Prologue
The crisp white walls of the Eden Hill Medical Center seemed
endless and as nauseating as the clean smells that seem to be solely
specific to hospitals was wafted through the air vents in the ceilings
that provided an unneeded chill. Violet Ivers walked along the corridors
quickly, trying to escape the smells of hand sanitizer and sterile
syringes, hoping that the clean white door marked Room 226 was coming up
soon so she could leave the cold hall and be in a warm, personalized
hospital room. She tried to focus her attention on the room numbers she
was approaching and the squeaky white regulation sneakers that all
nurses wandering the halls were wearing and not at the stony faces of
nurses on duty or pained ones of patients. She thought with a burst of
pride about how the last time she had been in Eden Hill was nearly 5
years ago, when she had given birth to her sons, whom were now walking
besides her, staring up and down the corridor with awe. Her twins, her
pride and joy and biggest accomplishments, were born on the bright
morning of May 29th, 2008 at Eden Hill, and she was overjoyed
that she had never since returned to the hospital, or anything like it,
simply because it was a difficult environment for a healthy person to
be in.
At some point in her continuous thinking
and walking she found Room 226. It was tucked away, the last door in a
set of uncountable ones lining the hallway. Violet took a deep breath
and grasped the warm brass knob of the door with her own thin, cold
hand, pushing the door open with a long, droning sound as the bottom,
which was covered in a sort of protective fuzz, glided across the
polished wood floors of the room. The noise must have startled the only
other living thing in the room, as from the corner a small cough and
grunt was heard.
The room was warm all right,
hot and nothing like the atmosphere outside. Inside the small hospital
room, the walls, for one thing, were a bright orange and covered in
photographs and newspaper clippings. Every surface of the cherry wood
T.V stand, dresser, and desk were covered with get well soon cards,
stuffed animals, balloons, and every type of flower in every type of
color. The woman in the bed next to the window in the farthest corner of
the room was unlike the patients outside as well. Although she was in a
hospital bed, she had curlers in her black hair, which would have
normally sat limp and straight on her head, and a bright yellow sweater
on. Her face was almost wrinkle less, aside from the crinkles between
her eyebrows that showed years of hard work, and was a pale white aside
from the recently applied rouge that sat on the round apples of her
cheeks. She looked like the mother of one of the glamorous movie stars
tapped on the wall above her, just as beautiful and camera ready, but
not as young and springy. The woman held a glass of water in her steady
hand, which she took small sips from while Violet attempted to get her
boys to not try and grab at a life-sized plush teddy bear that was sat
in the opposite corner of the room. When all had settled, Violet turned
from the door and grabbed one smooth hand of each boy in her own, thin
cold one and smiled at the elderly woman in front of her.
“Mamò”
she said with a smile, walking towards the bed slowly as the boys
attached to her seemed to drag their feet and take much smaller steps
than she did with her long, slender legs. When Violet had reached the
bed, she leaned down and gave the old woman a kiss on the cheek, which
she lifted each of her son’s up to reciprocate. Unbeknownst to her, this
simple greeting meant much to the old woman, lovingly referred to as
“Mamò”, or grandma.
“Violet, dear,” the old
woman said, holding her hand on her heart. “My how your boys have grown!
Nearly 5, right? What beautiful hair they have!” She exclaimed, a
thick, Irish accent present in the diction of every word as she leaned
down and ran her fingers through the fine dirty blonde hair of the boys
before her.
“They’ve got McMill hair!” she said,
with a happy laugh. The subject of hair must have reminded her that her
curlers had been in for nearly too long and she reached her hand up to
her own locks just then, removing each curler and running her hands
through the now bouncy, shoulder length black curls atop her head. “Just
like your grandfather, your mother, you and your aunt Janice. You all
have McMill hair but I’ve got a Walsh mane I do!” she said with a
laugh, looking towards the 5 year olds as if they would get her joke
too. She then motioned for Violet to sit in one of the fluffy chairs
next to the bed, and as Violet sank into the old fabric covered seat her
grandmother grabbed her hand. Now, while they didn’t have the same
hair, they had the same hands. Beautiful, fragile, thin hands with
perfect nail beds that never got a well-deserved manicure. Mamò’s due to
years of work, and Violet’s due to her simply not wanting the luxury.
Mamò stared at their hands together and then looked into the eyes of her
young granddaughter with a sad smile. The only difference between their
beautiful hands was the clear difference in age, represented by the
thin blue veins that were much more present on the old woman’s fair
hands than the one’s of the young lady in front of her.
“You’ve had a lot of visitors?” Violet asked, looking around the room
at all of the things her grandmother had been giving and feeling a
little guilty that in the week her grandmother had been in the hospital,
this was the first time Violet had come to visit. She took in the
decorations of each wall thinking to herself that even with a family as
big as her own they didn’t have that many relatives. At least,
not that she knew of. Her grandparents were immigrants, so whatever they
knew about their family was all of the information everyone else got.
And they never could be trusted with names and dates it seemed to Violet
when she was young and had to do a family tree project for school years
ago and her grandmother had nearly mixed up the date she came to
America.
The old lady nodded happily and looked
around the room as well, smiling as though each present was a trophy and
she was going to win the award for most visits in the shortest period.
Violet cracked her knuckles nervously, looking up at at a magazine
cutout of Maureen O’Hara. The starlet’s gorgeous orange locks were on a
green background and she looked like Irish pride in a photograph.
“Is she your favorite?” Violet asked her grandmother, seeing that there
were more photos of Maureen O’Hara than any other celebrity on her
wall, trying to make gentle small talk that wasn’t too taxing for the
old woman.
“Oh, yeah.” Her Mamò said dreamily,
“She became my favorite, even more so after I met her.” Mamò said with a
remembering smile.
Violet turned in her chair
quickly. “You met Maureen O’Hara?” she asked, clearly excited. She
remembered watching “Miracle on 34th Street” at Christmastime
in her Mamò house when she was young but the old woman had never said a
thing back then. “Why didn’t you tell me? What else did you do?”
Mamò smiled. “I thought you wouldn’t appreciate it. You enjoyed her
movies but you didn’t know that she was a regular Irish gal like us.”
Mamò said proudly. “I figured I would tell you when you were truly
interested, which you seem to be now. There are many things about me,
about our family, that you don’t know” She laughed a little before
leaning over to the nightstand and grabbing the television remote,
turning on a childish show and smiled at her granddaughter. “To keep
your boys occupied. I have a lot of stories to tell, this might take a
long time. Oh, where do I begin...”
Points: 3592
Reviews: 151
Donate