Silent Night
The waiting room was empty. Flash fiction by Swetha Amit
When I answered the call, it wasn't good news. The phone and the steaming cup of hot chocolate slipped from my hands. I watched the burning brown liquid splatter on the wooden floor. I didn't have time to clean up. I grabbed my car keys, phone, and purse and rushed out the door. The town was lit up with holiday lights glistening obnoxiously in the backyards. Soon, a crowd would gather in the church at midnight. Prayers would be said. Presents would be opened later. Here I was, driving feverishly to the hospital where my ailing grandmother was admitted last week after a continuous bout of illness.
A runny nose, chest congestion, and incessant coughing. She barely slept, imprisoned by the coughing that refused to let go of her. No amount of honeydrops or cough suppressant that I gave her helped. Last week, her lips turned bluish. She began to experience breathlessness. I immediately called an ambulance and accompanied her to the hospital. Later, the doctor told me that he and his team were monitoring some tests on her. I spent the entire week praying at my office desk, wishing my seventy-year-old grandma would survive this ordeal. Surely she'd live to see my wedding, which was in two months. I'd visit the hospital during visiting hours and sit next to my grandma. Her eyes were closed. Wires and a beeping machine surrounded her. I hoped that she was catching up on her much-needed sleep.
The walls in the waiting room were pale green. There was a tangy smell of lemons, probably from the room freshener sprayed by the hospital staff. I sat there listening to the clock ticking seconds, every minute feeling like a month as I waited for the doctor to come. I checked my phone and read a message sent by my fiancée two hours ago. A huge Christmas tree was placed just outside the waiting room, decorated with multiple-colored ornaments and a golden star on top. Grandma once told me that if something ever happened to her, she would turn into a star and watch me from the sky every night. I stared at the bright star twinkling at me from the top of the Christmas tree. The waiting room was empty except for the nurse in charge.
The last time I celebrated Christmas at a large gathering was before the accident ten years ago when my parents drove cross country to attend a wedding and got caught in a storm that tossed their car into the river. It was two months after my sixteenth birthday. I remembered clutching my grandma's hand tightly, weeping, while she swallowed the pain of her only son's death. I had no siblings or cousins to lean on. Both Dad and Ma were the only children of their parents. Ma's parents died when I was two. All I had now was my grandma and my fiancée. He was on his flight from the Midwest after finishing his business meeting, worried when he heard about Grandma's condition. He would land anytime soon.
Just then, the nurse mentioned the doctor would see me. I clutched my purse tightly until my palms hurt. I toyed around with my car keys before the doctor appeared in front of me—a tall, sturdy, middle-aged man with a beard wearing a white coat. He cleared his throat before addressing me by my first name.
"Maria," he began.
I observed the creases on his forehead and the look of his eyes.
"I am afraid…we tried...but…"
"How long?" My voice surprisingly bordered on a tinge of rudeness, unlike its usual polite tone.
"Not much time…" he began.
"How long?" I asked, sounding more aggressive than I intended. My heartbeat was as rapid as the ticking seconds on the clock, and my palms were becoming sweaty.
"Maybe until midnight," he said softly.
I took a deep breath. Everything appeared like a blurred dream. I wished this was just a nightmare, and Grandma would be by my bedside, stroking my silky black hair with her creamy, wrinkled hands and assuring me she would always be by my side. I steadied myself as I stood up and made my way toward Grandma’s room. She lay on her hospital bed, looking small and fragile. She peered at me with her black currant eyes and smiled faintly. Her coughing had reduced, but she still appeared tired. My emotions were a whirlwind, a mix of fear, sadness, and a tiny ray of hope that she'd somehow miraculously survive.
"Maria," she said in a hoarse voice.
I sat down next to her and leaned forward. She stroked my hair and wiped the fat drops of tears running down my cheeks.
"I must go," she almost pleaded.
I clutched her hands tightly and nodded.
"You have been a good girl, Maria. May God gift you with abundant happiness…" she paused.
"Remember, I'll always be watching over you," she began. "Before I go, there is something I've been meaning to give you."
Amidst those stutters, Grandma revealed she'd left something for me in a wooden chest in her cupboard and also told me to contact her lawyer. The monitor began to beep, and she began to pant heavily. Her eyes crinkled as she flashed her one last smile before she closed them forever. There was a peaceful look on her face.
The nurse ushered me out to complete some formalities and offered me some coffee as well. It was hot and bitter, almost scalding my tongue. Just then, my phone rang. I could feel it shaking inside my purse, and I spilled some coffee on the white floor. It was probably my fiancée who must have landed. But I couldn't speak the words—I had none. I let the phone ring, heard the clock strike midnight, watched firecrackers in the sky, and saw the golden star glistening atop the Christmas tree. But I felt numb. All I could feel was the phone trembling inside my purse.
Swetha Amit is the author of two chapbooks, Cotton Candy from the Sky and Mango Pickle in Summer. An MFA graduate from the University of San Francisco, her works appear in HAD, Flash Fiction Magazine, Oyez Review, etc. Her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
 | A guest post by
|