Hello! This post isn’t a new one, No Sir! This was a story I wrote as an entry for an online writing competition still going on at http://www.thenakedconvos.com titled The Writer. If you’re on twitter, you can follow the hash tag #TheWriter for all the updates and interviews. Well, my story didn’t make the cut. Guess it wasn’t my best. Different from my usual perhaps! LOL at the title btw. It was originally titled This Christmas but as Keresimesi don pass na… *Weirdo shrug*
Enough of the endless prattling. Enjoy!
LAST CHRISTMAS
I’m suddenly thinking about bees; those fat yellow-black monsters I used to chase at my gran’s garden when I was still young, during the summer-y months of July and August. I wonder why I’m thinking about them. Maybe it’s because of how similar they sound to the clipper that shaved off my red locks of hair some weeks ago at this very place. Yes, it all started with thinking about hair. Hair to bees. It’s funny how my mind roams randomly. This salon is almost like a hive, with the eternal bzzzt of a dozen clippers, the soft, metallic chop chop of two dozens scissors and the innumerable murmurs of ‘Thanks’ and ‘Come back again’.
I close my eyes and I can almost feel the summer’s sun on my skin; almost smell the compost in the garden. My nose wrinkle instinctively at the memory. I never really liked that smell, especially when it was watered down with either the odd rain or gran’s watering hose.
“Madam?”
My eyes snap open. I remember where I am, far away from the farm in both distance and years. The woman smiles at me. I wonder how long she has been here standing, watching me in my closed-eye musing. I smile sheepishly in apology and thanks, following her. Humming a carol tune along with the jukebox, we make our way to her office.
“Have a holly jolly Christmas…”
On our way, we pass several posters of multi-racial women with beautiful hair, smiling brilliantly at whatever camera lenses were capturing their images at that moment. I throw one raven-haired a cheeky grin and cackle in my head.
The Christmas song doesn’t leave my head even as I walk outside into the stinging cold, package I went to collect, in hand. I readjust my bright red scarf (Christmas spirit!) across my neck, singing softly as I walk down the street to the hospital.
“I don’t know if there’ll be snow…”
Well there isn’t! Back in Cumbria, houses would have been snowed in by now. Not here of course. All we have for now in London is the rain.
The blue and white NHS signpost welcomes me back and with surety, my feet walk unaided to the ICU. I go past a brightly adorned faux Christmas tree and several strips of green and red decorations; tell-tale signs of someone trying into infuse some cheer in the wards. Sadly, only the members of staff would get to enjoy its beauty; patients strapped to life-giving machines can’t, can they?
“Oh my have a holly jolly Christmas this year!” I whisper as I walk into her room, smiling.
I gently drop my bag, bringing out the early Christmas present. They had done a good job! I walk up to her bedside, bed springs squeaking as I lower my frame to sit.
She’s asleep, chest rising and falling in tandem to the beeping of the huge machine beside her bed.
My lovely angel.
A smile tugs at the side of my lips as I listen to her whistling breath. One genetic trait her father managed to smear on her ‘mini-mummy’ characteristics. My smile turns sad as I remember George.
He left.
He left me four years ago with a one-month old baby to care for all by myself. We were not married after all; no vows holding him down.
The weasel.
She was my bundle of joy, the bundle of joy I refused to abort for his selfish reasons.
I’m her mummy and her daddy; always have been, always will be.
I rub her bald head gently, feeling the tiny pricks of new hair growing. She used to have beautiful, shiny auburn hair, like her mama. Her illness changed that. It started with dizzy spells; then graduated to frightening seizures. Routine brain scans equalled a skinhead four-year old girl.
The brain scans would continue until the doctors are sure about what exactly is wrong with her. They’re confused.
Been a month already. I would not think about it; not now. Maybe in January, after Christmas.
Gently, I wear her the gift.
My gift of Love.
I can’t help smiling.
“Merry Christmas hun” I whisper, kissing her forehead. My tummy growls its protest at being left unattended to.
“Oh hush” I mutter as I get up, picking up my umbrella and wallet.
Windy rain.
I struggle to hold on to my umbrella but a sharp gust of wind snatches my partner away from me, twirling it in a dainty pirouette. My arms flail in protest.
“There!”
A young man manages to grab on to it before it flies afar.
“Thanks!” I exclaim in gratitude.
His eyes travel across my face to my head and I watch his eyes widen in surprise. I had forgotten my hat. I see his face soften in pity and I can instantly tell what he’s thinking.
Bald head.
Chemotherapy.
Cancer.
“Merry Christmas” he whispers and walks away.
I want to call out to him and correct him but I doubt he’d understand.
What better gift can a mother give her child?
“Mummy do you think there’s a chimney in the hospital?”
I looked up from my reading “Why baby?”
She coughed a little and I went to her side.
“Well dunno if Santa comes to hospitals.”
“Of course he does baby.”
She smiled.
“Mummy, do you think Santa can get me new hair?”
My eyes suddenly smarted.
I kissed her forehead.
“I’m sure he will”
She grinned in satisfaction, her hands playing with my hair.
“New hair as pretty as yours mummy.”
I’m her mummy, her daddy and her Santa.
Call me crazy if you will, but I made a wig for my baby with my hair. Unusual perhaps but then I’ve never been known to be ‘usual’ now have I?
I smile at his retreating back.
“Merry Christmas” I murmur.
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That’s it!
Phantom Pages 