"The Hospital”
She had owned a small dog and pet rabbit. She'd been in her mid-80s when it happened. She walked across the room one day, lost her footing, and fell to her death. She'd had a bad heart.
Sarah, the woman's daughter, hadn't phoned for a day or two when it happened, which was normal. Sarah had grown up almost forty years ago when she'd had a daughter of her own, and now Sarah's daughter was having a daughter in the hospital.
Sarah was in the hospital when she got the phone call. She would have gotten the phone call. All hospitals have conspicuous signs to, “Please no cell phones in the hospital”. The kinds of phones to which the signs referred had not used an infrastructure like that after which their ancestors were named for a decade, but the hospital didn't know that. And the hospital signs didn't know that. And Sarah didn't know that, so she dutifully turned her cell off and carefully stashed it away in her purse.
Sarah's daughter had been having serious contractions for a day and a half, but the baby would not be born. Since the contractions were generally too weak and far apart to be productive (a fact which, had Sarah's daughter known, she still wouldn't have cared about), so the doctors gave her some mild pain killers, water, and lookings-at every hour or so.
Not that Sarah's daughter cared – neither Sarah's daughter's daughter – but the ones giving the lookings-at were actually nurses, not doctors.
It was after one of these lookings-at, where the nurse – a man, hence the misunderstanding – had told them all that Sarah's daughter needed rest, when Sarah went to get some food from the cafeteria. Cafeterias all close down sometime each day, and eleven-thirty wasn't a time when hospital cafeterias were open and serving food. But at least in hospitals they'll put sandwiches in vending machines, let you use the microwave, and not speak up when you sit at the table, contemplating your hot sandwich and cell phone together, as though either one might suddenly answer the questions of life's deeper meanings. Sarah had turned her cell on was looking intently at the screen. Something was strange about it, but she had no way of knowing what at this time of night. And it had been a tiring day.
Wait, never mind, she figured it out. A voice mail message had been left earlier while her phone had been off, around three-thirty that afternoon. Sarah's mother's friends had tried to call it.
Sarah reflexively pressed the buttons, listened to the inhuman voice – that voice had always put her on edge because cell phone companies paid geeks to write programs to synthesize real human voice rather than pay for real humans, though Sarah didn't know that either – and clicked in that she knew the password, and listened as a concerned, real, old woman explained that Sarah's mother hadn't shown up for their weekly Bridge game – Sarah didn't know how to play Bridge, either – that afternoon at one, and nobody could get a hold of her, and they were worried, and they would just keep trying Sarah's mother at her house, and they were sorry to bother her, Sarah. Have a nice day. Bye.
The inhuman voice asked Sarah what she wanted to do about the message, but she ignored it and closed her cell phone. Eyes closed. And opened. Hot sandwich. She touched it. Warm sandwich. Cell phone. Hospital. Clock. Eleven-thirty-six. Baby. Mother. Mothers. Bridge. No answer. Have a nice day. Long day. No answer. One. Three-thirty.
Sarah sat up more in her chair, which movement helped her to realize that something might be wrong. She hadn't heard anything about her mother doing anything that would preclude – Sarah didn't know the word 'preclude' – answering her home phone, but it was possible, she supposed. She bit into her sandwich and immediately begrudged the act.
Standing up, making sure to take her leftover cold sandwich to the waste receptacle, Sarah decided she would drive past her mother's house, even though it was so late. Sarah's daughter was sleeping and nothing was likely to happen. She quietly returned to the room, instructed Sarah's daughter's husband to call her the moment things started getting serious, just in case, and left.
When Sarah reached her mother's house, naturally – the owner being unable to manipulate the controls since earlier that day – Sarah's mother's lights had not been left on. Sarah, likely because she didn't understand the situation, thought this to be unnatural. She knew something was wrong. She didn't know that nothing was actually wrong. Be that as it was, she parked her car, turned off the headlights, and set the e-brake – named for being the emergency brake lever, though Sarah didn't care at this point – before reflexively getting out, locking the door, and closing it quietly. It was late, after all, and you close doors quietly in the middle of the night.
Sarah rushed to the door and rang the doorbell.
She pounded on the door impatiently as hear heartbeat rushed and strained to match the frenzied cadence.
Finally, concern and anxiety overtook years of practicing propriety as Sarah, now laughing-stock of manners, stumbled over the hedges intent on pounding the window adjacent to her mother's living room.
Bang! Bang!
Mother!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Mom!!
