live in the hospital, ultimately taking him with her. He had refused to go anywhere without his mother, and because she insisted that she would get better before removal was necessary, their relatives respected his wishes. Of course, the only thing keeping him here now was their pity for his mother, for who there was no cure in sight, even after all these months.
    He supposed that the real beginning of her illness had been just over a year ago. His mother had been tired all the time and almost always had headaches. The school teacher merely assumed that it was due to too much stress and promised that they would have a “do-nothing” weekend once a month to relax. Soon, however, it became apparent that stress was not the cause of her problems, as they got much worse with time.
    The worst part didn’t come until one day, six months ago, when she had to be brought to the hospital. He had woken up one morning to hear her screaming in pain. He ran to her room to investigate to see her bleeding, although he was too frightened to be able to tell where from. He had been in a panic, but had gathered himself enough to stubbornly insist upon going to the hospital with her when a neighbor had called for an ambulance.
    He didn’t know what was wrong with her, but he had refused to leave without her since that day, and had only been allowed brief visits in between the poking, prodding and testing from the doctors.
    Andrew finished his picture and decided that it had probably been a half an hour. He got up and began to make his way to her room.
    As he walked down the hall, he peered into the rooms of other patients. Familiar faces passed his vision; people he had gotten to know since he’d come to stay in the hospital with his mother. There were people preparing for surgery, getting bones mended, and having stitches and bandages applied. These were things he had become used to seeing nearly every day since he came here.
    He approached his mother’s room and knocked tentatively. After hearing her soft, calming call of “come in”, he opened the door to see her.
    No matter how many times he came to visit, he never ceased to stare in wonder and apprehension. Long, chestnut hair cascaded down her back as warm, brown eyes stared into his with all of the love in the world. She was hooked up to various machines that were meant monitor her and alert the hospital staff if her condition worsened. The doctors said it was to “make sure she was healthy,” but as soon as they’d left the room, she’d explained the real reason, knowing her son could handle- would have to be able to handle- the truth. She appeared tired and drawn, but warm and welcoming, nonetheless. He sat in the chair closest to her bed.
    “Hello, dear, how are you?” she asked in the ritual greeting.
    “Fine. Have they figured out what’s wrong with you yet?” he responded as he always did.
    “Not yet, I’m afraid. But I’m sure they will find the problem soon!”
    “Oh, okay…”
    He knew that she was just trying to make him feel better, as she often did. Both of them knew that she would likely never leave the monochromatic hallways that had become their new home in the past months. Still, he appreciated that she cared enough to attempt to put him at ease. He may not have completely understood, but he knew that the little white lie was told more for his mother than him, in some ways.
    “So, have you made any new masterpieces of artwork while you were away?” her warm voice broke him out of his thoughts.
    “Yeah… I’m gonna need a new notebook to draw in soon. Wanna see what I’ve drawn?”
    “Oh, of course! I never tire of looking at the works of my favorite little artist!”
    He swelled a bit with pride, even though he understood that she was humoring him, and that he was really too old to be spoken to like that, and took out the spiral bound book. As he flipped through the pages, he watched his mother ooh and ahh at each simple drawing of an animal, a person, their old house…
    “You’re getting better!” she exclaimed
    He smiled up to her, happy that his pictures could make her seem so happy, even if only for a little while.
    Then the conversation commenced. They talked about everything they could think of in the time they had to see each other. They talked about his drawings, about the hospital staff. Arguing about what cafeteria meal was better; they would always agree that almost all of it was terrible (even though Andrew did enjoy it when they had chocolate ice cream from the vendor that stopped at the hospital’s children’s ward once a week). Inevitably, however, conversation would turn to their old life.
    At this point their words would take a sadder tone, and they would do their best to cheer each other up; Andrew’s mother doing most of the cheering. In the end, conversation would return to normal, happier topics. They would continue until Andrew had to leave again, so that his mother could endure more tests, or until…
    The topic had just turned to what kinds of new clothes they would like to buy, since Andrew was growing out of his, when another, unfortunately, common part of the routine occurred. His mother turned a deathly pale, and her eyes began to roll back in her head.
    “An-d-drew-rew…” her voice fluttered weakly as he stood up and reached for the nurse contact button on the other side of his mother. “G-get-t h-el-llp!”
    Just as she finished her stuttering, a flock of nurses flew into the room, and his mothers monitors began beeping wildly. He backed into a corner so as not to be in the way when the doctors and nurses began to poke and prod his mother in an effort to fix the problem. Just as he was about to ask what happened, another nurse- this time a blue eyed blonde with a ponytail and a name tag that read “LISA” in big letters- rushed up to him.
    “I’m sorry, but this is no place for a child. You have to go, but once your mother is back to normal, I can find you and call you back here!” again, fake red lips split open into a toothy, white smile as he was ushered out of the room.
    With a sigh and a good share of barely hidden concern for his mother, Andrew turned and walked down the hallway.
    He passed the rooms again. During their visit, people had moved about. Some had passed on, some had gone for another procedure, and some had even gotten to go home. Andrew hoped he and his mother would someday join the last group.
    He sat down on the floor in the same hallway the nurse had found him previously, once again. Setting his old knapsack on the floor next to him, Andrew withdrew his yellow tennis ball from its largest pouch. After staring at the slightly fuzzy exterior for a moment, he drew his arm back slightly and swung it forward in an arc.
    Thunk…Thunk…Thunk…
    And life went on.
    The End