An encounter

This is just a short section from my story

Constructive criticism please, it's sort of draft so i expect lots

xx

-Helen x

THIS IS BEATRICE'S PERSPECTIVE

I’d never worked it out before; I just tried not to think about it, but the more I tried not to, the more I did and then I panicked.

Will had been in a coma for one thousand six hundred and thirty days. That’s how many times those hospital doors had swung open to let me in, how many times I had to look at him just lying there and know that there was nothing I could do to help him. What a fantastic mother I was, not even being able to help my own son.

Kelly asked if I knew how long he’d been in there, and I told her I didn’t know, but I meant that I didn’t want to know. She told me anyway and it made me feel like shit. Most things made me feel like shit and she probably thought she was helping, putting things into perspective- but she didn’t.

She was only young herself, a few years older than Will. I felt bad for feeling angry at her all of the time, jealous that she was career driven and knew what she wanted when Will had nothing. She didn’t deserve that- she was the one good thing in that hospital, the glimmer of hope in a dark, desolate tunnel.

I left Will as I always did, kissed his forehead, stroked his hair and squeezed his hand.

“See you soon, Son,” I always whispered, “Sweet dreams.”

I walked for a long time around the hospital, following the corridors round and round whilst I thought. I didn’t want to think, I really didn’t- but those numbers, one thousand six hundred and thirty days, kept plaguing my mind.

I drink coffee when I’m agitated, or smoke cigarettes. I know I shouldn’t, the media tells me it’ll kill me, but I wish they’d told me that forty years ago before I got hooked on the damn things.

Its three pounds for a coffee at the hospital. I always resented paying it and usually made a stand by refusing to, but I wanted one that day and anyway, what was three pounds to steady my nerves, to make me stable for my son?

“White coffee, please.” I managed to stammer out to the girl at the hospital cafeteria. She looked at me and smiled patronizingly. I’d gotten used to those kinds of smiles- you have to when you’re sons in a coma. The sympathy smiles, the awkward smiles, when they can just see from your face that there’s no hope and think a smile will fix it. People are ignorant, I knew that too well.

And yes, I was sometimes bitter, but I think I had reason to be.

“That’s three pounds.”

There was a slimy man behind the counter with greasy dark hair tucked behind his ears. He was probably in his thirties, with acne and round, thick rimmed glasses. His voice was monotonous and dull and he held out a cupped hand expectantly.

I took my purse out of my bag which Will had bought me for mother’s day years ago. It was pink, studded with little purple stones embroidered with the words “Mother.” Will never called me mother, just like I didn’t called him William. Well, I did sometimes. When I was angry, the William just slipped out, and that’s when he knew he was in deep trouble.

There was a single pound coin sitting in the purse. It reminded me of myself, lonely, isolated…

“Three quid, please.” The man said again.

I felt my eyes well up, and I blinked away the tears foolishly. I was the strong one, I had to be- nobody else was going to be. I was the pound coin; nobody was there to support me, to make up the full amount. I had to go it alone, I knew that.

““I thought I had some in here…” I stuttered, my voice breaking stupidly. The man sighed as I searched through my purse, ignoring the apparent solo coin.

““How much do you need?” a soft voice said.

I turned to look at a girl through blurred eyes. She was tall with dark, curly hair and olive skin. She could’ve been beautiful, but she had frown lines and narrow eyes, tense and uptight.

The man told her how much I needed and she took it out of her pocket and handed it to him. I thanked her over and over again and she smiled politely, but a smile didn’t suit her; it was forced like she’d painted it on her face.

She turned to walk away and I don’t know why, but I stopped her. She looked angry, distracted, and eager to get away but I pursued her. I wasn’t used to people being genuinely nice to me. I usually got sympathy niceness, smiles, cuddles and cups of tea, the only things people could do for a hopeless woman. I know that’s how they saw me. The poor, desperate woman, who visits her son every day, sits by his bed and tells him about her day, wishing he hears her.

The girl said she was busy and I felt the tears roll down my face. I tried to wipe them away before she could see, but she noticed and held me close to her.

I’d always longed for a daughter. I was certain that Will was going to be a girl- so sure in fact, that I’d painted his room pink and planned to name him Victoria. Then he arrived and I had to replace the paint with blue and change his name to William. I feel bad for saying that I was disappointed, but I really was. My visions of a perfect little girl, with flowing gold locks and rosy cheeks were replaced with a loud boyish baby who cried all night and always seemed to be irritated. I wouldn’t have swapped him for the world though, I couldn’t have.