Bang! Bang!
Sarah ran her eyes across the colors she made out through the thin lace curtains. There was the couch, and above it the painting she'd made back in college, before she'd dropped out to raise her children. Below, she saw something dark orange shift around. At last she saw a figure dressed in light clothes, camouflaged among the lace barrier and cream-colored carpet, lying still on the floor.
9. 1. 1.
A woman called the dispatch center. Her name is Sarah. Her mother's house. Lying on the floor. Inside. Outside. Think she fell down. Okay, we'll send an ambulance. Stay there.
Help was coming. What time? Twelve-oh-seven.
Sarah's daughter's husband would call if things got serious. Things probably wouldn't change until morning.
Naturally, Sarah's mother didn't move as Sarah watched through the window and lace.
Sarah wanted to cry.
What time? Twelve-eleven. Lights turned the corner, and Sarah felt relief because she wouldn't have to face this alone. She thought the relief was felt because help had arrived. Lights went on in a neighboring house, but Sarah didn't notice the onlookers.
Two men and a woman emerged from the ambulance, the, and one man approached her. Was she Sarah? Okay, stay calm, they were going to break in the door. Wait, she had a key? Of course? Well, that's good, just stay outside for a moment.
Dark shapes moved around carefully inside for what felt like eternity, and Sarah was alone. Finally, after only about three minutes, the man came back outside and approached her. The other two went to get some things from the ambulance. They were getting a stretcher and a body bag, but Sarah didn't notice because the man was talking to her. She was panicked, and truth be told, he was kind of cute. She'd noticed, she just didn't know she'd noticed.
...Tripped or stumbled. Too much shock. Weak heart? Missed game with friends? It's okay. Sort of things happens. Completely accidental. Sorry for her loss. Knows it's hard so suddenly. Friends or family? Could she call someone? No? Okay, wait there, he'll be right back.
It had been such a long day that Sarah barely registered the truth of her existence in the world, and this situation's significance in her truth. She stood still. She wanted to cry, but nothing happened. The man spoke to a radio.
Her cell phone.
What time? Quarter-to-one.
What time did she get up? Had she slept at all the last day? Why was she asking that at a time like this? The important questions can only come out when you know what they are. Sarah didn't know the important questions. She only knew that questions had to be asked for her to move on, and these were the only questions she knew at the moment.
The cute emergency man came back. A police officer would come soon to take her to the hospital where she would meet the coroner. The emergency woman came up. She's sorry, but did Sarah's mother have any pets? A dog and a rabbit? something seemed. Dog crushed. Weight. Fall. Underneath. Didn't survive. They could take care of it. Okay, she's sorry.
Sarah wanted to go inside. It was okay, just don't touch anything. Door. Room. Hallway. Corner. Broken table. Orange movement. Rabbit. Sarah went over and picked up her mother's rabbit, the softest thing on the planet, and sole survivor – like Sarah herself – of her mother's death incident. Sarah felt like the rabbit. Or she thought she did.
She held the rabbit carefully and sat down on the couch, behind the broken table that she wouldn't touch, because it was something. Her dead mother had lain on it, and it was something. The couch was nothing. Sarah felt like nothing as she sat with the rabbit. But then, at last, she began to know the answer to the question which must be asked after any death, even if she'd never known the question: Will anything survive?
Sarah knew only the answer: Yes. And that was enough. Sarah and the rabbit, each sole survivors.
And Sarah cried.
Sarah cried for her mother, and the pity that nobody could ever understand Sarah's mother's love for her except she-who-had-survived. And she cried for her own fears that eventually that love would disappear.
Sarah cried, and curled up on the familiar couch, and slept. Sarah and Sarah's mother's rabbit. Slept in peace.
The police officer, a woman, came soon, but nobody awoke Sarah for a few hours. Pictures were taken, notes were taken, and paperwork was begun. Events recorded, and brief investigation performed.
What time? Four-forty-two. Sarah's phone was ringing. The police officer gently woke the sleeping survivor. Let her take Sarah to the hospital. Cell phone. Sarah's daughter's husband. Hospital. Yes. Take. Please. The hospital.
Sarah was becoming a grandmother today, as her mother had twenty years ago. And finally Sarah had an answer to her fears. There would always be survivors. Daughter of daughter of daughter.. That love would live on through Sarah and her progeny. Sarah didn't know the word 'progeny', but the love would not be lost. Naturally.
Thanks for reading! ^_^
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