Sheila Jackson stood in the playground in the warmth of the bright October sun. She pushed her five—year—old son, Aidan, on a swing. Nearby her husband waited at a picnic table. Nick held the end of a long red leash while their beagle, Angus, sniffed around on the ground. Every once in a while, the curious dog would stand on his short hind legs and peer up at the table, as if trying to figure out whether he could snatch the remains of their lunch and bolt before someone grabbed him.
Nick glanced up, met Sheila's eyes, and smiled. He cast his gaze around at the other people in the park before blowing her a kiss. Sheila clenched her fist around the air, pressed her fingers to her lips, and blew back at him. Both of them chuckled. Aidan blew a kiss at his father, too; he wasn't old enough to be grossed out by their public displays of affection.
Their son laughed as he sailed higher and higher on the swing. Sheila tilted her head back while pushing him, loving the breeze in her hair and the sun against her cheeks.
In that moment, perfect happiness filled her.
In his bed, Aidan coughed, jarring Sheila out of her memory and bringing her back to the present. Dark circles under his eyes and weight loss made him almost unrecognizable. Tubes attached to his nose and arms, ensuring the boy got enough oxygen and fluids while disease ravaged his body. When Sheila inhaled, the unmistakable odors of antiseptic and cleanser invaded her nostrils, not grass, flowers, or baby powder. Their day in the park had been a lovely scene, but it wasn't real.
In reality, she and her husband spent their lives in a tiny hospital room, standing watch over their son, praying for a miracle. In her head, Sheila was watching a memory of what their life used to be. They hadn't had a happy family outing in months. Might never have another one.
With a sigh, Sheila rose, blinking tears out of her eyes. They tried never to break down in front of Aidan. "I need to get out of here."
Nick nodded absently, not looking up from his laptop. Work, work, work. She'd have complained about his inattentiveness, if he weren't the only one looking for a cure.
When she reached the end of the hallway, she pushed open the heavy door under the "EXIT" sign, hugging her down coat around her waist. The garment sagged against her breasts, swallowing her. Perhaps she should've worn a heavier sweater, but these days, no amount of clothing cut the wind's bite. The bitter cold settled deep into her bones. She wondered if winter would ever end this year. Not that it mattered.
Pink and red decorations at the hospital hinted that Valentine's Day neared, but they'd been up forever. Sheila wasn't exactly in the mood to celebrate, anyway. Just another holiday at the hospital. Just like New Year's. Just like her last Christmas with her son.
Christmas was…When? A few days ago? Weeks?
Aidan hadn't felt well the day before Thanksgiving. The last holiday they actually celebrated was Halloween. October seemed like a lifetime ago. If she'd known she'd be dressing Aidan up for the last time, she'd have bought the Thor costume he wanted instead of trying to outdo the other mothers by hand—sewing something special. When Sheila finally admitted defeat and went to the store right before closing on October 30, she purchased the single remaining costume in his size. Her poor son wound up sporting the same bumble bee costume worn by no less than five babies in their neighborhood.
Those things felt like they happened in another time, to someone in another life. Decades might have passed, not a few short weeks. Sheila's concept of time had all but vanished. How long had she been at the hospital today? Hours? Every day seemed like months.
Feeling the familiar black clouds of hopelessness and despair approach, Sheila abandoned that train of thought and leaned against the wall of the building to refocus her energies. She needed a moment away from the long faces, the sympathies, the "I'm sorry"s. Irrational anger flooded her as she squinted into the deceptively bright morning sunlight. How could the day be so clear and beautiful?
Not wanting to be faced with people entering and leaving the hospital through those doors, Sheila hunched over against the brisk wind and went in search of a more secluded area. A picnic table sat in a small alcove around the corner of the hospital; the building shielded it from the worst of the wind. Sheila sat on the bench with her back on the wall and put her feet up, hugging her knees to her chest.
One minute. Just a moment away to give her the courage to go back into that wretched, miserable room.
Wearily, Sheila rested her face on one knee. A tear trickled down her cheek, followed by another. After a moment, she hugged her legs closer, lowered her head, and sobbed.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" An unknown voice spoke. "I didn't know anyone else used this spot."
Sheila considered ignoring the words. The person might not be talking to her. Then the unseen voice spoke again, softer. "Are you okay?"
She looked up. A stranger stood in front of her, so bundled up that it was difficult for Sheila to make out any features. The shape under the long black wool coat and the voice suggested a female companion. Dark brown curls peeked out from under a bright white wool cap. A matching scarf covered the woman's neck and chin. Dark glasses hid her eyes.
When she took in Sheila's tear—streaked face, the woman's breath left her in a whoosh. "Oh, no. You're not okay." She slid onto the bench. "You, too?"
Sheila nodded. No need to clarify.