“How old are you?” I asked her after I’d stopped crying.

She looked about Will’s age. I hated missing his teenage years. I watched every birthday of his roll by and I wondered how much he would’ve changed with them. I know most parents wouldn’t agree and deem me insane, but I wanted to see his teenage angst, I wanted him to slam doors and say he “hated” me. That would’ve been normal. That’s all I ever wanted.

“I’m seventeen.” She sat drinking my coffee, which I couldn’t stomach and I watched her with fascination. She didn’t smile, not once, and she always looked distracted as if deep in thought.

I told her all about Will and she listened with great interest- I knew she really cared and she didn’t patronize me once. She felt like a breath of fresh air and I could’ve told her anything. She asked me questions, and nodded as I spoke and I felt relaxed, for the first time in four years. I sound stupid saying it now, but speaking to a stranger, somebody completely detached from me and the situation was like lifting an entire weight off of my shoulders.

“What’s your son’s name?” she asked.

“William.” I smiled as she said his name, just like I always did “but he always insists on being called Will.”

“I’m Maria.” She held out a hand and I shook it. It felt like the start of a beautiful friendship, and I so desperately wanted it to be, needed it to be.

““I’ve got to go.” She said, looking at the clock. She excused herself quickly and left. I watched her figure disappear into the distance and I prayed that I hadn’t imagined her. I needed an angel so much that maybe it was possible that I’d made her up. It had all been so fast, a brief encounter, and I just kept wondering, Am I losing my sanity?

THIS IS MARIA'S PERSPECTIVE

There was only one person in the queue at the hospital cafeteria. I rejoiced under my breath at the thought of a long break- not completely deserved, but still long. I asked the woman at the orders counter for a coffee- milky with two shots- and moved up towards the till.

There was a woman being served. She was short and plump, with glasses and blonde hair tied back into a harsh ponytail. She was dressed all in black, in an unflattering oversized t-shirt and leggings. Neither she nor the old, unctuous-looking guy serving looked up as I approached.

The woman rummaged around in her purse, the sound of emptiness between her searching hands was apparent. The man behind the counter tapped his fingernails on the surface impatiently, rolling his eyes in my direction. I ignored him.

“I thought I had some in here…” the woman pleaded, her voice trailing off. She was close to tears, her face contorting with embarrassment and despair.

“How much do you need?” I asked her. I wouldn’t stand by and watch the man make a fool out of her like that. I shot him a required glare and he smiled smugly, resting his irritable fingers for a moment and crossing his arms tightly across his chest.

“She needs two pounds.” He said bluntly.

I frowned at him as the woman’s eyes began to well up again.

“I’ve got two pounds.” I pulled out a few coins from my pocket and as the man held out his hand expectantly, I threw them onto the counter.

“That’s very kind of you.” The woman’s voice wavered, her eyes desperately grateful as if I’d rescued her from a burning building.

“It’s okay,” I smiled.

The man raised an eyebrow at me and picked up the coins I’d left quickly, like a petty thief collecting his day’s earnings.

“Forget that coffee of mine, by the way,” I snapped.

He turned on his heel and shuffled away.

“Thank you so much.” The woman took my hand between hers and managed a weak smile.

“I’m sure it’s what anybody would’ve done, don’t mention it.” I said politely, taking my hand away from her tight grip and turning to walk away. It looked like I’d have to skip my coffee break for today and I couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated, mostly at her.

“Won’t you stay?” her voice came out in a whisper. I twisted myself back to look at her hopeful face.

“I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes and I was going to go over the road and get a drink.” I said, almost pleading with her to let me be, hurriedly thinking of excuses.

Her face dropped, and she nodded slowly.

“I understand you’re busy.” She gestured towards her tray, “thank you for the money, you’re very kind.”

Then her lip actually quavered- something which I thought only happened in movies. I sensed the tears were coming before they did, so I placed an awkward hand on her shoulder and she erupted into sobbing hysterics. I felt my break slipping away from me as I sat down at a table opposite the woman resentfully, watching her blow her nose.

“I’m sorry about this.” She sniffled, after the tears had stopped falling and she’d regained some form of composure.

