I have not been in the mood lately to work on Puddleby Lane...it needs something in a big way, but I haven't felt clever enough to dig up the something and force it to name itself. So I have dabbled in the luxury of writing short pieces of Nothing. Here is one of those short pieces. I intend to finish this short story if you like it enough for me to go through that effort....I got rather attached to poor Rose Macintyre. Anyway, enjoy the read. :)
“A Fool’s Hope”
By Rachel Heffington
“When I get bigger I’ll walk all
the way to Clippership
Pass and have a picnic.”
The wan hand waved at a rivet in the side of the bracken-covered mountain, and
the trustful blue eyes smiled into my own. There was no fear caught in their
intricate depths; only a kind of hope that hurt me worse than taking stitches
out of a baby’s lip.
I had seen it time and again there—that
glimmering trust, that fathomless serenity. How could I dash this fairy-like
creature to the ground and tell her that she would probably not even live till
that much anticipated sixth birthday?
I put my stethoscope in my ears.
Maybe I’d been wrong. “Come now, little bird,” I coaxed.
The pretty creature turned in her
bed from the contemplation of those delicious heights to the cool interior of
the room scented with clinical smells that had no business there.
“Am I much better, Dr. Colley?” Her
fluffy blond hair, looking more than ever like duckling down with being
tousled, fell about her pale cheeks. It was not a question as much as a
statement.
“Not much, much better yet, Rose, but I hope to have you right as rain by
September.” I hoped, but it was a fool’s hope. I knew the rapid downward spiral
such illnesses took.
“Oh, by my birthday you mean. Will
you come and eat my pink cake with me?” It was a solemn oath she was asking me
to swear. I knew that in her childish way she demanded a sympathetic assurance
that there was to be a birthday. She never doubted, but she wanted
confirmation.
I smiled and put my earpiece to her
poor thin chest. A whooshing sound, distinctly painful to the ears of a trained
doctor, told me again what I already knew. Little bird would not have her pink
cake in September. My hand shook but I masked my finding from Rose in a jovial
chuckle. It grated with harsh insensitivity on my ear, but Rose knew no
difference.
“Well Rose-bud, if you want to be
strong and healthy we must let you get your sleep.” I plumped my tiny patient’s
pillows and smoothed the coverlet.
“And won’t you kiss me goodnight?”
She presented her cheek—so pitiful and thin for a six year old child’s—and gave
me an arch smile.
I gave the kiss with a right good
will and a prayer on my lips, then tip-toed out of the room. My patient, worn
out with even the effort of saying a few words, was fast asleep.
* * * *
My steps sounded in the empty hall
like the sharp report of a rifle. Every doctor grows somewhat attached to his
patients, but Rose and I had a special link. We were kindred spirits—if a six
year-old girl and a sixty year-old man could be called such. If—and I did not
doubt the truth of this verdict—Rose Macintyre died, a part of me would die
with her.
I slowed my pace as I neared the
parlor where Rose’s parents waited. The poor child had been sick so long they
no longer attended me to the room, but waited until they were wanted or needed
in the pleasant suite of rooms at the other end of the wing.
Mirrors interspersed between the
windows showed a more miserable man with each subsequent reflection. How could
I tell Mr. and Mrs. Macintyre that their prize and treasure, their little
Rose-bud would wilt before the first frosts?
I shoved my hands into my pocket
and felt for my watch-fob. I had no need of the time, but it was a habit, a
comforting custom that I gained a queer pleasure from performing in my
intensity. I would break it to the parents carefully. They might ask how she
was, and I might reply, as I had to Rose, not much better—only putting the
inflection on the last word, adding none of the hopeful lilt my voice had
sprinkled unbidden into my words to the little girl.
But I needn’t have troubled myself,
for as soon as I stepped over the threshold onto the parquet floor, my face
told the story. Mrs. Macintyre hid her face in her hands and her shoulders
shook. Her bright hair, so like her daughters, was fastened back with a jet
comb as if her fingers had known the sentence that morning before she herself
had.
