What the hell am I doing here?
I’m in the back seat of a car. Fujimura’s mother is driving. To the hospital. To see Fujimura. Ren.
Fujimura Ren.
Physically, I feel a lot better being out of the cold. Emotionally, it feels like it’s out of the frying pan, into the pressure cooker.
“Thank you for coming with us,” Fujimura’s mother says once we’re on the road.
“Oh. Um. Yeah. Of course,” I say. Very eloquent of me.
She glances at me in the rearview mirror and gives me a smile that should be reassuring.
“You don’t have to be so stiff,” she says. “You can call me Auntie, you know. Like you used to.”
“Um. Okay. Thanks.”
Aaaand back to silence.
The road hums beneath the tires. A traffic light turns yellow, then red. We stop. Start. Stop again.
I pull out my phone, mostly to give my hands something to do, and type out a message to Mom. “At hospital with Fujimuras.”
The reply comes back almost immediately. “Keep me posted?”
I agree, and she responds with a thumbs-up emoji, like she’s not surprised at all that I’m here.
I stare at it for a second, then lock my phone and regret ever teaching her how to use emojis.
“Cold today,” Fujimura’s mother says, trying again.
“Yeah,” I say. “Really cold.”
She hums in agreement, nodding, like we’ve successfully completed a conversational exchange.
Shizuka-san still doesn’t say anything, and I can’t see her face as she stares out the window.
I sink lower into my seat and try not to exist.
The days are still short, so the hospital’s exterior lights are already on when we arrive, harsh and white against the darkening sky.
We follow the ambulance to a side driveway marked “AMBULANCE ONLY”, and Fujimura-san – um, “Auntie” – barely has time to put the car in park before an oversized garage door starts sliding open on its own, spilling fluorescent light from the cavernous interior out into the evening air.
It’s when we exit the car that the smell hits me: disinfectant and wet pavement, sharp and clean and unmistakably hospital.
The ambulance comes to a complete stop in the garage and the paramedics are out so fast it almost looks like they’re flying.
“Careful,” one paramedic says, and Fujimura is being eased out of the seat. His movements are slow and stiff and powered by sucking air through his teeth, but at least he’s moving.
“Name?”
“Fujimura Ren,” his mother answers immediately.
“Age?”
“Sixteen.”
They settle Fujimura onto the gurney and start rolling him inside. “Auntie” keeps a hand on the side rail and moves with them. Shizuka-san and I follow a step behind.
Inside, the air is cooler and drier. The crowded hallway opens up ahead of us, and door after door opens before we even reach it, like the building itself is making a path for us. More than once the gurney jolts as it passes over a threshold, causing Fujimura to hiss softly and a paramedic to whisper something that both mother and son seem to find encouraging.
They guide the gurney into a curtained bay. A nurse pulls the curtain most of the way closed, then pauses, glancing back at us non-patients.
“You can come in,” she says to Fujimura’s mother. “The rest of you can wait just outside for a moment.”
Shizuka-san and I stop short as the curtain closes the rest of the way, shutting us out. We stand there, suddenly unsure where to put our hands.
Through the thin fabric, I can hear voices: calmer now, more focused. Someone asks Fujimura how bad the pain is. Someone else asks about allergies.
A minute later, the curtain opens again as they reposition him onto a different bed. Fujimura’s jersey has been cut open at the side, the fabric hanging loose. His skin is already darkening where the ball hit him, an ugly bruise blooming fast.
His eyes flick to me, startled.
“Oh,” he says, like he hadn’t realized I was there.
“Hey,” I say, which feels wildly insufficient.
He gives me a small, crooked smile – more embarrassed than anything – and then the nurse is gently steering the bed away again, the curtain closing behind them.
“They’ll need imaging,” his sister says beside me, her voice flat, informative. “X-rays. Maybe more.”
I nod like I know what that means.
Fujimura’s mother steps back out a moment later. “They’re going to check for fractures and internal bruising,” she says and produces her cellphone. “I should let your father know.”
This last part must be to Shizuka-san: telling my father anything would be quite the feat.
A nurse approaches us again, her smile polite but firm. “We’re ready to take him for imaging now,” she says. “One family member may accompany him.”
Fujimura’s mother steps forward immediately, no hesitation this time.
The nurse is already turning away as she nods. “The rest of you can wait in the waiting room. We’ll come get you when we’re finished.”
“Of course,” Fujimura’s mother says. She glances back once, reassuring. “It won’t take too long.”
Fujimura’s gurney is rushed away, and with us now heading in the opposite direction it’s not long before he’s completely out of sight.
We follow a few wall signs to get to the waiting room, away from the curtained bays and the movement and the noise. The waiting room itself is sparse, just a few rows of plastic chairs facing a muted television I doubt anyone is watching.
I glance at Shizuka-san for direction, but she doesn’t look at me, just takes a seat near the wall and grabs a magazine from the table beside it.
After a beat, I sit a few chairs away, unsure whether the distance is polite or cowardly.
And then the wait begins.