Gwendy's Magic Feather

54

MONDAYS ARE NOTORIOUSLY BUSY days at Castle County General Hospital, and December 27 is no exception. The nurses and orderlies are understaffed by nearly ten percent thanks to the holiday weekend and three members of the custodial crew call out sick because of the flu—but life marches on around here.

Gwendy sits alongside the bed in Room 233 and watches the steady rise and fall of her mother’s chest. She’s been sleeping peacefully for nearly a half-hour now, which is the only reason Gwendy’s alone in the room with her. Twenty minutes earlier, she finally managed to shoo her father into the hallway and downstairs to the cafeteria to get himself breakfast. He hadn’t left his wife’s side since they were reunited yesterday afternoon and was hesitant to go, but Gwendy insisted.

The John Grisham novel sits unopened on Gwendy’s lap, a coupon for granola bars marking her page. She listens to the intermittent beeping of the machines and watches the constant drip of saline and remembers dozens of other hospital rooms very much like this one. The windowless third-floor room at Mercy Hospital where her dear friend Johnathon had taken his final breaths, dozens of photographs and homemade get-well cards affixed to the wall above his head. So many other rooms in so many other hospitals and AIDS clinics she’d once visited. So many brave human beings, young and old, male and female, all united by one basic purpose: survival.

Ever since those days, Gwendy has loathed hospitals—the sights, smells, sounds—all while maintaining the utmost respect for those who fight for their lives there, and the doctors and nurses who aid them in that fight.

“…you will die surrounded by friends, in a pretty nightgown with blue flowers on the hem. There will be sun shining in your window, and before you pass you will look out and see a squadron of birds flying south. A final image of the world’s beauty. There will be a little pain. Not much.”

Richard Farris once spoke those words to her, and she believes them to be true. She doesn’t know when it will happen, or where, but that doesn’t matter to her. Not anymore.

“If anyone deserves that kind of a goodbye, it’s you, Mom.” She looks down at her lap, stifling a sob. “But I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready.”

Mrs. Peterson, eyes still closed, chest still rising and falling, says: “Don’t worry, Gwennie, I’m not ready either.”

“Oh my God,” Gwendy almost screams in surprise, her book tumbling from her lap to the floor. “I thought you were sleeping!”

Mrs. Peterson half-opens her eyes and smiles lazily. “I was until I heard you going on and on.”

“I am so sorry, Mom. I’ve been doing that, talking out loud to myself, like some kind of crazy old cat lady.”

“You’re allergic to cats, Gwendy,” Mrs. Peterson says, matter-of-factly.

Gwendy looks closely at her mom. “Oh-kay, and that must be the morphine talking.”

Mrs. Peterson lifts her head and looks around the room. “You actually convinced your father to go home?”

“Not a chance. But I did make him go to the cafeteria and get something to eat.”

She nods weakly. “Good job, honey. I’m worried about him.”

“I’ll take care of Dad,” Gwendy says. “You just worry about getting better.”

“That’s in God’s hands now. I’m so tired.”

“You can’t give up, Mom. We don’t even know how bad it is. It could be—”

“Who said anything about giving up? That’s not going to happen, not as long as I have you and your father by my side. I have too much to live for.”

“Yes,” Gwendy says, nodding. “You sure do.”

“All I meant is…” She searches for the right words. “If I’m supposed to beat this thing again, if there’s any chance at all, then I’ll beat it. I believe that. No matter how hard of a fight awaits me. But… if I’m not supposed to… if God decides this is my time, then so be it. I’ve lived a wonderful life with more blessings than any one person should possess. How can I possibly complain? Anyway, that’s all I meant… that’s the only way they’re going to stuff me in the ground.”

“Mom!” Gwendy exclaims.

“What? You know I don’t want to be cremated.”

“You’re impossible,” Gwendy says, taking down her backpack from the windowsill. “I brought you some of those little fruit juices you like so much and some snacks. Also brought you a surprise.”

“Oh, goodie, I like surprises.”

She unzips her backpack. “Eat and drink first, then the surprise.”

“When did you get so bossy?”

“Learned from the best,” Gwendy says and sticks out her tongue.

“Speaking of surprises—and I don’t know why in the world I woke up thinking about this just now—but do you remember the year we tried to surprise your father for his birthday?” She scoots herself up in bed, eyes wide open and alert now, and takes a sip from the small carton of juice.

“When we decorated the garage with all those balloons and streamers?” Gwendy asks.

Mrs. Peterson points a finger at her. “That’s the one. He was away fishing all afternoon. We crammed everyone inside and the big plan was to hit the door opener as soon as he pulled into the driveway.”

Gwendy starts giggling. “Only we didn’t know he’d fallen off a log and landed in the mud on the way back to his truck.”

Mrs. Peterson nods. “We’d swiped the automatic door opener from his truck so he’d had no choice but to get out.” Now she’s chuckling right along with her daughter.

“We were all hiding in the dark and when we heard the truck pull up and the driver’s door open and close…”

“I hit the button and up goes the garage door and there’s your father…” Mrs. Peterson starts laughing and can’t finish.

“Standing there with his fishing pole in one hand and his tackle box in the other,” Gwendy says, “and he’s naked as a jaybird from the waist down, those pale skinny legs of his caked with mud.” Gwendy throws her head back and laughs.

Mrs. Peterson places a hand over her heart and struggles to get the words out. “I’m covering your eyes with one hand and waving your father back to his truck with the other. I look over and see the expression on poor Blanche Goff’s face…” She snorts out a giggle. “I thought she was going to have a heart attack sitting right there in her lawn chair.”

And then both women are clutching their sides and howling with laughter—and neither one of them is able to get another word out.