“It’s perfectly fine.” I lied unconvincingly. What had I done to deserve this? I’m a nice enough person to offer a woman a few quid when she needs it, but I’m not good when it comes to crying. Any sign of tears and I’m usually out of there, but it was hard to do that to her- not when she looked so delicate and distressed. I’m not that unsympathetic, but I found myself wishing that I had the guts to be.

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of being on my own right now, and then you were so nice earlier, I thought… Oh, I don’t know what I thought…” her voice broke off.

I sat uncomfortably, twiddling my thumbs, wondering if I should maybe comfort her in some way. The trouble was the only thing I could think of doing was to drink her coffee, which was sitting on the table and getting cold, tormenting me.

“How old are you?” she asked suddenly.

I dragged my eyes away from the mug reluctantly and met hers. They were lifeless and desolate; I felt a pang of consideration towards her but then the smell of the coffee hit my nostrils and I was distracted again.

“Do you want to drink that?” she asked, following my indiscreet gaze. She nudged the mug towards me and smiled slightly, the corners of her mouth turning upwards hesitantly, “I’m not that thirsty now. You have it, dear.”

I shot her what I hoped was an appreciative glance, and drank half the coffee with one big gulp.

“You didn’t say how old you were?” She asked again.

“I’m seventeen.”

“I remember my son’s seventeenth birthday.” She looked reminiscent, and I prayed that she wasn’t going to share a trip down memory lane.

“We had it here,” she looked around, indicating that she meant the hospital, “We have done every year. It provides a bit of normality, I suppose. For all of us.”

“That sounds like a good idea.” I said half-heartedly, taking a quick look at the clock. I had ten minutes left. Surely, she wasn’t planning on keeping me for that long. I’d told her how long my break was, surely she wasn’t going to do that to me.

“Well, it’s been five years now and it doesn’t get any better. I cry about him every day, you know. It’s only been today that I couldn’t contain it until I got home,” she looked down, “I think I’m losing the plot.”

Oh God, I thought, is this the moment when I ask her about her son? Is this the part when I pretend to take an interest?

“What’s wrong with your son?” I asked, right on cue.

She inhaled loudly, preparing herself, “He fell down the stairs when he was fourteen, and he’s…erm…” her voice faltered, “he’s… in a coma.”

I didn’t know what to say. You’re not taught how to act in those kinds of situations. I searched my brain for a consolation for her, but I couldn’t find one.

“How old is he now?” I stuck to what I knew best- my usual unsympathetic, straight forward responses.

“He’s eighteen.” She smiled, thinking, “I come here every day and just sit with him, just to tell him everything. The doctor’s assure me that he can hear and understand it all.”

“That must be a great comfort for you.”

God, I must have sounded like an annoying, psycho babbling counselor and I figured that she’d probably heard too much from them over the years.

“It is.” Her brow furrowed, leaving little lines across her forehead, “They’ve warned me, you know, that when…if…” she corrected herself, “…if he ever wakes up, he might not know who I am.”

“Is it possible that he might not remember anything at all?” I asked, showing some genuine interest.

“They really don’t know,” she rested her chin in her hands, and looked at me intently, “He may lose all memory, only some of it or he might remember everything, there’s no saying.”

She closed her eyes gently, her lashes flickering restlessly above her weary eyes. I couldn’t imagine her sleeping much at all, how could she with something like that plaguing her thoughts all the time? She cleared her throat with a deep and chesty sound. I recognized it from my Dad- a Smoker’s Cough. Maybe she took solace in cigarettes; maybe they gave her something to do, to take her mind off of things. Those little white sticks might have been her source of comfort. That’s a strange thought, that for a few minutes of your day, something so vile and lethal can take all of those cares away.

“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.

“William.” She smiled as she said his name, her eyes lighting up- a real smile, “but he always insists on being called Will.” She laughed softly.

“I’m Maria.” I held out a hand to shake hers.

“Beatrice.” She accepted my hand and shook it urgently, with a long, firm grasp as if she’d never let go. She released it finally, and our eyes met. Hers were desperate and full of thanks, mine showed compassion and sincerity, but inside I kept thinking… What have I even done to deserve her gratitude but drink her coffee and pretend to care?

“I’ve got to go.” I looked at the clock obviously, excused myself, said goodbye and walked away in big strides as fast as I could.

Well, now I knew a stranger’s name, almost her entire life story and that of her son’s, I’d been a shoulder to cry on and a fine listener. Aren’t you meant to feel good after you’ve done stuff like that? I didn’t.

All I kept thinking was I wonder if she’s planning to pay back the money I lent her.