The father stood, stricken. “Good
God!” he said, not cursing but praying.
I bowed my head and clasped and unclasped
my hands. It was not the first time— Lord forgive me—that I had to tell a
family there was no hope. No, I had been a doctor for forty years if I had one,
and had seen more than my fair share, perhaps, of deathbeds. But this…this
creature belonged to the realm of the living. I could no more imagine her held
in the chill embrace of death than I could one of the morning glories peeping
through the latticed windows, or the yellow canary singing ironically in the
little silver cage by the piano.
Of course I knew sweet Rose would
be happier in Heaven, yet to our mortal minds the passage from this world to
the next seems only befitting for the old—those of us like myself who had lived
a full life. If my own life would have done anything to save this poor child
dying of tuberculosis upstairs, I would have sacrificed myself on the spot. Yet
such is the nature of God that we cannot go until we are called.
Mrs. Macintyre raised her head, and
a firm resolve was in her face. “Are you quite certain, Dr. Colley?”
“Yes ma’am. Would that my diagnosis
was erroneous, but the point of vagueness is past. I am certain.”
She stood with a rustling of her
plum-colored dress and walked silently across the room. Then she took my hands
in both of her own and kissed them. “Dr. Colley,” she said, her voice full of
pathos and emotions even my own distress could not rival, “You have become one
of the family with your daily, some times even hourly visits. Our Rose looks
upon you as her good fairy. Her friend and companion in her long illness. Won’t
you stay at Wheatleigh till she…until she is Better?”
Brave woman! Convincing herself as
well as me that life with her Savior would, to Rose, be preferable to her sweet
life here. Death is said to strengthen faith where it is weak, and I suddenly
felt that my trips to church of a Sunday were not the sort of Life the
Macintyres enjoyed.
“I thank you, Mrs. Macyntire for
your kind hospitality, but I must decline. I will be here tomorrow morning at
seven to check on our patient.”
Mr. Macintyre advanced, holding my
hat and coat in his hand. “Dr. Colley, no matter what the outcome, you will
always be welcomed here. You know that.”
My eyes met his and I managed a
grave smile. “I do. Call me if there is any change.”
Rose’s father nodded and bowed as I
left the parlor. I defied all the general rules of decorum and practically ran
out the front door and leapt into my carriage. I could not stay at that house
where so many fond memories bedecked the very parlor-carpet with images of Rose
when she had been a little better.
The grey London sleet resumed its sloppy habit of
falling sideways and washed out the image of Wheatleigh with a tearful slush.
It would not be long now, I
decided, till we would know.
7 comments:
*is crying* Oh Rachel. This is so sad! :( Please, is that the end? Surely there is a better ending...otherwise I shall have a fools hope, hoping that in the realm of story-world, the little Rosebud does get better...oh, what a fools hope...
;( Very sad. But very well written!
Heart wrenching, you wrote this so well it reminded me of something I would read in a louisa may alcott story. please tell me it doesn't end here, I shall be so sad, please tell me little rose gets better !
Rachel Hope
http://hopespuntreasures.blogspot.com/
Oooh, why do the beautiful stories always have to be so sad. Please, please, finish it. But be warned; if you don't let poor Rosie live to at least her birthday I just might have to rewrite it. :P
Rachel, your writing is flowing and beautiful. This short-story is heartbreaking and sad, but so dear and beautiful and full of hope at the same time. Your determination to master the art of wordsmithing shows in this piece; each word, each sentence, flows effortlessly and gracefully into the other. Once one starts reading this, one cannot stop till one reaches the end.
Bravo, my friend. If I don't one day see you in print, I shall eat my head.
what a beautiful, sad story. You most definitely should complete it. :-D
I cried. And I believe there is no higher complement. When an author can make his reader cry then you know he or she can really write.
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