“I Hope You’re Smiling Down”

Steve ran into Hannah's room, believing he would see her calmly lying on the bed. But the bed was empty.

That doesn't mean anything, he told himself. Hannah might be in examination or surgery now. It didn't necessarily mean that ...

Steve couldn't finish the terrible thought. He knew that she was the only one that answered, but he wanted to force her out of his consciousness. As if consistently denying facts could change them.

"Hannah's in the morgue," he heard a strange cold voice. Larissa was standing in the doorway.

"No ..." Paxton shook his head. "No…!"

"Do you want to see her?"

He wanted to see her, he wanted it badly, but not there, not in the morgue! Hannah couldn't be in the morgue!

"Come with me," Larissa instructed.

His legs moved against his will. Slowly, as if they were concrete, but nevertheless tugged at Larissa walking in front of him. Even before they descended to the lower levels, Paxton could feel the biting cold on his back and the icy tongue of terror creeping around his spine.

Larissa made him wait a moment. Finally she called him and he entered a sterile, cold room smelling of hospital and death.

One of the freezer drawers was open. The body lying on it was covered with a white sheet. He knew from the very outline that it was the body of a small person.

Larissa gently took his elbow, with her other hand on his shoulder. Her hands were warm. Her voice was warm too, as she said softly:

"Are you ready to see her?"

No, he wasn't ready to see Hannah dead. From the moment of the accident, he knew that the girl was living on credit, that he should be ready for her departure, but he wasn't. Could he ever prepare for her death?

No, he wasn't ready to see her dead, but he knew he would never be prepared for it. It just wasn't possible. Therefore, he had to take this step. He nodded.

The morgue attendant revealed the sheet showing Hannah's face.

He took one step slowly towards Hannah. Then another. He reached out to touch her face, but his knees gave out. He fell heavily on them.

He already knew. He could no longer have any illusions.

Hannah died.

Larissa Fergus was a busy person, but one of her responsibilities was caring for patients, and Steve Paxton was, in a way, her patient. Most of all, however, he was a young man whom she knew and who had just experienced a severe shock, so as a psychologist, but most of all as a friend, she could not abandon him. That's why they both sat in her consulting room drinking hot chamomile. Steve was calm but dark. He had accepted the truth about Hannah's passing, he just couldn't live with it yet.

"I thought her condition was stable," Paxton spoke softly. "What happened?"

"Her condition worsened gradually. Today in the morning her heart stopped beating. "

"Just like that?"

She could tell him in detail using complicated scientific terms that he wouldn't understand anyway.

"Just like that," she confirmed.

There was no point in informing him that they might still have tried to resuscitate her, but Mrs. Robson had signed a document expressing a wish not to resuscitate her daughter. It was a terribly difficult decision, but for three years Mrs. Robson watched Hannah slowly drift away. Perhaps she shouldn't have done this, signed this paper, but she was tired of waiting for a miracle that she had stopped believing in.

Hannah just walked away.

"And you? How are you feeling?" she asked him softly. "I heard you had an incident yesterday."

"I don't know," he replied. "I feel… unreal. I should help Mrs. Robson with the funeral ... "

"Anna took care of it."

"Still, I should do something. I should ... "

He didn't know what. The feeling of unreality was a bit too much. He knew Hannah was dead, he no longer denied it, but the world without her was unknown to him.

He felt different than after the accident. It was then that he experienced a tremendous shock that knocked him unconscious. He denied then, went mad, cried, now he couldn't shed a single tear. Now he felt like he didn't feel anything. It was unreal and empty.

Paxton was walking towards the hospital exit when he noticed a commotion at the front desk. He recognized the silhouette of Mrs. Robson, now smaller, huddled under the weight of the tragedy. The woman stood with her head bowed, papers in her hand, while a man spoke to her in a raised voice. Steve didn't recognize the man right away. Only when he got closer to them did he realize it was Hannah's father.

Steve didn't know why the man was so angry with the woman, why was he making a scene of her in the hospital with so many people? He could hear choppy words, individual words, but they didn't add up. Meanwhile, the couple gained more and more attention from passersby and concerned administrative staff.

Paxton didn't care if the scene became a spectacle. He saw a woman who had just lost her daughter and whom her ex-husband had been up to.

"Stop it," Steve stepped between them, shielding the woman. His voice was colder than the Arctic ice.

"Don't interfere, little shit! These are family matters! "

"Mrs. Robson is my family," he replied calmly, though there was a hint of menace in his voice.

"Who the hell are you ... Ah, it's you!" Mr. Robson recognized him. "The bustard that made Hannah comatose."

His words hurt Steve. They were true, but who said the truth didn't hurt?

"You made Hannah die!" hissed Robson furiously.

"No, it's not because of Steve!" Mrs. Robson exclaimed desperately. The woman was tugging the driver by the sleeve. She was shorter and weaker than him, so she couldn't pull him away. "Don't you dare say that!"

"It's all right, Mrs. Robson," Paxton replied. "Hannah is dead, that's a fact. It's also true that she was hit by a car because of me. But this man has no right to bring that to me. And he has no right to blame you. "

Mrs. Robson was gripping Paxton's sleeve nervously, as if afraid the young man would cause a row. He put his hand reassuringly on hers. He even managed to smile faintly at her.

"You blame me for the accident," Steve's voice was disturbingly calm. "I have heard you blame Mrs. Robson for inadequate custody of your daughter. And where have you been for these three years? Why did I not recognize your face when I saw you? How did you look after your daughter who was in a coma? How many times have you combed her hair? How many times have you washed her face? How many nights did you spend by her bed crying and praying for a miracle? How many?"

A woman who was heavily pregnant stood behind Robson. She was standing close enough and excited enough that Steve drew the obvious conclusions.

"In your life, there was no room for a sick daughter and a wife who devoted her life for her. You abandoned them and found your own happiness and now you come with some kind of grudge? You have no shame. "

Mrs. Robson's fingers tightened on Steve's arm. He didn't know if she wanted to stop him from further words or if she was looking for refuge with him. Paxton saw that her ex-husband was not going to let go easily, but he also saw the hospital security approaching. Mrs. Robson has seen and heard enough. She didn't need to see the clash with security just yet.

"Mrs. Robson" Steve addressed the woman completely ignoring the man "let's go."

Mr. Robson tried to grab his arm, but Paxton dodged and the furious man fell under the authority of the bodyguards.

Mrs. Robson was trembling gently as she was led by the young man. They found a rather secluded spot in a side corridor, and Steve sat the shaky woman on a chair. He himself sat in the adjoining seat.

She started to cry. Steve envied her those tears, but he didn't want the woman to despair. How could she not be in mourning now that her daughter had died that morning?

"He was right, Steve," she sobbed. "It's my fault that Hannah ..."

"Please don't say that," he stroked her hands. "It's just her time."

It was a bit strange for him to utter these words, to console Mrs. Robson, even though he felt an acute pain in his heart. This time shouldn't come so soon. The girl was only twenty-two years old and passed away before she could live. But it wasn't Mrs. Robson's fault, Paxton was sure.

But the woman shook her head against her chest, sobbing.

"My God, what have I done?"

What has Mrs. Robson done that she is so desperate? There was nothing she could do. Hannah ... she was slowly going away, every day, in front of them. Neither of them could help it.

"It's really not your fault ..." he tried to comfort her, but the woman was not persuaded.

"Yes, it is! I signed a document not to undertake resuscitation action," she confessed.