Hawthorne

Nathan Hawthorne was a man on the brink of death. Cancer.

He lay, in solitude, as most of his life had transpired, on the pale white hospital bed. Beside him sat an untouched plate of food: chicken and rice, with a red jello for dessert that looked as bland as the life surrounding him.

His room, much like his life, looked untouched. Hawthorne never took risks. Hawthorne never lived on the edge. Hawthorne would never let the bed sheets be crumpled or dirty. His life, at least after a certain time, moved on slowly and rigidly, barely fluctuating. It much resembled the monotone beep of the heart rate monitor beside him.

Much of that was because of how his life had changed. For ten years or so, Hawthorne’s life, though steady, was happy. Mrs. Hawthorne kept him enthusiastic, and their young son was his motivation to go on.

Even now, on what would soon be his final resting place, he remembered the times when the two of them would frolic in the fields, the times when he would throw the baseball and his son would catch it. He remembered vividly the times when he taught his son math, watching how cleverly he would answer questions by himself and reject his father’s help.

His son was, to Hawthorne, a second chance at life. Hawthorne was likewise good at math; he had even won a few Olympiads during his youth. His talent, however, never amounted to much. He hoped that his son could carry the family torch and, with his father’s help, finally become the man Hawthorne had wanted himself to be.

Hawthorne never got the chance to make his son the man he wanted him to be, however. His wife didn’t let him. She, like most people in Hawthorne’s life—his own father, his friends—had finally left him. She found a new man—a distinguished scientist—and left Hawthorne, believing he couldn’t adequately provide for her and their son.

To Hawthorne’s dismay, she took his son with her. That was the last time, that fateful day, that Hawthorne ever saw him. In the days, months, and years that followed, he would throw a baseball against the wall and pore over his son’s old math exercise books, reminiscing about the times they had filled them together.

Hawthorne always wished he could spend more time with his son. It was all that gave him a purpose in life. He wished for one more throw, one more multiplication. But life, as cruel a puppet master as it was, never gave him that chance. He now lay on his deathbed, with nothing but memories to carry to his grave.

Hawthorne was halfway through his chicken, which he had noticed was unseasoned. He didn’t do anything about it. The door suddenly swung open, and in came a nurse with a patient by her side, followed by another nurse pushing a cart of medical equipment.

The man looked disheveled—his beard unkempt, his eyes tired and pale. His physique was gaunt, his legs trembling when he stood still for more than a moment. Hawthorne noticed a tattoo on his right wrist: a multiplication and division sign.

Weird tattoo to get, Hawthorne thought. He didn’t, as always, think much of it.

The man sat on the bed beside Hawthorne and instantly lay down. Hawthorne figured it was just another patient the hospital had to move to accommodate the influx of new cases they were receiving.

For hours, no words were exchanged between them. A familiar distance lay between them as they both faced opposite sides of the room.

Eventually, Hawthorne reached for a cup of water but knocked the TV remote off the bedside table. The man beside him picked it up and handed it back, but didn’t smile. He seemed like he had no reason to. Hawthorne thanked him, and out of pure curiosity, asked what he was in for.

“Cancer,” the man replied monotonously.

Hawthorne’s face shriveled.

“Me too,” he said. “What type?”

“Leukemia.”

“Ah, mine’s lung,” Hawthorne tried to say, before a cough ironically broke out.

The man just nodded. He didn’t reply. Hawthorne was surprised—someone even less intent on engaging in life than he was. It piqued his curiosity, and for once, he wanted to find out more.

“What’s your tattoo symbolize?” Hawthorne asked.

For the first time, the man’s eyes seemed to light up.

“Oh, that,” he said, chuckling softly. “I used to love math when I was a kid.” His eyes dimmed again. “It never really amounted to much, though.”

Hawthorne paused. He was unsure whether to mention his son, but something compelled him to.

“My son loved math too,” Hawthorne said timidly, unable to add more.

The man nodded again.

Math—that had triggered memories for old Hawthorne again. He began to think of his son and his third-grade math test, the one where he somehow managed to score 102.

“How’d you manage that?” Hawthorne remembered asking him.

“Extra credit!” his son had replied with a sheepish smile.

Hawthorne’s tired lips curled into a weak grin. The memories of his son swirled in his mind, and before long, exhaustion—or maybe age—got the best of him. He fell asleep.

⸻

Late in the night, he was abruptly woken by the same nurse who had brought in the man beside him. Before he could properly open his eyes and adjust to the darkness, he saw three nurses rushing the man out of the room. In a flash, he was gone—probably never to be seen again. Hawthorne didn’t think much of it and quickly drifted back to sleep.

The next morning, the bed beside him remained empty. When the nurses came to bring him breakfast, he asked,

“What happened to the man?”

The nurse’s face dropped, seemingly unsure of how to say it.

“He passed away last night. We couldn’t save him.”

“Oh.” Hawthorne’s voice was flat, unable to find anything else to say.

The nurse began to leave, but Hawthorne stopped her.

“Wait,” he said, suddenly. “What about family? Surely the man had family. How come no one ever came to visit?”

The nurse, with a blank expression, replied,

“He didn’t have a family. He said he left his mom, had no wife, and… he hadn’t seen his dad in years. Quite sad.”

Hawthorne froze.

His grip on the sheets tightened. Something had dawned on him—the tattoo, the familiarity.

No. It couldn’t be.

His mind reeled back to the last math Olympiad they attended together. He remembered his son walking up to the podium, pride filling his chest as his boy claimed first place.

Hawthorne’s breath became unsteady. His throat felt dry.

“What was the man’s last name?” he asked quietly.

The nurse hesitated. Her lips parted slightly, then closed, as if unsure whether to say it. Finally, just as she turned to leave, she answered—

“Hawthorne.”

The room fell silent.