What is Most Familiar

The first and last thing I see each day is the ceiling littered with photos of people I don’t know, places I don’t recognize, and letters I didn’t receive. The remainder of the room is just as unfamiliar, from the succulents lining the window to the massive teddy bear perched in the corner to the Get Better Soon! balloons tied to the arm of the small couch. It has been about three weeks since I moved into this patient's room, being that my old room had to be closed off due to rain leakage and a sudden mold infestation, according to my nurse, Gloria. The first available room in the pediatric wing was this one, belonging to another girl my age who was recently transferred to another hospital, but has yet to collect the objects decorating her room. Though one might view the girl’s delay as careless or intrusive, I find that staring at the ceiling and her other belongings is what allows me to stand the constant bed rest. Sometimes I invent stories about this girl, pretending she is a spy from some foreign country, posing as a patient to infiltrate the hospital and obtain a mysterious drug. Or sometimes she is an avid traveler–not to another hospital–but around the world, seeing the deserts, beaches, waterfalls, and jungles I have always desired to see, smelling fresh flowers and rain instead of sanitizer and chocolate pudding. 

I hear Gloria before I see her, rattling the doorknob before pushing in her squeaky medication cart. Various pill containers, thermometers, and other small equipment line the sides of her cart, and I can see a hint of the stack of Jello cups she keeps hidden on the bottom shelf, behind the stack of books. What I love most about Gloria isn’t her constant optimism, Jello stash, or irrational fear of wet socks, but rather that she always brings me a new selection of books from the nearby bookstore, the hospital library, or wherever else her seemingly endless collection draws from.

“Good morning sweetheart,” Gloria calls out, a smile spreading across her face as she approaches my bed.

“Morning Gloria,” I murmur, pushing myself up with a yawn. For the past two weeks, I have felt exhausted to the point where Gloria no longer has to urge me to rest in bed, which while granting me endless time to read Gloria’s books, has also limited my ability to talk with the other patients and staff. Though Gloria is likely my favorite part of the hospital, sometimes I yearn for more than just her check-ins throughout the day; I want to form the friendships and interactions I read about each day.

“How are you feeling?” Gloria asks as she starts withdrawing pill containers.

“A bit tired. But I’m excited to see what you’ve brought me today.”

  “Oh, you’ll like today’s selection. I brought a copy of Little Women that I found in the staff room. Have you read it before?”

“A few years ago, I think.”

“It was one of my favorite books growing up. I remember reading my mother reading it to my sisters and me right before bed. We always liked to pretend we were sisters, though we always fought over who could be Jo. Perhaps we could talk about the book when you’ve finished.” 

“I would like that,” I reply truthfully. The recent inability to leave my room has left me even more grateful for Gloria and her books.

Within the next few minutes, Gloria sets down a tray of breakfast (slightly gray eggs, rubbery pancakes, and fruit that smells artificial) and my pills. She also places a stack of books on the bed before leaving, promising to return around lunchtime. I swallow down the pancakes and fruit, cut up the eggs for Gloria’s benefit, and swallow the pills one by one. I then gleefully reach for the stack, scanning the covers of Little Women, Pride & Prejudice, Anne of Green Gables, and a small green journal, slightly tattered with a red ribbon for a bookmark. I pick up the journal first, flipping through the pages that are covered in scrawly blue pen. Intrigued, I flip to the first page, which begins with the predictable “Dear Diary…”.

I pause before reading beyond the heading, unsure of if I’m breaking some universal diary code. On one hand, I’m currently bedridden in a hospital with nothing else to do and unable to search for the diary’s owner, whom I might discover by reading further. On the other, I could be reading someone’s most personal thoughts and experiences, joys and pains, secrets and desires. For all I know, this could be Gloria’s own diary accidentally misplaced in the stack of books she collected for me. And yet, I can’t resist the urge to read just a bit, something beyond the typical classics I have been reading for the past few weeks. I decide to read the first few pages, telling myself I’ll stop in a few minutes…

***

Two hours pass by until I close the journal, stopping to stretch my arms and reflect on what I had just read. The diary seems to be written by a teenage girl around my age, who seems to live a fairly ordinary life. Oddly enough, I never learn her name but instead that she lived with her two brothers, parents, fish, and cat. She played soccer as a goalie in her free time, and enjoyed reading and painting. The girl describes her interactions in school, her worries about college and academics, her appearance and relationships, and her desires for the future. While she generally seems content with her life, the girl also explains the strains in her parents’ marriage, her stress surrounding competitive soccer, and the pressure to follow in her brothers’ footsteps, both of whom attend elite universities. I look at the photos taped into the journal next to several of the entries, one of which captures both of her brothers at some sort of graduation, their smiles glowing against dark blue caps and gowns. Their faces seem strangely familiar, and I wonder if I had seen them in passing, perhaps before arriving at the hospital. I want to show the journal to Gloria, in an effort to both reunite the diary with its rightful owner as well as show her some of the entries. I can’t resist the overwhelming feeling of sleep, however,which is starting to swallow my thoughts and blur my eyes. I place the diary with the other books and sink back to my pillow, allowing myself to succumb to the sleep

***

I wake to the sound of Gloria rolling her medication cart into the room, the scent of today’s lunch lingering in the air. I cover my ears with the sides of the pillow, moaning at the noise disrupting my heavy sleep. As I begin to take in my surroundings, the photos on the ceiling clear in focus, revealing the characters in the life of whoever once inhabited this room. I make my usual scan over the photos, stopping when one in particular catches my eye, one that matches the graduation photo I found in the diary.

“Happy afternoon!” Gloria says cheerfully, halting my speculations. “I believe today’s lunch is some variation of chicken and rice, along with a fresh chocolate chip cookie.”

I sit up in bed, eager to share my findings from the diary and its connection to the photos on the ceiling. “You’ll never believe what I was reading this morning.”

“You started Little Women already?”

“No. Someone’s diary!”

Gloria raises an eyebrow at that, but her expression becomes unreadable, at odds with her usual cheery grin. I pause for a moment, wondering if I am about to be reprimanded, but then continue on, unable to hide the journal on the bed next to her.

“I read a bit of the journal, but couldn’t place a name to the writer. I think the diary might belong to whoever stayed in this room before me, however, as I found a copy of one of the ceiling photos in an entry.” 

I reach for the diary then, flipping through the pages to find the entry with the photo of her brothers. I can sense Gloria coming closer to me, peering over my shoulder at the writing.

“This is it,” I say when I find the page. “Is there any chance you recognize the brothers? Maybe around the hospital or if they were visiting this room? If we figure out who the girl is, we can probably return it.”

I wait for Gloria to say something, to indicate whether she recognizes the brothers or the writing, or if she can identify who the diary belongs to. When silence beings to fill the space around us, I turn over my shoulder to face her, halting when I see the tears running down her cheeks.

“Gloria, what’s wrong? Do you know these people?”

Gloria wipes at her face before offering me a bittersweet smile. “Oh, sweetheart. The diary has already been reunited with its owner.”