Short Stories - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Ethan hated hospitals.
They were just so sad. Sick people at every turn, coughing and groaning. Their loved ones stressed and crying. The painted walls did nothing to mend the bleak atmosphere. If Ethan had a choice, he would never set foot in a hospital again.
He didn't have a choice, though. His mom worked at a massive children's hospital in the city, and during those long summers when every day became Take Your Child to Work Day—because he couldn't be left home alone and he didn't get along well with babysitters—he was stuck at that hospital for hours. According to her, he was a "volunteer," because he played with the sick children while she did whatever a pediatric physician did.
Ethan thought that was pretty far from the truth, though, since he spent more or less all of his time there sitting in the corner of the third floor's playroom—the room where kids on the hospital's third story who were sick but not sick enough to stay in their beds all day went to escape boredom—reading a book. The children around him paid him no mind. They were often just as bleak as the rest of the hospital—quiet and moody and shy. Sure, he would play an occasional game with the ones who weren't quite so solemn, but they were far and apart, and never left a lasting impression on him. Most of them came and went before he could even bother getting attached.
All-in-all, he wasn't a very good "volunteer."
Ethan was too young to realize that he could be doing something good with every minute he spent at that children's hospital. There was only so much a nine-year old mind could understand about what it meant to help other people. Maybe if he'd approached those quiet, moody, shy kids, he could have left some impact on them, even one so small as to make them laugh. He didn't quite grasp that, though. In his eyes, the kids in that playroom were simply boring; an assortment of Debby-Downers that alternated with each passing day and stood out horribly against the colorful mats, the decorated walls, and the scattered toys. Ethan, to be blunt, didn't care for them much at all, any more than he cared about that hospital, or his "volunteering."
But there was, as there always is in life, an exception.
Strangely enough, "the exception" didn't attract Ethan by being a fun-loving, energetic Sally-Sunshine. He was just as quiet and moody and shy as the other kids.
Ethan was pretty good at hiding in the corner, but this kid was a master at it. If Ethan hadn't been sitting close enough to hear his sorry sniffs, he wouldn't have even noticed that someone else was there.
"Why are you crying?"
The boy, who was no older than Ethan, looked up in surprise. He was hunched over, holding a red backpack to his chest as if it gave him comfort. "I—I'm not," he stammered, furiously wiping under his cheeks.
The boy's eyes, startlingly blue in color and rimmed red around the edges, were glossy. Despite his efforts, his cheeks where wet with tears. His voice cracked when he spoke. Ethan didn't have to be a genius to tell that he was crying.
Now, it wasn't the first time Ethan had seen a child cry at the hospital. Kids cry when they're scared, and it only made sense that children with illnesses they didn't imagine they'd even have to think about until old age were scared. But Ethan had never in his short life seen someone look so completely miserable. The boy didn't seem scared exactly, but more defeated, and he almost hurt to look at.
So Ethan repeated himself. "Why are you crying?"
To his surprise, the boy laughed. The sound was humorless and, in its own way, even sadder than his quiet sobs. "I'm tired of being sick."
Ethan frowned. "Have you been sick for a long time?"
Ethan never usually asked personal questions to the kids at the hospital. His mom told him not to. But something about the crying boy's expression had struck a chord in him, even at nine, and he couldn't help but feel sorry enough to be curious.
The boy nodded. "I've been sick since I can remember. But now it's. . .worse."
"Sick how?"
The boy shrugged, wiping under his nose with his forearm. "There's something wrong with my blood. But I think it's different now than before, because we came all the way from home just to come to this hospital instead of the one I used to go to. My doctor called it cancer. I don't really know what that means."
Ethan cocked his head, vaguely recognizing the word. When it's familiarity struck him, he brightened. "Oh, I know about cancer!" He exclaimed, maybe a bit too loud, because some other kids turned to look at them, and he noticed the boy blush. Not a fan of attention, clearly.
The boy's expression finally shifted, even if only slightly, from melancholy to interest. "You do?"
"Yeah, my sister talks about that stuff all the time. Were you born in July?"
"Yeah," the boy said. "July twelfth."
"So you're a Cancer!" Ethan said, feeling proud of himself. "It's your star sign. I'm a Scorpio, I think."
