Free Wild Child by M. Leighton Page A

sleep now.  Maybe it’s because I’m waiting.  On Jenna.
    I don’t know what to think about her anymore. I can’t figure her out.  And I’m not sure I should even try. 
    I was hoping I was wrong about her, that she’s really not like my dad.  He always thought there was something better somewhere else, too.  So he left.  He abandoned me and Mom, and never looked back. 
    I’ve always been bound and determined that I won’t make the same mistake she did.  And, the more I think about it, the more I realize that leopards don’t change their spots.  The things I loved so much about Jenna are likely some of the very things that will take her away from me.  I guess you really can’t have your cake and eat it, too. 
    Maybe I should just let her go. If she hated Greenfield before, she’d hate it twice as much if she felt like she had to stay to take care of an invalid who may or may not have a future at all.
    No, the days of me having anything to offer Jenna that could compete with the rest of the world are over.  I guess it’s time to cut her loose before she cuts and runs.
     

CHAPTER FIFTEEN- Jenna
     
    As it turns out, my memory (and probably my imagination, to some degree) had vilified hospitals much more than necessary.  At least so far , I think as I ride the elevator to the third floor.
    I’m inclined to rethink my bravado when the doors open and a long sterile hallway stretches out before me.  The heavy scent of sanitizer stings my nose and makes me think of unpleasant things, of sick people and dying people and people who are lost without each other.  In a way, at least in the way my memory reacts, it’s like the hospital took my mother from me.  Visit by visit, month by month.
    The doors start to close again, so I step out in a hurry. After two deep, shaky breaths, I start to turn back, only to find them closed and my means of escape gone.  For a second, panic strikes.  I spin in a wild circle, looking for the glowing red EXIT sign.  I feel my forehead prickle with sweat as the walls draw closer and closer and the air gets thicker and thicker.
    Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
    Finally, I spot the exit.  I take a step toward it, but a swell of heat gushes over my face, making the room swim right before my eyes.  I reach for the wall, anything that’s steady in a world that’s grown disturbingly unstable.
    Why did I come?  Why did I come?
    My palm hits the cool concrete of the wall and I lean toward it, pressing my cheek to the pale, painted surface.  My pulse is racing, my heart is thumping and my addled mind is struggling to answer my own simple question. 
    Why did I come?  Why did I come?
    But finally, like a cool breeze to parched skin, my head clears enough for me to feel the answer.   
    Rusty.  I came for Rusty.
    I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath.  Just the thought of him, of the fact that he was so nearly taken from my life in a very permanent, irrevocable way, gives me the focus I need to get a grip on myself.
    I don’t move for several long minutes as I wait for my calm to be restored.  Still leaning heavily against the hard wall, I give my shaky legs a test.  They don’t feel strong by any means, but they’re strong enough to support me. That’s the main thing.  I push away from the concrete and smooth my hair before I turn my back to the wall and face, head on, the two intimidating wooden doors in front of me.
    As I approach, I read the large, red lettering emblazoned across both panels.  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.  I hardly fit that description.
    I chew my lip as I think of what to do now.  As I look casually from left to right, I see the little buzzer to one side of the door.  There’s a sign below it that has a schedule of ICU visiting hours and the procedure for getting inside.
    Following the directions, I depress the buzzer and wait.  After a few seconds, a pleasant enough sounding voice comes on.  “May I help you?”
    “Um, I’m here