The Hospital Room (short story)

 I've had it since I was born. It started to get worse as I grew older, until I couldn’t be around more than two people. Two weeks from now, on my fifteenth birthday, I'll go into surgery. They're going to take it out, that thing in my brain that's made me a freak my entire life. I'm going to be normal.              

 I stopped writing in my journal as Dr. Isa walks purposefully into my room, immediately followed by Moss, my only friend. My father had hired the boy to play with me while I spend these lonely days in this hospital. He was wearing deep black, which did not seem to fit with the hospital setting but he was an autistic, and that was all the explanation one needed. Unable to talk, I had to read his mind.

“Hi Adda,” he thinks. Looking at him, I tried to narrow in on his thoughts, but as usual his mind was too calm to get much of a reading.

Isa glances a peak at Moss and frowns, then continues scrutinizing over a daily reading of my biological norms. I hear Isa's thoughts, and they are fluid, changing, unstill. She's irked that my father isn't here, that he's too busy dealing with his business to spend an hour in the morning with his own daughter. She wants to tell my father to call off the surgery, not just because of the lack of conclusive long-term case studies, but because of the fact that I seem to be adversely reacting to the special antibiotic I'd have to use in bulk after my surgery. She's tense, stuck between a decision that means a lot to her. Her superiors have told her not to let her feelings for the patient get above her loyalty to this hospital -- that my father deserves something back from the millions he's invested here. Though she’s a professional, she was hesitant to bring up the matter openly and honestly to her patient, but now she knows that I am reading her thoughts and might as well bring up the topic.

“You sure you want to do this surgery, Adda?” Isa asked me, “There is serious risk involved and you are such a young girl...”

Moss has been watching Isa intensely, anticipating something. A change? Isa gives him a firm look, then gestures him out. Moss follows her, his black trench coat swooping in his sudden turn through the narrow corridor leading to the door. They're gone too fast. I don't get to say to them that—no matter what—I want this surgery!

I want to get up and chase after them, but I can't. I'm too scared to go out. My rare condition forbids me from doing so -- to be near people, just a handful of people and their random thoughts will give me a horrible seizure. I take in a heavy breath of air, trying hard not to cry. I don't want to be alone, anymore—I want to be normal like all the other little girls.

*  *  *

I was five when I found that telepathy wasn't as natural as sight or smell—that not everyone had it. Moss, seven at the time, and I were exploring the woods near my father's winter estate. I remember feeling something fall, a cry of help. I started yelling at him to hurry, that a bird had fallen.

When we found the bird with the broken wings, Moss had asked me how I'd known.

"I sensed it," I'd said.

"How?"

And I remember trying to describe to Moss how, but it's as impossible as explaining what the color red looks like to someone who's blind. Exasperated, I'd said to him, " I just knew."

There was something different about me. There'd always been. I told Moss the bird wouldn't live. That it'd suffered a terrible fall, and was already sick before its fall. But, there was something about the bird that Moss could not leave behind, to die alone. Thus, Moss made it his duty to nurse the bird back to health, but the bird eventually died.

I did not want to die alone. My telepathy has been becoming more sensitive, and the voices inside people’s heads grow louder, until I would have to be isolated for good. I want to go ahead with the surgery.

*  *  *

“Not yet, Adda. We can’t prepare your surgery until the neurosurgeon approves of the procedure,” said Isa. “He’s a specialist, but even he has no experience with your extremely rare condition. He’ll determine if the operation is worth doing. There’s a chance you might not survive the procedure. Please think it over, Adda.”

 I sigh, looking at the clock next to the impressionist flower painting hanging on the wall across from my bed. Outside my window I see a mother sparrow flying back to her nest, with twigs in her mouth to feed her babies. On its way, it stops to stare at me. I stare back and we share a brief moment of sympathy before the sparrow continues on its way. It is 7 PM. Moss was not here like he usually is. He normally spends all his time on me, and he's the only person I talk to... or the only person I get to talk to. I am not allowed out of my room. All I can do is sleep.

*  *  *

              I feel a tug on my shoulder.

"Adda!" I wake up, startled. Moss is shaking my shoulders, excitement all over him. He's smiling, grinning like he's never done, and there's a sparkling twinkle in his eyes. There's not a shred of his usual worry on his mind.

"Moss!" I let him embrace me, as I close my own arms around him.

