Emergency

John rested his hands on the hospital-standard, white porcelain sink. Sweat dripped down his face and soaked the collar of his shirt, yet his mouth remained dry. He searched for something to drink out of, but the only thing in sight were the urine sample cups stacked neatly on the shelf. Considering it for only a moment, he spun back around and collapsed on the toilet.

In his pocket, John’s phone vibrated. It’s Kurt again. He placed his hand on the bulge his phone made from under his jeans and held it there for a moment. I should tell him I won’t be going tonight, but... His thoughts drifted to the game. His favorite baseball team was embroiled in a pennant race with their most heated rivals, and Kurt had paid nearly double face-value for the tickets so they could go. I should have him just sell the damn thing, but what if we get out of here soon? Couldn’t I just sneak out for a couple hours?

Once his phone stopped vibrating, he pulled it out of his pants and shut it off. I can’t even think about leaving. What kind of a man, what kind of a husband, does that make me?

He stood up and looked down at one of his own legs. How the hell could could something this important to human life be so fragile. He shifted his weight to his right and started to fall before he caught himself on the wall of the bathroom. Tears ran down his cheeks once again.

What kind of life is she going to have? How will we hike Yosemite next summer? Our apartment doesn’t even have an elevator. How will she come back home? We’ll have to move out, and that’s going to cost more money. God only knows how much this is going to cost in the end. The ambulance ride alone was probably more than either of us makes in a week.

“I can’t do it.” he whimpered. “I can’t let them take your leg.” John slapped his hand against the tile wall and looked up at the motivational poster on the wall. It featured some guy in racing wheelchair. He scoffed at it for a second, but took a step back and read his number bib. He was racing in the Boston Marathon.

“She can still do it. Her dream doesn’t have to die.” he whispered. John faced the mirror, and stared at his reflection with the wheelchair racer behind him. “It will be hard, but we can do it.”

He walked out of the bathroom and towards his wife’s bed. Two of the doctors were still attending to her. She was unconscious, as she had been since the accident. They didn't notice John, even after he said, “I have an answer.” He spoke louder. “I said I’ve reached a decision.”

The older doctor looked up from his chart. “What did you decide?”

“If you amputate, like you said, will it really give her a better chance of surviving?” He nodded. “And she could use one of those racing wheelchairs?”

“Of course. There is a whole range of athletic opportunities for her, even with one good leg. We might even be able to fit a prosthetic.”

“Then do whatever you think is best.”

John leaned over to his wife’s bloodied and swollen body, kissing her on the forehead. “I think this is for the best. I hope that someday, you’ll understand.”

Let me know what you thought in the comments below. As always, I appreciate constructive criticism MUCH more than the basic 'good job' one...but those are still nice too :)

A Cup for Joe

Mitch swirled what was left of his coffee. The grounds settled to the bottom of his mug while the tan liquid raced around the sides. Outside the diner, cars shuttled back and forth on Main Street. Across the way, a couple college boys attempted to load a couch into the back of their truck, the local grocer set up his fruit displays, and in front of the theater, two young men sat on a bench together.
“Need a refill?”
“Yea, that’d be great.”
The waitress filled Mitch’s mug and said, “Whatcha looking at?”
“Oh nothing.”
“Like hell it’s nothing.” She pointed towards the window with her coffee pot. “You’ve been staring out that window all morning. You havent’ even touched the paper yet.”
“News don’t interest me no more.”
“Since when?”
Mitch turned towards the waitress. “Joe’s back in town.”
“Isn’t that something. You gonna see him?”
“Don’t know.”
“How long has it been? Five years?”
“Something like that.” Mitch took a tiny sip of his coffee as to not burn his tongue.
“Oh come on. He wants to see--”
“No!” He pounded his fist on the table, some coffee spilt over the edge of his mug. “If he chooses to live like that, I won’t have anything to do with him.”
“You know they’re now saying that it’s not a choice, hun. He was just born that way.”
“You blaming me? I taught him to play ball, fix cars, and all that...Never let him play with his sister’s dolls. Hell I never even got him a G.I. Joe.” Mitch resumed looking out the window. “Should I have gotten him a G.I. Joe?”
“Honey, no. You were a good father when he was a kid. Now, be one for him as an adult.”
He pointed out towards the theater. “There’s another one. Another man with him.”
“Go see them. Be a father again.”
“Bonnie, just get me my bill.”
“Naw, this one’s on the house.”
Mitch slid out of the booth and walked out onto the street.