Spotlight 25-26

THE GIFT FROM THE HEART by Honey Meads Oakthorpe

‘There is a deadline though.’ My gaze swivelled over the waiting room, looking for a place to look instead of the doctor’s apologetic eyes. TV played quietly in one corner, a distraction that might keep my mind off what was happening to my mum. The seats closest to it stood empty, sandwiched between two sweating and shivering men. ‘What do you mean? How long?’ I stutter on four out of six words. The man is stood awfully close, so close I can smell the Warfarin tablets in his pocket. His spindly frame can be seen extruding from his skin; his collarbones, the large lump resting on the ledge of his chest. His ease is putting me on edge; how can he be this calm when I’m falling apart? ‘I can’t promise she’ll see the end of the month.’ Suddenly everything seemed real. The room swings and darkness threatens my peripheral vision. I feel a large stone of defeat sinking in my stomach. I force a long swallow followed by a deep breath, anchoring me back to the plastic seat. The plane flight back seems almost illegal, but much longer in Miami would cost me my condo in Manhattan. I used to long for deserts. I used to long for long horizons filled with white sand and blue, effacing skies. I used to long to stare into the sunset and forget my life entirely. But now the last thing I want to do is forget my mum. I long for her, and her warmth and her self presence. Christmas had penetrated every inch. A large arrangement of holly stood on the table. There was a single Christmas card addressed to me on the mantle shelf, and a pile of logs next to the fire. A box of Christmas crackers sat opened on the floor and a half-empty bottle of Walmart’s finest prosecco in the fridge. As we sit under the Christmas tree, I can't help but let my thoughts wander off. Grey grief comes in waves. To begin with, waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. All you can do is wait and float and stay alive. Erika sits with her legs crossed peacefully under the living room table, playing with her dollar store Barbies that Father Christmas got for her. ‘Mama, why are you crying?’ Erika asks in her sing-songy voice. How am I supposed to tell a four-year-old girl that Grandma died? How is she going to forgive me for picking this month’s wage over my own mother’s life? Suddenly it becomes almost impossible to breathe. Her arms swarm round me and I feel her pull me closer. It warms my soul, but it’s the kind of hug that makes you want to lean against a shoulder and cry. So that’s what I do. In between darkness, I can feel heaven wrapped in Erika’s short arms. Even upon this wintery day, when the sky is grey and my heart is bare, Erika gives me a glowing sense of warmth.