"You've got to check out the latest release of VirtualLife. Version 2.09 has everything in it. It's no longer just a virtual world. It's like a real one now -- thanks to the tech they gave us." Moss' eyes light up, and I see the room in his mind. "We've synched it up to EyeTap and SimRoom projectors. SimRoom's displays your in-world scenery in real-time 3D, and EyeTap records your movement and interaction with SimRoom components. You can literally walk in VirtualLife."

VirtualLife is a massively multiuser online world Moss worked on his entire life with the help of his friends. "Citizens" of VirtualLife get to build their own reality within the software confines of the virtual world. They get to meet other "citizens" in VirtualLife and interact with them just like in real life. I smile at him, though I'm not as excited about VirtualLife as he is. I've never seen it as much more than a temporary solution to the obvious problem of the girl who can't go out and have friends. It beats the whole imaginary friends thing, but it's not much more than that. In VirtualLife, albeit your friends are real people somewhere in the world, the "friends" you see are pixels, and their voices are fuzzy or just weird depending on what speakers are used. But, at least, you can't get overwhelmed by their thoughts. You're safe, knowing that you can walk into a wild rock concert of a thousand people in VirtualLife but be, physically, a million miles away from the person standing next to you.

Of course, it's nothing like the real thing. It's safe and synthetic, and it's all I can handle until after my surgery. After that, I'd get to be normal. I'd get to go out into the real world, and live life without the shackles of telepathy disease -- like everyone else.

Moss grinned at me, but with an expression of uncertain anticipation frozen on his face.

"That's great!" I say with forced enthusiasm. How can you tell someone you don't care for his gift, especially when he spends his whole life making it for you?

"Isn't it? Isn't it super, Adda?”

*  *  *

 “Not yet, Adda. We can’t prepare your surgery until the neurosurgeon approves of the procedure,” said Isa. Out of the corner of my eye, something stirred from behind the closet, but I choose to ignore it. “He’s a specialist, but even he has no experience with your extremely rare condition. He’ll determine if the operation is worth doing. There’s a chance you might not survive. Please think it over, Adda.”

“Will I still see you after I’m out of this hospital?” I ask.

“Why yes. I’ll come visit you after you’re out,” said Isa.

 “Isa, can I tell you something?”

“Yes?”

I whispered into her ear, “You’re like the sister I never had. You and Moss are my only real family.”

“I know. It’s too bad your father only cares about his business. Even now… That’s just who he is.”

“Isa, what makes us who we are?”

“It’s how we face our challenges, my dear. We each find our own unique ways to reach out to the world.”

“What was yours?” I ask.

“Well… I was an ordinary school girl living a normal life with my mother, but one day I came home from school but she did not let me into the house. I was shocked. She did not recognize me at all. She had been seeing visions of my father’s ghost and finally went crazy. It turned out she was suffering for a long time but hid it because we couldn’t afford the health insurance to treat her schizophrenia. So I became a neurologist, my way to repay her. Being a neurologist is far from anything a normal girl would want, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. And you know what? In the end, being normal can only hope to satisfy most of the people most of the time. It will never satisfy all of the people all of the time. Thank you, President Lincoln, for that bit of wisdom.”

“What if I can’t find a way to reach out to the world, if the surgery doesn’t work?”

 “You’ll still be Adda. I’m sure about that. You’re a lot braver than I’ll ever be.” With that, Isa nodded confidently and left, shutting the door behind her. I’m all alone again.

Or not… because just then the closet doors opened and out popped an old hag. I gasped out loud, taken by sudden surprise. Somehow her thoughts did not create any presence in the room, as if she did not generate mental fields to interface to. The old hag looked short and plump, but her ancient face, with stark black eyes, white hair that flowed down like a waterfall, and a crooked smile fixed permanently into her lips, reminded me of an old witch. She walked toward me slowly. Strangely, I felt I had no reason to fear her, as if I’ve seen her before.

She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke: “Now your third wish. What will it be?"

"Third wish?” I was baffled. “How can it be a third wish if I haven't had a first and second wish?"

"You've had two wishes already,” the hag said, “but your second wish was for me to return everything to the way it was before you had made your first wish. That's why you remember nothing; because everything is the way it was before you made any wishes.” She cackled at me again. “So it is that you have one wish left."

"'All right, I don't believe this, but I guess there's no harm in wishing. I wish the surgery will work so that I can be normal."

"Funny,” said the old woman as she disappeared forever in a puff of smoke. “That was your first wish."

