Room 555

 

 

Room Triple Cinco, also known as Room 555, was seven rooms down from Mac’s room.

Avoiding the Morton relatives, I slipped down the hall. Glancing back to make sure no one was eyeballing me, especially my mom, I put an ear to the door and listened. It was quiet, so I went inside.

Room 555 was empty except for a bed with clean sheets, a table, and a chair. My sunglasses were on the bed. How did they get there? I had never been in that room until right then. Someone must’ve wanted me to find them. A rush of joy caused me to clap and bounce like I had won the grand prize on a TV game show.

I could not remember the last time I had bounced.

Eager to talk to Better Bertie, I put on the sunglasses. But she wasn’t there.

Room 555 suddenly turned dark, except for a weak light near the ceiling.

A woman was lying on the bed, but I could hardly see her face.

A man with black hair was hunched over her, sobbing while holding her hand. They either didn’t see me, or they were ignoring me.

My chest tightened. The woman’s glow faded in and out. She was fading away. And I knew in that way people just know stuff, her light would soon be gone.

She was dying.

The man took the woman’s hand as I blurted, “Oh my God! Howard, is that you?” Yes, it was Howard Morton. He had a beard and wore different clothing, but it was definitely Howard.

Fortunately, he couldn’t hear me, for some reason. But who was the woman he was with?

“OH MY GOD!” I said even louder. An electrical charge ran from my feet to my hair when I realized who she was. The woman was Howard’s wife, Sandra. His dying wife, and Tabitha and Mac’s dying mom.

But how was I seeing something that had happened like three years ago? Had the glasses allowed me to time travel?

Smiling at Howard, Sandra said, “When I’m gone, you need to find someone.”

I gulped. Being there was uncomfortable, watching a private and life-changing moment. Part of me wanted to sneak away, but it was like my tennis shoes were glued to the floor.

“I can’t. I won’t,” Howard said. He leaned closer to his wife, then he sang an old love song to her. “Let me be the one you come running to … I want to spend my whole life with you.”

He didn’t make it any further. His voice caught.

“You’re still a terrible singer.” Sandra nearly laughed. I could tell she would’ve teased him some more had she not been in so much pain.

Her voice was weak, but it brimmed with warmth and compassion and love. “Howard, we only have a few moments left to go. Here’s the deal. You need to find a new love song to share with someone else.”

Howard shook his head. He clearly didn’t want to hear her words, but Sandra kept talking.

“Listen to me now. Our kids are about to lose their mother, and it’s your job …” She stopped, so she could cup Howard’s face in her frail hands. “It’s your job to teach Tabitha and Mac that life goes on. And I will always be with them, in their hearts. But they cannot make losing me their story, their reason for not moving forward and succeeding in life. You must be strong for them. Give them the family they need. The family you all deserve. That is the most important job you have right now. Do you understand?”

Howard could not answer. I thought I understood why. He was a train wreck of sadness, bitterness, and anger.

“Love our beautiful babies, Howard,” Sandra said. “Take … good care of them.”

With that, she closed her eyes. Soon after, her light faded away. The bedside monitor squealed an alarm. Howard cried out in such agony, I could not watch him any longer.

I tore off the sunglasses. Tears fell out of my eyes faster than I could thumb them away. And then anger seized me. I was fiercely mad at the doctors for not saving Sandra Morton’s life, and for not saving Howard and his kids from getting swept away by a tidal wave of sadness and loss.

My anger grew stronger, and it sought new targets: Better Bertie and the universe. Why had they sent me––tricked me!—into going inside this room so I could witness such a heartbreaking scene between Howard and his dying wife? Yes, I had royally screwed up by booting the soccer ball across the street and telling Mac and Tabitha to fetch it. But this was too much of a penalty. Why did they force me to suffer along with Howard, who I barely knew, and his wife, who I did not know at all? Twenty years in jail would’ve been less harsh than seeing what I had just seen, a wife and a mother of two young kids losing her light.

I wanted to scream or run away from the hospital, destination unknown. Run until I dropped. Or curl up in a dark corner and shed every last tear I owned. But not a corner of Room 555. It was freaking me out again. Daylight streamed inside through a window. Howard and Sandra were gone. My time travel trip had ended. The room was empty, except for a bed with clean sheets, and a table and a chair.

And me.

Finally realizing who had given me the sunglasses, I left the haunted room and ran to the elevators, into a headwind, it seemed, like powerful forces were trying to keep me on the fifth floor. The floor where Sandra Morton died three years ago, and where her son Mac was fighting to stay alive that very day.