Hospital (and on the nature of letting go).

   Jayne MacMillan was sitting up in her hospital bed, surprisingly lucid and convivial (from Bee’s perspective) given the nature of her prognosis. A large, matronly looking woman stood beside the bed, pen and clipboard in hand, noting down the values that pronounced themselves clearly on the machinery that stood dutifully beside its patient.

   “Don’t mind her”, Jay was looking at Sophia, first through the door and instantly troubled by the presence of hospital staff, “she’s just here to make sure I’m still breathing.”

Sophia walked briskly to her aunt’s bedside, putting her school bag down into the seat of the only visitor’s chair in the room. She reached out to Jay’s hand, a needle connected to a drip was inserted to in the top of it. The needle was secured with surgical tape, it looked awkward and painful.

   “I’m glad you’re still breathing,” Sophia was not brimming with the words she’d expected to have, like the needle in her aunt’s hand, she felt awkward and painful, “what does the doctor say?”

   “What they always say, my love,” Jay placed her other, unencumbered, hand on top of Sophia’s, sandwiching her hand between two of her own, “rest, fluids, and more rest.”

   “He told us you’d hurt your head.”

   “Well, I did.” Jay released the hand-sandwich and reached for the remote control for the bed, within a few seconds the bed started to hum and whirl, as it lifted her into a seated position, more apt for the visitation of family. 

   “But, I’m okay, as you can see.” 

   Robert and Bee, who had remained silent just inside the doorway, approached the bed as the matronly nurse placed the clipboard on the end of the bed, looked once at the machines hovering dutifully beside the patient, and left the room. Robert, his hand hovering over his map of New Zealand, was the first to speak.

   “What happened Jay?”

   Jay, put Sophia’s hand to one side, turning her head towards her nephew.

   “I wanted to read. In the garden.” Jay was sounding proper and entitled as if she was being made to defend something she’d done or wanted to do. “The ground down by the garden bench, it’s uneven. Would have given a deer a rough ride.”

   “You tripped?”

   “Yes. And I’m no deer.”

Robert approached the bed, his intention to examine the bandaged wound on Jay’s head.

   “I’m fine, Nephew,“ there was a sense of frustration, perhaps even anger, in Jay’s voice, “it’s nothing to worry yourself about.”

   “It’s a worry, none-the-less,” Bee had ventured into the conversation, fragile as it was, “you don’t have the strength for aerobics these days.”

   “I’m strong enough.”

   Bee nodded, sympathetically, but tinged with annoyance. The sort of frustration you feel when somebody you love is in denial. Brave to the point of nonsensical. Self-reliance is a currency that only travels you so far.

   “Soph, why don’t you fetch your aunt a coffee?” Robert hand walked around the bed and placed his hand on Sophia’s shoulder, “there’s a machine down the hall.”

Sophia turned her head looking upwards and backwards towards her standing father, “Okay. Sure.”

   As Sophia left the room, Robert relieved the visitor’s chair of her schoolbag, pulling the chair close to the side of the bed and sitting in it, as he did so.

   “Was it really the ground?”

   Jay paused for a second, looking upwards (perhaps for inspiration, though that seemed unlikely) for a few, long and drawn out breaths.

   “No. Of course not.”

   Robert reached out and took Jay’s hand, making a sandwich of his own.

   “I’m probably not going to leave this room. That’s just the truth of the matter.” Jay had a way of being very matter-of-fact when it came to emotionally charged subject matter. It was her who spoke at their father’s wake. It was her who stood (barefoot) on the January lawn and delivered a eulogy without pause or stutter. It was her who spoke at her sister’s wedding - not a dry eye among the guests, save her own. It was her that could always find the strength to dispatch and discharge with seemingly steel-like emotion. It was a strength she did not wish for, but it was her’s none-the-less.

   “Nonsense,” Jay’s sister was not going to allow the void to exist any longer, “you just need some rest, that’s all.”

   Jay reached out with her spare hand, the other lay entwined in Robert’s clammy fingers, towards Bee, “come, give me your hand dear sister. Dear Bee, the greatest of optimists.”

Jay was, somewhat uncomfortably for Robert, smiling broadly.

   Bee moved around the bed and took Jay’s hand, her emotion filling the void. Like the sea and the shore, a balance was found between the elements. Somewhere between Jay’s peaceful acceptance of her mortality (now pounding at the door) and Bee’s raw denial of the finality of her relationship with her sister, a truce was made. Right there in that poorly lit hospital room, a truce between what will and what must never be. An uneasy truce, each side swaying gently in the back and forth, ready to break and attack at a moment’s notice. A truce built out of humility and exhaustion. A truce rooted in light, grace and dignity, but where muffled screams and anger lurked just inches into the furor of the indignant, creeping shade.