*  *  *

I wake up. Early morning sunlight streams through the half-flipped blinds with a golden glint. I hear birds chirping outside the window, darting around the trees with their free spirits.

Moss is asleep on the chair next to me, his head resting on his arms above my bed. He is dreaming.

Gently, as I have often done, I step into Moss' dream. Moss is autistic in the form of Asperger’s syndrome so his dreams are linear and serial—not wild and chaotic like mine. 

In this dream, Moss is standing beneath high-arched ceilings. He looks younger than his current self. There are others his own age shuffling around. They're carrying books and backpacks. I realize that they're students, and that the ceilings and tall columns belong to the high school that Moss attended. I turn to look at Moss again, and he's changed. He's carrying books now, wearing a heavy backpack. Moss is dreaming of the high school he'd opted out of when he chose to work on VirtualLife.

Right now, I'm an unseen presence in his dream. He has to dream of me before I'd take shape and materialize into a real person. I float around. Students walk right past me one by one, and I breathe in the experience of seeing a real crowd without my telepathy ripping apart my mind. It is liberating.

Then I saw a big fat kid bumping Moss on purpose, hoping he would drop his glasses or at the very least, his books. But Moss is late for class, and has to move on. He sits down in the front row of his Literature class. The teacher asks the class “What is the difference between Third Person Observer and Third Person Objective? Nobody knows? I will randomly call a name then. Moss.” Moss was just in the middle of a daydream, but now shifts around uncomfortably, unable to talk even though he knew the answer. “You just lost three participation points. Anyone else know the answer?” Disgusted, Moss took out a sheet of paper and scribbled down organic chemistry equations. He lost three more participation points for that before he left class with his head down. He wakes up.

“Oh hey Adda,” he says mentally. “Were you poking around in my head again?”

“It must be horrible being so different,” I said.

              Moss’s eyes fixed on mine. “No, it just requires more effort to get by every single day, but I’ve adapted and now I wouldn’t trade my condition for the world. I used to spend most of my time just doing my own thing and not making much sense to people. My ever intriguing thoughts and ideas were locked up in my head and I couldn't communicate them to others. I got perfect grades but there were many unwritten rules about behavior and conduct which everyone else knew except me. To the school bullies I was a real object of interest. If they told me to do something, I would do it, thinking I was being good at doing as I was told, not really knowing that it was against the school rules and it would get me into trouble. When they said "I'm telling!" I would immediately realize that I was breaking the school rules but that I didn't know about it at the time so it was extremely unfair. I would respond to this injustice by saying ‘No, please don't’ making me look like a real attention seeker to the authorities.

“I remember how desperately I used to wish to be part of other children's games where the grass was always greener. I used to wish I could take a bag of marbles to school, join in with the game and come home with more, instead of always losing them all to the little con artists.

“Worst of all were the puppets. When it came to puppet shows I was very confused. Puppets aren't really alive. However, we're supposed to think they are, well maybe not. We are at least supposed to react towards them as if they are real, even though at the back of our minds we knew the truth. For most of my life I have been very easily deceived by society and their tricks.

“Dr. Isa came to visit me on one occasion to try and determine what was wrong. She talked to me for an hour about my favorite thing, chemistry. Impressed with my knowledge of the subject, she suggested autism to my mother but with uncertainty. My mother replied with "now try talking to him about something else". On this note, my diagnosis was certain. I had an incurable social disorder. I had to learn consciously what others could do subconsciously, like picking the correct stall to pee in the public urinal.”

“That’s terrible,” I said. “You seem like you have the world under your fingertips now though, with your VirtualLife company.”

“My autism has its benefits. I see the universe differently. I see connections that others do not. In a way, it’s like a gift. In high school, while everyone is standing around and performing their teenage rituals, I go to the library and enjoy time with the greatest love of my life – computers! My condition makes me really determined in fulfilling my obsessions, and very good at technical stuff like programming. I dropped out of school to make use of my gift… and to help you in make use of yours.”

“Make use of my gift?” I asked.

“Or curse. Your telepathy is whatever you make of it. I know it has made you suffer, but you’ve also used it for benefit. You can talk to anyone, even the birds. I would feel like the luckiest person in the world if I had your gift. I can’t talk to anybody. It would be a shame if you lost it, we wouldn’t be able to…”

My heart skipped a beat. What would happen if I lost my telepathy? Will things with Moss ever be the same again? These thoughts were unbearable. I felt more conflicted than ever.