As quickly as it had risen, the boy's expression fell. "I don't . . . I don't think that's the right kind of cancer," he said sadly. "I think my kind is a different kind. The Bad Kind."
Ethan didn't know what to say. He felt bad. He wanted the boy to feel better, but if his cancer was the bad kind—whatever the Bad Kind was—then how on Earth would he do that?
"Well," he said, sitting up straight and racing to think of something good to say. "The Bad Kind sounds like a bully, and the best way to deal with a bully is to ignore them, and then they go away. That's what my teacher told me."
The boy smiled sadly. "It's hard to ignore something," he said, "when you can feel it all over."
"Oh yeah?" Ethan grinned, taking the boy's words as a challenge. "Well I'm good at distracting people. How about I give it a go?"
The boy shrugged. He didn't seem too optimistic, but Ethan tried not to be phased by that. "I guess it won't hurt."
Feeling triumphant, Ethan stuck out his hand and said, "Awesome. My name is Ethan, and I'm gonna be your personal spirit-lifter today."
"My name is Michael," the boy—Michael—said, reaching over his backpack to take Ethan's hand. Despite his somber air, a small shred of enthusiasm seemed to seep into his demeanor, lighting up his face and his voice just enough to excite Ethan. "And I guess I'm gonna be your client today."
The first order of business: Monopoly. It was Ethan's favorite game, stacked on a shelf in the playroom. Michael had never played before—his family didn't really play board or card games, which Ethan couldn't quite comprehend—so Ethan had to teach him. It was sort of weird playing with just two people, but Ethan didn't mind. Michael—who Ethan quickly took to calling Mikey because it just sounded more fun—was pretty quiet, but Ethan didn't mind that, either. Which was weird, because he usually steered clear of the quiet-types. He couldn't seem to steer away from Mikey, though. Once again, he didn't mind.
And Mikey was funny. Though he didn't say much, he also sometimes said things that left Ethan clutching his stomach, nearly crying from laughter. And speaking of tears, Miley's had lessened, then stopped falling altogether, which made Ethan feel pretty happy. Happier than he would have expected.
When they got bored of the seemingly endless game, there was a short period of silence in which neither of them really knew what to say. Mikey kept glancing down at his lap shyly, a tiny smile on his lips. Ethan kept drumming his fingers against his thighs, trying to think of something else to do to entertain his new friend.
Mikey, it turned out, would be the first to talk. "Can I show you something?" He asked softly, smiling nervously. Ethan nodded encouragingly, and the other boy led him back over to his corner and reached into his little red backpack, pulling out a small hardcover book with a herd of zebras on the cover. "My teacher gave it to me before I left," he told Ethan. "It has a lot of animals and stuff in it."
Ethan felt a smile pull at his mouth. He was getting somewhere. "Can I see it?" He asked; Mikey nodded and handed it over. He opened the book and flipped through it—each page had pictures and descriptions of different exotic animals. "This one's my favorite," he said when he found the page titled Wolf. The image that took up half of the page was that of a big, scary-looking, howling gray wolf. "So awesome. What's your favorite?"
Mikey pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, before deciding, "Eagles. Those are my favorite."
Eagles. That was interesting. Most nine-year-old boys would say lions, or tigers, or wolves, or bears. Panthers and cheetahs, sharks and snakes. Ethan never even really thought of eagles. "Why?"
"Why?" Mikey echoed. "Gee, I don't know."
"Yeah you do," Ethan pried, nudging his shoulder. "There's gotta be a reason. I like wolves because they're strong and tough and cool-looking. You like eagles because . . ."
Mikey did that thing again, the Mikey Thing he did where he looked down at his lap and blushed a little. "I like eagles because they can go wherever they want and do whatever they want. They can fly up high and leave the rest of the world behind. They're so, you know, free. Nothing can hold you down when you're so far away."
That was it, right there. The moment when Ethan heard someone like he'd never heard anyone before. The way people weren't supposed to hear things until they were way older than nine. He may have not fully understood, but he heard.
"Yeah, birds are cool like that," he agreed. "It would be so cool to fly."
"Sometimes I wish I was a bird," Mikey pondered out loud. "Is that weird? I just wish I could leave everything behind me and fly away from the world. No more hospitals. No more cancer—at least not the Bad Kind."
Ethan pursed his lips. "Well why can't you be a bird?" He suggested. Mikey gave him a strange look.