"My father," the woman said. "Heart disease. You?"
Sheila's eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, honey." The woman patted her hand. "It's okay. You don't have to talk." She stripped off her black leather gloves and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse. She shook one into her hand, then placed it between her lips. She dug for a moment in her purse, presumably looking for a lighter. When she found the small rectangular object, she raised her eyebrows at Sheila.
"Do you mind?"
Sheila shook her head and gestured to a sign on the wall where large red letters spelled out "Smoker's Retreat." She didn't feel like talking, but preferred not to go inside yet.
When the woman lit up, Sheila inhaled. As a former smoker, the smell didn't bother her. In fact, it reminded her of happier times. College. Laughter. Falling in love. Not being at the hospital. Not watching her son die.
After a moment's hesitation, she spoke. "Can I… have one of those?"
"Oh, of course, honey!" Sheila's new friend handed over a cigarette and lit it for her. "I've been coming here for weeks now, every day…."
The woman chattered away, but Sheila didn't hear the words. She savored the freedom of a few minutes when no one asked her to talk about her problems or tried to console her. To distract herself, she tried to remember how to blow smoke rings. She created snakes instead, tendrils drifting up into the sky.
"My son." She finally choked out when the woman fell silent. "I . . ."
"Oh, no. How old?"
"Five."
"Ouch. That's rough. Are you as tired of sympathy as I am?"
"Yes." The curves of Sheila's lips twitched upward, just a fraction, in a ghost of a smile.
"Then I won't be sympathetic." The woman stood, stubbing her cigarette out in the stone ashtray standing at the foot of the table. "Here. Take one for later. And my spare lighter. I hope I don't run into you again."
Again, Sheila felt the smallest flicker of a smile cross her face, so fast she might have imagined it. She understood what this stranger meant.
The woman walked around the corner toward the front of the hospital. Sheila stayed where she was, savoring the first cigarette she'd had in years. She'd only planned to have one, but when she looked at the table, she thought, despite the cold day, she could stay outside a little longer.
#
Victor Morris stepped up to the front desk and greeted the receptionist, signing his name to the visitor's log.
"Nine—thirty on the dot," she said. "Just like clockwork. Welcome!"
"As if I'd miss a week. You know me better than that, Evelyn."
The older woman beamed at him, a twinkle in her blue eyes. "You're a good boy, Bobby."
The thought of how his clients would react to her statement—to say nothing of hearing his original name—caused Victor to chuckle.
Evelyn misinterpreted his expression. "Well, I suppose anyone at that big law firm of yours would think it's funny, but you are. A good boy who takes time out every week to visit his mother."
Victor had never told anyone at the nursing home he practiced law, but he'd heard the whispers. Expensive suits, manicured nails, and good grooming habits apparently meant "lawyer" in this expensive suburb.
"Stop, Evelyn, you're making me blush." Together, they headed down the hall toward his mother's. How's Mom today?"
The cheerful expression slid off her face. Every one of her sixty years showed. "I'll be honest. She's had a rough day. She didn't recognize me. Told me all about meeting Barbara Bush in North Carolina yesterday, like it's 1992. She could remember you."
Victor doubted it. Mom might recall Bobby, the doting son who brought her tulips from a florist at a nearby strip mall once a week. She'd never truly met Victor, the dominant who ran a successful BDSM house in the hills outside the City of Brotherly Love. Still, he nodded. "Thanks. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"P'shaw. When are you going to settle down with a nice girl?"
Briefly, Victor imagined how a "nice girl" would react to his line of work. "Depends. When are you going to go out with me?"
"You're such a flatterer. I'm old enough to be your….Much older sister." Despite her tone, Evelyn giggled like a schoolgirl while she preceded Victor into the room. "Good morning, Joan. Your son's here."
Victor winked at her as he stepped past into his mother's room.
The air carried the scents of antiseptic and air freshener. Joan sat in a rocking chair by the window, staring out at the leaves. Soon, they'd be changing colors, but her room currently overlooked lush landscaping. Victor had made sure of it when he chose the place.
"Good morning, Mom." He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. "How are you this morning?"
Victor held his breath while he waited for a response. Confusion flickered in the old woman's brown eyes. Finally, her thin lips stretched into a smile. "Bobby! I've missed you! Where's your wife?"
The question pained him, but he tried not to let it show. Years ago, he'd learned not to waste their limited time together explaining things. "Parking the car. She'll be here soon. Why don't you tell me about your day?" He settled into the wooden chair on the other side of the window.
His mother's eyes lit up at the question. She needed no further encouragement to tell him about parties with friends who'd died years ago, meals at restaurants over a thousand miles away, and her plan to change her hair so she resembled Barbara Bush.
Victor held her hand while she chattered about happier times, trying to appreciate the days they had left.