*  *  *

Lying in my hospital bed, I thought about the conversation I just had with Moss, and how it would be like to be normal. I would be like everybody else, able to walk amongst the crowd, able to play with the other kids, able to reach out to the world. Except that I never grew up like everyone else. Being able to read people’s thoughts, I never learned to read body language, or have to figure out what was underneath the words people say. And I never went to public school, but I’ve seen how it made Moss’ existence difficult. I don’t think I could survive being normal. The thought scares me. I should definitely not go ahead with the surgery.

Just then Dr. Isa walked into my room with tears in her eyes. Had she been crying? But before I can zero into her thoughts and at what had just happened, she spoke. “Your father just came to sign the authorization papers. Since you’re not yet an adult, you have no say in the matter.”

“No!” I shouted. “Where is my father!? Tell him I don’t want the surgery!”

“He signed the papers and left in a hurry,” said Isa. “I’m sorry, I wish there was something I could do…”

I panicked. A feeling of powerlessness overcame me, and I felt like throwing up. I heard footsteps, and looked up to see that Moss just entered my room. He stared at me with a look of seriousness. He knows what just happened. “Have you now decided?”

“It’s too late now,” I said, almost about to cry. I was not able to catch his response, because just then a team of surgeons in blue coats barged into the room, carrying an empty transport with them. They rolled it next to my bed. No…

Pain erupts in my head; my vision darkens with a reddish tint. I feel myself drown in their thoughts, the dozens of people, each with their own calamities; there's just too much, all at once; I can't make sense of any of it. Their thoughts won't stop coming at me. I feel as if there's a hole in my head, and they're all trying to squeeze in. Something pops in my head. The red in my vision darkens and turns to black.

They grab my bed’s removable layer and detach it, sliding it onto the transport. I scream and try to kick them away but to no avail. Strong arms hold down my shoulder. Another grabbed my leg. A masked surgeon holds up a needle, raw syringe shining under the light with a metallic glint, the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen in my life. He sticks it into the underside of my arm. The last thing I see is Moss standing in the corner. He shakes his head, slowly at first, then frantically. His mouth opens and closes. He's trying to say, "No!" but no sound would come out.

*  *  *

My head spun, dizzy and weak and numb. Slowly regaining consciousness, I felt my head held into place, unable to move. Finally I willed myself to open my eyes to see the blurry faces of Dr. Isa and Moss looking down upon me. They were frowning.

“Adda, you’re awake…”

 “The surgery did not work,” Isa started. “The NMR showed no change in your brain activity. And… there were complications. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re still bleeding. We could not stop it. You only have a few more hours to live, Adda. I’m so sorry…”

With that, tears roll down the Isa’s face. Isa’s thoughts are full of sadness. She feels pity for me; she thought how unfair it all was. Strangely, I did not feel pity for myself. It had something to do with Moss near me, and I thought about the bird, and how Moss cared for it. Isa lowers her head and leaves the room, leaving me and Moss alone.

“I’m so sorry, Adda. I tried to help but I’m responsible for all this.” I look at Moss’ face but he is expressionless. “After they had put you to sleep, I sneaked into the supply cabinet and replaced the drug they were to use on you with saline solution. The sabotage worked as they had to abandon the operation from the unexpected nonstop bleeding. But it might have made matters worse.”

“No, you did the right thing, Moss. I wanted this. I’m proud of you.” I told him.

“Hang in there, Adda. I can’t lose you. You look too pretty to die, so I don’t think you’ll die. Not if I stop it,” said Moss confidently, nodding his head.

“I don’t want to die so soon. I never even had the chance to grow up!” I said. “I’ll never get to know what it feels like to be a woman…”

“A woman? Sure… and I want to be a man! But I’m only seventeen.” said Moss.

“Stop that, you’re being immature. I’m so not feeling like a woman right now. Show me what it’s like!”

“OK!” said Moss. “Then I shall.”

With that, Moss slowly began to unbutton his shirt, one by one, reaching downward. And he removed his belt and took off his pants. Then without warning, Moss threw all his dirty clothes at my face. “Wash and iron these clothes then!” said Moss. I stared at him blankly. Then he added “You’re not going to die, Adda…”

*  *  *

He was right. Today, as I read these dairies from my hospital days as a grown lady, I reflect on the defining moments of my life. The price we pay to pursue a golden life is an inability to fully believe in love; instead we gain an irony that scorches everything it touches. My father is living proof of that. Meanwhile, Moss and I grow old together. We live happily ever after. The End.