High Hope for the Freelance Writer
C. Hope Clark, Editor
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C. Hope Clark, Editor
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FIRST PLACE - NO ENTRY FEE CATEGORY - 4th Annual FundsforWriters Contest MATTERS OF THE HEART I couldn’t help but think how morbid the whole thing was, but with a stern landlord itching to serve my eviction notice, I accepted. A young woman with bloodshot blue eyes met me at the hospital, handing me an envelope of fifty dollar bills out of her Louis Vuitton handbag. I had her pegged as the stereotypical beautiful gold digger. Then, I strode into Room 507 and saw the diminutive figure swallowed up in the stark white bed sheets, and my heart jumped into the vicinity of my throat. This was not some frail old man. This was a child! Dumbfounded, I sat down in the proffered chair, flipped open my notebook (I’m old-fashioned enough to eschew laptop technology for the traditional pen and paper) and began transcribing the information dictated to me, as well as detailing my surroundings. The child’s name was Meghan, and she had only a few hours remaining to her before she succumbed to the leukemia that had plagued her for half of her 20 months of life. Already, the doctors had disconnected the array of tubes and wires that supported her pained existence. The mother, Jeanine, had already explained that Meghan had clinically died twice in the past 24 hours, and the girl’s family had all agreed to let Meghan go peacefully rather than prolong her agony with medical artifice. But why me? I felt embarrassed, first for accepting money at such a grief-stricken time (a guilt assuaged only because the family clearly had money to spend), and secondly for encroaching on a family moment, though it was at their request. Jeanine handed me a thin book decorated with bright balloons and teddy bears, and I swallowed thickly as I took the baby book into my hands. The first half spilled over with smiling family and baby joy; the second half teemed with hospital pictures and the bewildered eyes of a toddler who doesn’t understand what is happening to her. I was to write her final pages, an epitaph of sorts to accompany the myriad of Polaroids the family was now taking. I worked hard on my written sketch of the end of brave Meghan’s journey. The little girl never opened her eyes; she remained in a coma while her family gathered around her and held her hands, or smoothed the downy fuzz of hair on her mostly-bald scalp, or sang her songs and lullabies. Riveted, I detailed it all - the tears and the fond smiles, the whispered words and the unspoken sentiments shining in every face. I found myself stealing glances at the clock on the wall, allowing myself the hope and prayer that a true miracle would occur to bring about the proverbial happy ending. But at 10:58 p.m., the inevitable hushed Meghan’s world forever. As I finished writing, even the period at the end of my last sentence seemed terribly final. I would take my notes, formalize it into something more coherent, and deliver it to Jeanine sometime next week. I was quietly packing up and making an unobtrusive exit when Jeanine spoke words that brought everything into poignant focus: "There’s beauty here too. I got to watch my baby girl become an angel." I went home that night, and with complete disregard for the late hour, crept into my 2-year-old daughter’s bedroom to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. She stirred and smiled in her sleep, and I turned away before my tears could plop down on her. I typed all that night, well into the early hours of morning, until I had a flawless tribute. After I’d paid my persistent landlord, I donated the rest of Jeanine’s money towards cancer research. It’s only fitting that a payment to write about death be turned around towards helping someone else’s angel live. Jill Alicea - sinistercpl@aol.com |
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