Young Writers Society

I would sing at night, “Sing me the song that stops the blue. Sing me the song that can bring me to you. Whisper the words as I walk down the aisle, and tell me this life isn’t true.”

Tell Me What You Want, and I’ll Tell You What You Need.

It started out as an ordinary Saturday. I was just getting off work, which was a crappy part time job at the local Safeway. The only reason I got the job was because my father is out at war, and has been for a year now. The owner felt bad for me and or strongly supported our troops.

I guess I should explain a little. My father and my mother are not divorced, and neither are they in love. They are about the closest you can get to separating… without actually separating. They would fight, and not just with words. My mother would call him an arrogant ass hole, and my father would throw a chair at her. Some people can’t help being violent. My father was just raised to be like that. His father would whip him a couple times, and backhand him everyone in awhile. My father thought since he grew up so well because of it (he is a doctor), he should enforce the same tactics. My father thought it was right of him to try and change ‘the error’ in my mother’s ways He knew they were not right for each other, but didn’t want to admit it to the world just yet. But when the opportunity rose where he could escape he took it.

My life wasn’t so bad, though. He never touched me. The constant fear that one day he might hurt my mother severely was always right up on my list of things to worry about, though.

Anyways, I walk up the front steps to my old Victorian house, when I received a phone call. I looked at the number, and although it was one I did not recognize, I noticed the area code was from my town, so I answered. “Hello?” I said in my most cheerful voice. Although I claimed not to care what people think of me, I would prefer them to think of me as nice.

“Is this Anila Deirdre?” Gosh my name is strange.

“Yes,” I said cautiously, not liking the tone of her voice.

“Are you, in any way, related to Virginia Deirdre?”

“She is my mother.” I said, not sounding so happy anymore.

“This is Wynne Swain from Alameda Hospital. I think you should come down here.”

I ran through the door of room 316 to find my mother laying in a hospital bed, two nurses by her side.

My mother exhaled, and spoke in the softest voice she had ever heard come out of her mother’s mouth. “Anila.”

“Mom!” I yelled as I ran to her side, and knelt down on the floor beside her bed.

“Baby, I’m so sorry. I wanted to keep this a secret for as long as I could.” My mother put her hand on her forehead, which symbolized the great stress she was experiencing. Her face was pale, and her cheeks were red. She was, as they would say “sparkling” from the swear covering her entire body. She looked as horrible as a woman who just gave birth. All I was hoping for was for something as simple as a new sibling, but I knew it was scarier than that.

“Mom, I’m seventeen, and all I want is for people to tell me the truth. Please mom, what’s wrong?” My eyes started filling with the clear warm tears I saw so often.

“Baby… I was diagnosed with Leukemia when I was six. My doctor is surprised I lived this long.” I started to cry at the unexpected remark, which in turn made my mother cry too. In mid sob, my mother stopped, and held her chest. Her face expressed pain. “I need you to be strong with whatever is to come. Honey, I want you to know-”She was pierced again with deep pain. I wish I could have stopped it. “I want you to know, that your father loves you very much, and all he wanted was for it to be just you and him. Don’t think-” She stopped, out of breath. “Don’t think for one second he didn’t love you, or it was your fault he’s gone. He will be with you for most of your life.”

All I wanted to say to my mother was how much I love her. All I could do was sit there, watching her. I didn’t know what was holding me back. I grabbed her right hand, and held it tight and close to me. I would never let go of her, no matter how hard life tried to take her away from me.

I looked at her face, which was not peaceful, like how people should die. It looked like a million things were running through her mind, and she couldn’t pick which one to focus on. She was all red now, and sweat was rolling off her face. She lifted her left hand to rub it off.

Every once in a while she would open her eyes, just a little, to make sure I was still there.

I wanted her to open her eyes, get out of bed and hug me like she used to. I wanted her to kiss my forehead and tell me how beautiful I was; even though we both know I am not. I wanted her to sing me to sleep. She had this one song, about a girl being sad. I barely remember the words, maybe a line or two. The first time she sang it to me was when my first boyfriend broke up with me. I was depressed, even though the relationship was only for a week. It took a lot to recall that memory.

I knew that if my mother died, I would have the memory of it forever. It would probably be the longest lasting of all memories of her, and that was the hardest concept to grasp.

I sat by my mother’s side, holding her hand, studying her perfect fingernails, the blonde hair on her knuckles, and the one freckle on her ring finger, where no ring lay.

I sat watching my mother breathe, her stomach slowly rising and falling. I watched her open and close her eyes until they opened no more, and her hand went limp in mine.