The Art of Living

By Keira Gayowsky

I hate children, I think to myself. I still smile at the young boy I took with no hesitation. He tries to smile back, but his chin wobbles, tears threatening to spring. He takes my hand, and the pressure of his squeeze grounds me as he slowly disappears. As I let go, my ears ring, my vision blurring as the room swarms.

I blink, looking around at the busy area. I need to get out. I try to stay, but his mother’s desperate screams pull me back to reality. I leave, taking a deep breath.

Turning down the hall, I walk, allowing myself some grace, something I rarely get in this job. Doubt clouds my mind as I aimlessly wander. God, I should retire. I round a corner, and a child’s laughter fills my ears. I peek into the room. It is warm, and light is emitting from the young girl perked up on the bed. She plays with her dolls alone, but for now, she is alive. She lives; she persists, so I turn to leave.

“Excuse me, mister?” she says, and our eyes lock. I muse; she is so young and innocent that she should not be able to see or talk to me. Nonetheless, I cannot resist speaking to her and discovering why.

“Hi there, little one,” I say back, and she grins, arms flapping happily as she motions for me to join her. “I really can not dwell for long-”

“You have to stay! I need someone to play with,” she demands, although her voice is weak with fatigue, and there is no heat behind her orders. I cautiously take a seat on the corner of her bed, being careful not to disturb the millions of lines and tubes flowing out of her body. She seems content with my presence, so she hands me a doll and resumes her play.

I allow myself to escape into her charade, aimlessly playing house until she pauses. She looks at me briefly before asking, “Who are you?”

“I am just a visitor,” I reply, trying not to engage in such horrific topics with a child.

“I do not get a lot of those. Will you come visit me?”

“If you wish,” I offer.

“I would like that,” tears begin to form, and I worry I have upset her. “I want to have lots of visitors so they can remember me when I am not here anymore,” she rubs at her eyes, her weariness beginning to show.

“What do you mean when you are not here anymore?” I ask, hoping to soothe her aching pain.

“Mommy is always upset when she talks to the nice doctors; they say I can’t go home for a long, long time,” she explains, too simply for any child. She is lying against her pillows, dolls abandoned as her eyes droop.

“Where is your Mommy?” I feel a wave of protectiveness wash over me. No child should have to go through this alone. I grab her blanket, drape it over her, and tuck her in.

“She has to work; it’s not her fault,” she mutters, sadness in her eyes.

“That’s okay,” I say, feeling guilty for my thoughts, “I’ll come visit you,” I promise.

“Pinky promise?” she asks. I offer my finger, and she smiles tiredly. She takes it in hers.

“Pinky promise,” I reassure her, brushing her hair out of her face.

“You have to promise me something in return,” I tell her, and she laughs, her warmth surrounding me.

“What’s that?”

“Promise me that you’ll fight, that you will evade me when you have to,” I sound like I’m begging.

“Why would I do that?”

“Just promise.”

“Pinky promise,” she swears, and soon she falls into a restful sleep. A few moments later, I slip out of the room, thinking about what I just vowed. I carry on.

I am back a month later. I quickly finish the tasks I was assigned and walk down her hallway.

She notices me, smiling and waving me in. She’s not getting better, especially if she can still see me.

She sets down the book she’s reading, and I sit at her bedside. She tells me about all her adventures until my mind reminds me of the other places I must be. She frowns at me, disappointed that I have to leave so shortly. If I could, I would give her all the time in the world.

“See you soon?” she asks as I get ready. I stop, and I wish the world would, too.

I tell the truth for once, hoping to bring her some comfort, “of course, little one.” She waves goodbye as I depart, guilt coursing through my body.

Three months later, I stop by again. There is no job or task to complete this time; I just want to make sure she is alive. She’s not alone at this time.

She doesn’t notice me enter, nor does the nurse who is talking with her. I stand directly before her, trying to get her to catch my eye. She shudders, and I know she can feel my frigid presence.

The nurse fixes some lines and adjusts the oxygen cannula attached to her face. I watch as they interact, feeling like a stranger in a friend’s house. Sitting at the girl’s bedside, the nurse grabs a marker and colours with her, a semblance of normalcy in the foreign, unnatural situation.

“What will you do when you get out of here?” the nurse asks, and the colouring stops momentarily. The girl looks up as if to think before putting the pen back on the paper.

“I’ll live, I’ll fight,” she replies, and I can’t take it anymore. I look over her one more time before leaving.

I don’t return for another year. I wander through the halls, looking for the friendly young girl. I need to apologize for the false hope I gave her. I stop at her door and enter the room. My body freezes, and my eyes buzz around.

It’s empty.

She did it, I think. She listened, and she won. The room still feels warm, her light never wavering. I let my hands run along the rail of the bed, and I cannot help but think of her bravery.

She evaded me.

I laugh, a sense of pride filling my core. I take in the room once more before turning to leave, returning to my work. I silently pray for the other children, hoping they are as brave and determined as she has been.

Life went on. It always did. She was just a job; she always will be.

It isn’t till decades later I finally find a room that does not feel cold. It was a standard call, a hospice facility of sorts. As soon as I enter, something feels off. An elderly lady is sitting in the bed. She’s alone, but she’s alive.

As she notices me, she smiles, her eyes glimmering with hope and recognition. It takes me a moment to truly look at the soul I was taking. She was the one, the light, the determined young girl. She must notice my contemplation as she nods towards a chair beside the bed.

I sit down, deciphering where the light has gone in the woman’s soul. I stutter out and mumble, my eyes examining her as I figure out where I went wrong. She shushes me and whispers words of comfort.

“It is supposed to be the other way around,” I whisper, and she takes my hand. I was supposed to be the one reassuring her. She squeezes it, comfort branching through the motion.

“Nonsense,” she whispers back. We sit there for a while. I do not know if it is seconds, hours, or days, but time slows. My eyes wander towards the clock; she can take all the time she needs.

She looks up at me with the same determination and bravery she had in her eyes 70-odd years ago: “I survived, you know. I evaded you.” She’s grinning now, her smile unchanged.

“You did.”

“I am ready,” she says, placing a hand on my cheek and cupping it like a mother would comfort her son. “I do not blame you,” she declares.

“I know,” I say, but I am not ready. I try to ignore how guilty I feel. She fought so hard; it shouldn’t end now.

“You do not need to comfort me. I promise, pinky promise, that I am ready,” she reassures me.

This isn’t right. I need to fix this. I take her hands in mine, tightening my grasp as I hold them close.

“I know. Let me,” she looks at me, a longing in her eyes. “Please,” I add, and she nods. I press a soft kiss to her hands.

“Rest easy, little one.”

I hesitate.