Here's the revised version of He's Just Human, with a new title.
Day One
The room is silent, the air so tense I nearly choke.
My father paces the floor, his fists clenched by his sides. He has nothing to keep him busy, and he hates it. Any job will do at this point; he just wants to think of something else.
My mother’s head is in her hands, and her body is racking with dry sobs. She sits across the room from me, and doesn’t seem to notice that anyone else is there. Apparently she looks just like me, but I don’t think I’ve ever looked that weak.
Matty is sprawled across the chair beside her, his head in her lap; he doesn’t know what’s going on.
There must be at least ten other families like this in here. Ten other families who don’t know what’s happening behind the closed doors, whether their lives will ever be the same again, whether they’ll be attending a funeral in a few days. No one makes contact, though – no one comforts another.
The last time I remember being in a hospital was the day Matty was born. I was still young then – about seven years old. Skipping into the room, I saw my mother holding my crying brother. Nurses had been coming in and out, and every time the door opened, an explosion of noise would greet me – intercoms, emergencies, doctors calling to one another.
They make sure to keep the waiting rooms quiet, though. The only sound is the steady roar from the receptionist’s computer, and the occasional hiccup of a crying mother. While the rest of the hospital is bustling with activity, the waiting room feels dead.
I’d prefer the activity.
“Mr. Donovin?” A man in a white coat stands in the middle of the room, reading off a clipboard. He’s looking for my father.
“Yes, Doctor?” Dad stops pacing and walks over. His steps are precise, and he appears to be strong, invincible. I can see his eyes, though, and they’re not strong – they’re pleading.
Begging him to make it good news.
To keep his son alive.
My mother leaves Matty in the chair and rushes to her husband’s side. “Is he going to be all right? Will Brendan be all right?” She clutches my father’s arm desperately.
Back in his seat, Matty is sitting up, rubbing his eyes to chase the sleep out of them. ‘Katherine?’ he mouths, looking right at me. He shouldn’t hear this, but neither Mom nor Dad can pull themselves together enough to calm him. I should go over, cover his ears, but I’m frozen.
My parents stand there, looking like naïve little children. They know Brendan doesn’t have a good chance of survival, but hope is still written across their faces.
The doctor drums his fingers against the clipboard he holds against his chest. He reveals the smudged ink with every thump. Up and down. There and gone. His stethoscope swings from side to side as he sways on his feet. He doesn’t want to tell them anything; he doesn’t want to crush the last bit of hope they’re clinging to.
I don’t need to wait for the words like they do. If he looks down, Brendan’s gone. If he smiles, it’ll all be all right. My parents know this, but they’ll wait for his voice to tell them so. They’ll need tangible proof to make them believe it.
I stand to go to Matty, hoping to stop him from hearing any details. As I cross the room, my eyes meet the doctor’s, a second before he tells them.
He looks down.
***
When something bad happens, people have three ways to deal with it. They can ignore it completely, be upset but move on, or be stuck in grief.
My father is the first, and, following his example, so is Matty. They are upset about what has happened, but they won’t show it.
We got home from the hospital a few minutes ago. Dad just walked into the kitchen, Matty right on his heels. I stay in the hall, and I can see them out of the corner of my eye.
“What would you like for lunch today, Matty?” Dad says, standing behind the counter.
Matty jumps onto a stool, for once not swiveling the seat even though Mom isn’t be there to punish him for it. It takes him a moment to realize that Dad said anything, but when he does, he plasters a fake smile on his face and speaks as if he hadn’t paused. “I think I’m in the mood for grilled cheese and a salad.”
“Ah, the perfect meal!” my father exclaims. It’s also the only meal he can make.
Matty grins up at Dad, his muscles tight so it won’t waver. He doesn’t say anything, but his face shows that he heard the crack in Dad’s voice.
My mother’s not like this; she’s the kind who can’t let things go. She barely made it through the front door before she burst out crying. Her shoes remain on her feet, her coat on her back.
She retreats to her office right away, closing the door behind her to block out the laughter from the kitchen. I envy that she can escape, to engulf herself in her grief, but I don’t follow her.
I like to think that I’m the type who grieves when appropriate and then moves on. When my hamster died, I cried during the ‘burial.’ I was upset the next day, and I barely spared him a second thought after that.
This time is different. The grief is stronger. One side of me wants to take the easy way out – to join Dad and Matty in the kitchen, laugh, and eat the melted cheese on bread that Dad’s so proud of. The other side wants me to follow my mother’s example, to break down and cry right now on this staircase.
I defy both sides. My hand grips the wooden railing, and I walk up the stairs. I don’t laugh in the kitchen, and I don’t cry in the office. I go to his room.
It’s the same as it was when I found him last night. His clothes lay on the ground. Papers cover his desk, falling onto his wooden chair. Blankets are pulled back to the foot of the bed, and there’s an indent on the mattress from where he’s slept, night after night, year after year.
His curtains are thin, and the mid-afternoon sun streams through them, as if desperate to light up the gloomy room. The air is warm and quiet.
I blink my eyes, and, just for a second, the room changes.
The sun is no longer visible, instead replaced with the faint outline of the full moon. The lamp on the nightstand is lit, offering the only light in the room. The air is cold and tense.
His bed’s no longer empty. He’s laying there – motionless. Cold. His face is pale, and his lips are blue.
His hand is tucked under his head, acting as a makeshift pillow, and I can see his black wristband tied around the part of his arm that’s visible. His clothes are wrinkled, and they seem to float around his body. A soft smile lingers on his lips.
I blink again, and he’s gone.
Edited 4/28/08. This is the version I turned in, but I could still use more feedback - I'm planning on fixing it even more.
) I think the hospital scene wasn't the best because I haven't been to many. Hmm...Maybe I could get my brother to overdose and go to one? (Just kidding, but I need to go! 