"I don't think that's how it works."
Ethan laughed. "Well, obviously. But why can't you be like a bird?"
A frown crossed Mikey's face. "Because no matter how high I jump, I can't get to the sky."
"Hey, all birds have to learn to fly before they can actually do it, right? So you're still learning."
The frown was replaced by a wishful smile. "You think?"
Ethan nodded confidently. "Yeah, I think. You can be an eagle, or a hawk, or blue jay, or a cockatoo, or an owl, or a toucan, or a parrot, or . . ." He paused, struggling to think of more.
"Or a quetzal," Mikey suggested. Ethan looked at him as though he'd just spoken French. "It's a colorful bird that lives in the tropical rainforests in Central America," he explained.
Ethan breathed out a laugh. "I've never heard of that in my life," he said, feeling pretty impressed. "Are you some kind of bird expert?"
"It's in my book," Mikey said bashfully, doing that Mikey Thing again. "Not this one. I have another one that's all birds."
"You have a bird book?"
Mikey's cheeks burned red. "That sounds so lame, doesn't it?" He groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "It's not—I'm not. . ."
"It's not lame," Ethan said, offering a reassuring smile. "I wanna see it."
With quite a bit of reluctance, Mikey pulled another picture-book from his bag and handed it to Ethan.
"Show me your favorites," Ethan suggested. "Tell me about them."
So he did. He turned through the book, stopping at any ones he found interesting, and told Ethan everything he knew about them. He started off pretty shy at first, but as he became more comfortable and less embarrassed, his tone became more enthusiastic and his words faster paced. Ethan could tell right away that he was a smart kid, because he knew way more about these birds than what the book told, and he spoke about them in the way someone only talks about something that really excites them.
In all honesty, Ethan only caught about half of what Mikey said. He couldn't keep up with all of the fancy names and habitats and diets. But he liked watching the boy who he'd found crying just hours ago speaking so animatedly, dropping his shyness for a bit and just being himself.
They were interrupted when a woman who had the same brown hair and bright blue eyes as Mikey stepped into the room, her gaze instantly finding him. Said boy was too busy telling Ethan about the golden pheasant to notice her arrival until he realized that Ethan was looking up, and followed his gaze to meet that of his mother.
It was crazy how fast his face lit up. "Mom!" He exclaimed, practically running towards her and throwing his arms around her. "I missed you."
His mom laughed, running a hand through his hair. "I've only been gone since morning." She had an accent when she spoke. British, maybe. "But I missed you, too."
He grinned up at her. "Did you find one?"
"I'm not sure, love," she said. "Maybe. These things take time."
"Does that mean you'll be gone all of tomorrow, too?" He asked, pouting.
"We'll find out tomorrow," she said gently, leaning down to kiss the top of Mikey's head. She caught Ethan staring and smiled at him.
Mikey glanced back. "That's Ethan," he told his mom. "He's my friend."
"Well tell your friend you have to go," she said, not an ounce of demand in her voice.
"What? Why?" Mikey complained, turning back to his mom to frown up at her. "Can't I stay a little longer, mom? Please?"
"Your nurse said you've been out here for hours," she said, holding his chin affectionately. "You need to get back to your room so they can make sure you're still alright, okay?"
Ethan had almost forgotten that he hadn't been hanging out with any other friend on any other day. Despite Mikey's hospital gown, it had been all-too easy to picture him as a regular kid. But this was a hospital, and Mikey was a patient, sick with the Bad Kind of cancer.
Mikey came reluctantly back over to where Ethan sat and began packing his books into his bag. "Will you be here tomorrow?" He asked timidly.
"'Course I will," Ethan said with a big, goofy grin. "You better be ready. I'm gonna show you some things you've been missing out on."
Mikey's smile turned a little less shy. "Cool," he said. "I'll be here."
"Bye bye, Birdie."
He did that Mikey Thing again, hurrying over to where his mom stood. She was looking at Ethan, and when he met her eyes, she mouthed the words thank you. He smiled, though he didn't really know what she was thanking him for, and watched as the pair left.
That night, for the first time ever, Ethan couldn't wait to go back to the hospital the next day.
