Abigail was sleeping when I arrived at the narrow cubicle in the hospital ward. Except for the telltale yellow of her skin and the circles like smudges of ash beneath her eyes, it wasn’t obvious that she was nearing death. But I knew how well the body could hide internal tumult—the machines attached to her told a more depressing story.
I settled into the stiff, pleather chair by the bed and pulled out my book from my bulging tote bag. I liked to come equipped with things that might help a dying person feel more comfortable in their final moments. There was a small Bluetooth speaker for playing music or nature sounds, plus an iPad for googling images of destinations that conjured a person’s happiest memories, or for reading passages from their preferred religious text. I also packed a scented lotion for massaging their hands, some stationery and a pen for writing letters and documenting final wishes, some small candles to help create a more intimate environment, and my sticks of sage and palo santo. I probably wasn’t allowed to burn things in the hospital, but I wasn’t above breaking the rules if it meant granting someone’s dying wish (once I’d even snuck in a pint of Guinness).
Three chapters of Martha Gellhorn’s Travels with Myself and Another passed before I sensed Abigail stirring. Disorientation clouded her face, escalating to concern as she noted the tubes creeping like vines along her emaciated limbs. She smacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, desperately seeking moisture. I pressed the Call button and reached for the paper cup of water beside the bed, positioning the tip of the straw in front of her lips.
Abigail winced as she sipped. “I’m pretty sick, huh?” Her eyes willed me to contradict her.
My heart twinged but I smiled calmly. It was my job to make her last few hours as comfortable as possible, but that didn’t mean lying to her. Fueling her fear would do nothing, so I’d learned to be mercifully vague.
“Yes,” I said, keeping my tone even. “But the doctors here are taking really good care of you.” Her sallow skin aged her well beyond her twenty-six years—alcohol abuse tends to do that. “I’m Clover—I’m here to keep you company. And you’re Abigail, right?”
She nodded.
“I hear you’re from Idaho,” I said. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”
Straight but neglected teeth and swollen gums peeked through her weary smile.
“Yeah, from Sandpoint.” Abigail’s eyes traced the perimeter of the cubicle where the fluorescent light emphasized every blemish of the curtain and its pallid salmon hue. “I miss home a lot.”
She seemed up to having a conversation, so I pressed on.
“What do you love most about it?” I’d learned that helping people visualize a beloved place was a way to calm them, to anchor them to something comforting and familiar—especially when their reality was a sterile hospital cubicle.
“Well, my town is super beautiful. It’s surrounded by mountains and it’s right on the lake.” Her smile disappeared. “But when I was a teenager I thought it was too boring, so I came out here to New York to become an artist.”
“That’s a cool career choice,” I said, silently noting the increasing beat of her heart-rate monitor.
Abigail stared at the beige ceiling. “It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. I guess my skin wasn’t thick enough for this city—it kind of swallowed me up.”
That made sense. When the hospital admin had finally tracked down Abigail’s parents, they hadn’t heard from their daughter in five years. She’d cut off all contact after they’d tried to convince her to go to rehab for alcoholism. They had no idea she’d been living on the street for a year.
“New York can definitely be tough.” I rested my hand lightly on hers. Not everyone liked to be touched, so it was better to gauge their response. “Have you always been into art?”
Abigail clasped my fingers tightly. “I’ve been drawing and painting pretty much every day since I was a kid.” Her words slowed as she battled to stay awake. “My parents said I used to draw on all the walls and furniture with my crayons. They said the house was like one big canvas to me.” Pain stifled her laugh and her face turned solemn. “Are they coming?”
I made sure my nod was confident but casual. “They’re already on their way. They should be here really soon. I know they can’t wait to see you and hug you.”
Hope had a magical way of healing someone—or at least helping them hold on for that little bit longer. It wasn’t just important for Abigail to be able to see her family one last time; closure was just as valuable for the living. Being denied the chance to say goodbye to a loved one left stubborn emotional scars. After thirteen years, mine hadn’t healed—and I’d promised myself that I’d do everything I could to spare others that same burden.
“That’s good,” Abigail said, shoulders relaxing. “You know, I thought about calling them so many times and asking if I could come home—and maybe even try rehab—but I was too ashamed.” Her eyelids fluttered and her speech became a murmur. “I never realized how much I loved them until I couldn’t tell them…”
It would be better if she’d stayed awake, since there was a risk she wouldn’t regain consciousness. But sleep seized her before I could respond. She didn’t even stir at the sound of plastic rings screeching across metal when a nurse whipped back the flimsy curtain.
“She was awake and briefly coherent,” I reported to him as he methodically checked Abigail’s vital signs. “And still consuming small amounts of liquid.”
The nurse’s eyes were grim. “It’s good that you’re here.”
* * *
Abigail’s parents arrived just after one thirty in the morning. Their faces wore the fatigued battle scars of an unexpected cross-country journey and the disorientation of being plunged into an unfamiliar city.
I moved to the foot of the bed, giving them as much space as the cramped quarters would allow. Abigail’s heart monitor beeped rhythmically, a metronome keeping time to the hospital commotion beyond the curtain.
“Abigail told me about how she adored being an artist and how much she loved and missed you both.” I smiled with my eyes more than my lips—a way of conveying warmth and comfort without denying the sadness of the situation.
Her parents stood frozen, struggling to believe that fate had dealt them such a callous blow.
“You can speak to her; she’ll hear you,” I said, keeping my voice low and calm. “Messages of love always make their way through, even when someone is unconscious.” Unfortunately, it was often the first time that love was ever expressed. “I’ll just be outside in the waiting room if you need me.”
Nodding, the couple clutched each other like tree branches in a flood—the only thing keeping them from being swept away.
Abigail’s sleep became eternal at 6:04 A.M.
Ninety-eight. Once again, my job was done.
11
The frenetic jumble of peak hour, combined with my severe lack of sleep, made the 6 train even more painful on my way home from the hospital after Abigail’s passing. As I tried to stop myself from dozing against the pole, I watched a teenaged girl sketching furiously in a notebook. She sat with an almost trance-like focus on her art, oblivious to the impatient commuters and nausea-inducing sway of the train car.
A pang pierced the space between my ribs. One young creative life blossoms as another one ends; there was something beautiful about the tenuous reality of being human.