Why do hospitals smell funny? I wonder. I have a seat all to myself between mom and dad, and my feet swing back and forth. I don’t know why we’re here exactly, but it’s making mom upset. “Mom?” I ask. She clears her throat before she speaks.

            “Yes, James?” Her voice is hushed, and wavers.

            “Why do hospitals smell funny?” Mom gives a half laugh and a half smile, and looks down at her lap. For a moment she says nothing, then, “I don’t know, Sweetie. I don’t know.” Mom only says she doesn’t know when really she’s not telling my something. I want keep asking, but her eyes are wet again. Is it my fault? I wonder, and frown. I want to make mom feel better, but I don’t know how.

            Dad touches my shoulder. “Hey, champ,” he says, “Here’s some money. Why don’t you go get us some snacks from the machine over there? You remember how to use those machines, right?” I nod because I do remember how to use those machines, but I don’t take the money because I don’t want to go. The machine is across the waiting room and there are a hundred strange people between there and here. I look back up at dad for sympathy, but he gives me a cold look.

            I start walking to the machine. Glancing back, dad is leaning over my seat to hold mom. She’s burying herself in his shoulder the way I bury myself in hers when I cry. Why won’t mom or dad tell me why we’re in a hospital? I wonder.

            We were in the car going to meet grandma at a restaurant. Ahead of us there were lots of flashing police lights. The car slowed down, and I asked why we were slowing down. Dad said that everyone else wanted to get a glimpse of the accident as they drove by. I wanted a glimpse too. There was a red pick-up truck with the front smashed, and a gray car with the driver’s door crushed in. Lots of people were standing around, and some were ambulance people taking care of the people in the crash. Dad said to mom, “Shit, that’s not her car is it?” We slowed down even more, and mom and dad were glued to the windows. Mom gasped and cried, “Todd, look at the bumper sticker. It’s her. Oh my God, it’s her.” The ambulance drove away, and we followed it to the hospital.

            I have to reach my highest to hit the buttons on the machine, but feel big when I begin walking back to dad with three bags of chips. Dad is still leaned over my seat. “Here, dad,” I say, holding out my food-filled arms to his back. He lets go of mom to turn and face me, and I feel like an intruder.

            “Thanks, bud.” I climb back into my seat. Each of us has chips, but I notice that I’m the only one eating. I stop eating. Mom and dad are quiet, and dad checks his watch a lot. I watch the minutes tick by on the big, white wall clock. I wonder when we’re going home, but mom and dad seem tense and I’m nervous to say anything at all.

            A doctor walks in through a big door and asks for mom. Mom stands up and walks to meet the doctor. Dad tells me to stay here for just a minute, then follows mom. I can still hear the doctor talking from my seat, though. He uses lots of words I don’t know. He says, “We did everything we could, but the accident was faydal. I’m very sorry.” Mom cries again, and dad cries now too. What does ‘faydal’ mean? I wonder.