He was up early the following morning, and he practically raced to shower and get dressed and brush his teeth. He grabbed an old school backpack and stuffed a few things into it, slinging it over his shoulder and bursting out of his room to run down the stairs and into the kitchen. In his socks, he nearly slipped on the tile floor as he flew around the corner, but he caught himself and jumped up to grab cereal from the cabinet. Deciding against using a bowl because he didn't want to waste time washing up after, he grabbed a napkin and unceremoniously dumped cereal onto it. He snatched a spoon from the silverware drawer and ate the cereal dry.
"Eat any faster and you'll get a tummy-ache."
He jumped, choking on his last spoonful of fruit loops, at his mom's voice coming from the other side of the kitchen counter. "I'm ready to go," he said, crumpling up the napkin and shoving it into the trash. "Let's go."
"Woah woah woah," his mom said, giving Ethan a funny look. She was still in her pajamas. "Slow down, kiddo. What's the rush? Usually I have to drag you out of bed.  We don't leave for another half hour."
Ethan's jaw fell. "Are you kidding? We have to go, mom!"
"Okay, okay," she laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. "I'll try to get ready quick, but you've gotta tell me why you're in a hurry when we get to the car."
"Deal," Ethan grinned, and his mom disappeared around the corner.
Fifteen minutes later, they were in her car driving to the hospital. She was dressed in her scrubs, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. All of a sudden, Ethan felt nervous. He hoped Mikey would still like him today. What if he didn't? What if he didn't like what Ethan brought?
Those worries didn't stop him from racing through the hospital's front entrance, ignoring his mother's scolding, briefly waving at the receptionist, and pounding on the elevator's up button. His mom hurried to his side. "Seriously, Ethan, is seeing your friend really worth all this? He's not going anywhere."
As they stepped onto the elevator, Ethan realized for the first time that this was a prime opportunity to ask about the Bad Kind of cancer. His mom would know something—this was her job. "Mom, what's cancer?"
She frowned. "Cancer? It's this awful disease. Uncontrolled cell division, to put it simply."
Ethan nodded as if he had any idea what that meant. "Does it get better?"
"Sure," his mom nodded. "There are different types, and some are worse than others, but yeah. Lots of people get better from it."
"Do people die from it?"
He saw her swallow. The elevator door opened, and they walked onto the third floor. "Well, yeah. It's a really bad disease, and unfortunately it kills a lot of people."
Ethan's gut clenched uncomfortably. "Will Mikey die from it?"
His mom looked fondly down at him, placing a hand softly on his back. "I don't know, baby. He's not my patient. And even if he was, you know the rules: I can't tell you about what patients are going through. But I'm sure it's too early to tell."
That didn't make Ethan feel any better. "Okay," was all he said. "Later, mom."
She leaned down to kiss his forehead. "Later, honey. You know how it goes. If you need me—"
"I know, I know," he said. She smiled, departing to go do her doctor-things, and Ethan made the familiar trek to the playroom. By now, he could do it with his eyes closed.
After his talk with his mom, he didn't feel too good, but his uneasiness went away when his gaze found Mikey's. The other boy smiled when he saw him, almost as if he'd been waiting for him.
"Hey, Birdie," Ethan said as he plopped down on the mats next to his friend, back in their little corner. "What's up?"
Mikey shrugged. "Pretty much nothing. At least I'm not crying this time," he joked.
"I brought you something," Ethan said, earning a curious look. He opened up his backpack and took out a book he'd stolen from his sister's bedroom.
Mikey examined the cover. "What Your Star Sign Really Means," he read aloud, smiling to himself. "Nerd."
Ethan blushed. "Thought I'd show you more about the Good Kind of cancer."
Mikey hummed, opening to a random page titled compatibility. "You said you're a Scorpio, right?" Ethan nodded. "Well, this book says we're compatible."
"I didn't need a book to figure that out," Ethan said, and suddenly Mikey was the one blushing, though Ethan didn't really see why. They got along so well, it was pretty obvious they were compatible.
Mikey looked through the book in silence for a while, Ethan hovering over his shoulder to follow along. "Is this stuff real?" Mikey asked.
Ethan snorted. "My sister's really into it, so probably not."
Mikey laughed. "That's mean."
"Eh," Ethan said with a shrug. "I don't feel too bad. Anyways, I just wanted you to see that so you could . . . Well, I don't actually know. I just felt like I should bring it. You can keep it for a while if you wanna look at it."
"Won't your sister be mad?"
