Free Perfect Match by Jerry Byrum

him muster enough courage to slowly push off down
the hall.
    The patient tapped her pen a few times on her notebook and
began stringing words and sentences down the pages. Her thoughts were racing
faster than her pen. She’d stop in mid-sentence and jot abbreviated notes in a
separate pad, and then back to the spiral notebook.
    After completing two pages, she bagged her notebooks and
pen, braced herself, and eased into her wheelchair parked near her bed. She
arranged her nine-patch quilt on her lap that her mom had made her, and rolled from
her room and down the hall.
     
    D.R. had found the corner sunroom, braked his wheelchair and
was taking in the outside world, wishing he was out there and not in the
antiseptic-smelling hospital. His back was to the hall entrance. The sunroom
had three banks of windows. He was facing the end wall when he picked up the
barely audible wheelchair sound. The sound that is the movement of air,
accented by the padded wheels rolling on hard floor, a couple creaks and
clicks, and then stillness.
    He caught the faint fragrance of something fresh, floral,
pleasant, so he figured some damn female had arrived. What now, he thought. Hide
out in my room? He was aware from his left that the unknown chair was creeping
closer but about three feet from him. He was feeling uncomfortable by the
second.
    His curiosity and peripheral vision revealed a female with
shoulder-length brown hair, a soft teenage face, but eyes that told a different
story. He quickly looked away, but he heard the rustle of turning pages, and
the tap, tap, tap.
    The young female said, “How’re you feeling today?” Her voice
was soft, but confident.
    He gave a slight shrug. Maybe that’s all he’d need to say to
some strange teenager.
    More tapping, rustling paper.
    A few long minutes passed. He felt trapped in a damn chamber
with some idiot tap, tap, tapping.
    “What are you in here for?” Her question broke into his
private thoughts.
    He sighed and lifted a finger toward his wrecked right foot.
Can’t the dummy see that my damn foot is bandaged, he thought.
    She persisted. “How long you going to be here?”
    Too damn long, if I have to be questioned by some stupid
teenager, he thought. Maybe she’ll settle for another shrug, so he shrugged.
    Didn’t work.
    “So…is your foot the only thing wrong with you, or is your
voice box broken also?”
    Enough of this nonsense. His hands jerked both wheels.
Didn’t budge. He tried again; nothing moved, except boiling frustration.
    “You have to release the brake first, and then you can
travel around the world.”
    Great, just what I need a smart ass comedian to cheer me
back to good health. He sat still, with arms resting on the supports in
surrender to being captive to a chatty little twerp.
    “My name’s Selena, what’s yours?”
    He thought a moment before giving in and deciding to answer,
“D.R.”
    “Like in doctor, are you a doctor?” She toyed with him.
    He shook his head?
    “So…what do the alphabets D and R stand for?”
    He slowly un-braked and turned the chair slightly in her
direction, as he decided to do something he’d not done since junior high
school…use his real names. He gave her a quick glance. “Doak Roscoe.” Regretted
it immediately.
    Her eyes twinkled beneath her dark lashes. “Doak must be a
joke, but Roscoe I like. You look like a Roscoe.” She giggled a little, as she
scribbled on the margin of her notebook page. She looked up and off in the
distance at the mountains. Her expression was farther away than the horizon.
    Roscoe felt uncomfortable with her sudden change of mood. He
ventured, “Why are you in the hospital?”
    It took her a few seconds to return to the present moment.
“I’m dying,” said flatly.
    He huffed in disbelief. “That’s not funny and nothing to
joke about. You’re too healthy and young. You’re not dying.” He wouldn’t just
leave it at that. “Is that the latest teenage trend…talking about dying?”