"I hope so," Ethan dismissed, earning another laugh. Mikey had a really nice laugh. "So, that's not all I brought," he continued. "Wanna play a game?"
At Mikey's affirming nod, he searched his bag until he found the deck of cards he'd put in there that morning. "You said your family doesn't play card games. That's kind of illegal, so I'm gonna teach you some."
Another laugh. "Teach away, Mr. Ethan."
They spent more time than anyone should ever spend playing card games, but every minute was awesome. Mikey's favorite turned out to be slapjack, even though he was pretty god-awful at it, and the two of them had a blast slapping the deck—and each other—until their hands were red.
Mikey had to leave at one point to get checked up by his nurse—who came by the playroom every once in a while to make sure they were still there and everything was okay—but he came back forty minutes later, and somehow playing games turned into chatting, and chatting turned into storytelling.
Mikey learned that Ethan had lived in California his whole life, and that he never wanted to move away. That he loved his school and his friends and his mom and his dad and even his sister. He'd started learning to play baseball last year. He had a dog named Mario and a cat named Luigi. He really loved waffles and really, really hated broccoli.
And Ethan learned that Mikey was from Illinois, but he was in California because this hospital had the best doctors to treat him. Apparently, something about his cancer—which had somehow gone from being called the Bad Kind to being called the Bad Guy—wasn't normal, and not a lot of people knew how to handle it. His parents were from Britain. He used to play soccer before the his blood problems made it too exhausting for him. He really liked science and math and, well, anything school-related. His teachers back home were awesome, but he didn't have many friends his age at school. He loved learning about animals—though Ethan had already guessed that much. He hated everything about bananas, from the look to the taste to the smell, and wouldn't touch one with a yard stick.
"Can I say something weird?" He asked when they'd both said just about everything they could say. He was doing the Mikey Thing again.
Ethan was starting to really love the Mikey Thing.
"'Course you can," he responded, cheerful as ever.
Mikey pursed his lips. "Thanks for, you know, talking to me. I don't know why you did, because I must have looked like such a loser, but you did, and it was really nice, and I thought I was gonna hate it here, but now I don't think I will. So yeah, thanks."
Ethan felt something weird in his belly. "No problem," he said. "I used to hate it here, too. I thought it was so boring. But now it's not boring, because you're pretty cool. So thanks for being cool, I guess."
Mikey giggled. "You're welcome?"
Neither of them said what they were really thinking, though. Maybe because they didn't even realize they were thinking it. That they felt as if they'd known each other a lot longer than twenty-four hours. That something wasn't really normal about the way they talked to each other—the way nobody would ever expect kids so young to talk to each other. There was a level of understanding they shared that was far beyond their years, and they didn't even seem to notice it.
"I'm tired," Mikey said through a yawn.
"It's kind of early," Ethan said, then instantly regretted saying it. Mikey had explained before that the Bad Guy made him tired. "Do you want to go back to your room?" He asked in an attempt at a quick fix.
Mikey shook his head. "No, I'll stay here." He yawned again, then leaned his head drowsily onto Ethan's shoulder. There were butterflies on both ends, but no one said anything. "Can you read to me?"
"Sure." Ethan picked up the horoscope book and started reading it aloud to Mikey, but it was pretty clear a few pages in that the boy was on the brink of sleep. "I think you should go to your room."
Mikey frowned. "Will you come with me?" He didn't want to sound needy, but he wasn't ready to say goodbye to Ethan just yet. He really, really liked his new friend.
"Am I allowed to?"
Mikey shrugged. "I'm allowed to have visitors, so I think you are. We can find out together."
Together. Ethan liked that.
"Alright," he agreed, standing up. "Let's find out together."
Nobody stopped them on the way to Mikey's room, so that answered that question.
Mikey settled into the hospital bed, Ethan on the stool beside him. He continued as before, reading the book until Mikey fell asleep. Even then, he stayed with him, not wanting to leave him alone and half-hoping he'd wake back up so they could talk some more.
He didn't, though, and after some time his parents showed up after another day of home-hunting, and Ethan took that as his cue to leave. Both Mikey's mom and dad thanked him for being so nice to their son, and he wondered to himself if he would ever stop being thanked. He didn't see why he was getting so much praise for just being a friend.
He didn't realize how big of a difference a friend could make.