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NOTES:

CHRISTIAN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
HIGHLY COMMENDED

Please note: this work is copyright by the author and may not be used, copied or shared in any way whatso-ever without his/her express written permission. If you wish to be put in contact with this author, please contact us.

This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.

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"Another Life Saved"

by Debbie Roome - Christchurch, New Zealand

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Debbie Roome: "I was born and raised in Zimbabwe and later spent fifteen years in South Africa. In 2006 I moved to New Zealand with my husband and five children. Writing has been my passion since the age of six and I love to write stories that touch people's lives and turn them towards God. After fifteen years of owning a toy store, I am now working full time at my writing and have never been more fulfilled. My major writing achievements include the trophy for Runner up to the Writer of the Year, South Africa, 2004, placing second out of 8000 in the FaithWriters.com Best of the Best contest for 2007 and receiving the trophy from the South African Writers' Circle for the best self-published book of 2007. My writing has also opened doors for public speaking and I’m often asked to share my life story and experiences as a writer."
To visit Debbie Roome's website, click here
To visit Debbie's Blog, click here

COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:

Well written, though it wandered a bit too far from the point now and then, on things that didn't really move the story forward. I understand what the writer was trying to do, but too much backstory is almost as bad as too little. Despite this, the story is impactful because of its emotiional content, and I liked the movement between past and present, and the frame.

THE STORY:

It’s 2:10 pm when he arrives in the emergency room. A damaged scrap of humanity. A fragile nymph, stretched naked on sterile white. His parents are stricken, faces frozen into masks of fear. Guilt and a hundred questions brim in their eyes. Questions which have no answers. The father is still dripping; shivering, cold and shocked. There is no condemnation in my heart for I know how easily these things happen. “What’s his name?” I ask as my staff huddle around him, inserting IV’s and assessing his condition.

“Jamie.” The mother’s voice is pale and thin.

I reach out briefly and touch her arm. “We’ll do our best.” I promise as my mind drifts back thirty years.

The months before Sam’s accident were idyllic. A kaleidoscope of lazy days. filled with friends and family and the feeling of being loved. Our home was a suburban box on razor-cut lawns. The section was big as Mum loved to garden and create beauty in circled rose bushes, great swathes of azaleas, neat stone pathways and arches of rambling wisteria. When she was taking a nap, I would crawl through bushes and boulders, the intrepid explorer of New Zealand. My fantasies took me to azure islands teeming with pirates and rainforests with parrots and exotic ferns. I created a waterfall once by wedging the hosepipe between two branches. I still remember Mum’s face as she threw open the window. “Kelly! How many times have I told you to stay out of my plants? Just wait till your father hears about this. I’ve got seedlings planted in that bed…”

By the time she finished I had disappeared into the back yard. Here, Mum grew vegetables and I loved to help. Impressions of warm, fragrant soil and sprinklers, whirling drops into a rainbow, still linger. I was an impatient gardener and checked the beds several times a day, looking for tiny shoots of life. When they started poking curled heads through the ground, I raced back to the house. “Mum! Mum! The seeds are growing!”

Then the long wait for harvest day began. I checked the plants daily, reporting to Mum how skins were changing colour and pods were filling out. When she deemed them ripe for picking, she would get out the buckets. “Here you are, Kelly.”  She always led the way as we walked slowly between fertile rows. “Lift the tomatoes gently,” she advised. “You need to see if they’re red all the way round. Then pluck them off like so.” The best part was sampling the produce after it had been scrubbed in a sink of cool water. I still remember juicy peas and carrots that crunched and snapped as I bit down on them.

In spite of our spats over the garden, Mum was the most important figure in my life. I remember her as tall and graceful with delicate hands that soothed away pains and troubles. She wore her hair swept up on her head. Soft blonde ribbons streaked with fudge and caramel. I loved to pull out the pins and watch her hair fall into soft curls. Sometimes she handed me a brush. “Brush it for me Kelly. You’re my special hairdresser.” And so I would brush it and twist it into clumsy pony tails and lumpy buns. In turn, she would run skilful hands through my hair. “Like liquid honey.” she described it. She liked to divide it into three sections and braid it into a French plait, starting from the top of my head and tapering to a smooth tail below my shoulders. Then she would tie a pink velvet bow in it and dab a little blush on my cheeks. I felt like a princess and would strut around the house in her high heels.  

Another favourite pastime was reading books. I had a shelf full. A fusion of fact and fiction, fantasy, fables and fairies. We would lie together on my bed and she would dramatise the stories, using her voice to play the parts. My favourite author was Enid Blyton and  I had dozens of her books. Even though I was an accomplished reader, I preferred Mum to read to me as she brought the stories to life.

Sam turned two that summer. My baby brother with marshmallow cheeks and tiny freckles. With reddish-gold hair that curled and eyes that mirrored cerulean waves, prancing on remote seashores. I loved him from the day he was born but he wasn’t much use as a playmate. On the other hand, he was a source of great entertainment. I giggled as he swept pots and pans from the cupboard, as the crashes would bring Mum running. I sniggered as he unravelled toilet rolls, trailing them like streamers into the garden. It wasn’t so funny when he got into my toys. He was a biter and all my dolls had chewed hands and feet.

It was on my eighth birthday that the accident happened; that the course of my life changed forever. Ten friends arrived for my party that Friday afternoon. Mum draped the garden table with pastel covers and set out sticky buns, toffee apples, colourful cup cakes and bowls of chips. When our tummies were full, she organised games: pin the tail, Simple Simon says, bob the apple and finally musical chairs. Sweaty and laughing, I ran over to Mum. “Can we fill Sam’s paddling pool and splash round in it? Please, Mum, please.” Mum was undecided at first but my friends joined in with a chorus of pleas.

“Please Aunty Pat. We’re wearing shorts. Our mothers won’t mind.”

She looked at our eager faces and eventually gave in. “I suppose it will be alright.”  The pool was bright blue and decorated with purple starfish and yellow suns. Sam loved splashing in the water and squealed in delight as Mum used the foot pump to inflate the plastic rings. I uncoiled the hosepipe and dragged it across the lawn. To begin with, more water went on us than in the pool but it was great fun. With Mum supervising in the background, we played for ages, stomping in and out of the water and spraying each other with the hose pipe.

The party finished at 4pm and Mum stood at the gate, waving my friends off and chatting with their Mums. When they were gone, she lifted a wet, smiling Sam onto her hip. “I’m going to give him a bath, Kelly. Will you empty the pool and put it away please.” I meant to obey her. I really did, but I thought I’d have one more splash before packing it away. I was scooting through the water on my bottom, making waves and whirlpools when Alicia burst into the back garden.

“I forgot my shoes. Mum says I’ve got five minutes to find them.” I jumped out the pool and together we searched the garden and house before finding her sandals in the kitchen. “Thanks, Kelly. I’ll see you next week.” I waved goodbye before heading back into the house to get a drink of water.

Mum caught me in the doorway. “Bath time, young lady. Make sure you wash your hair and get all the dirt off your hands and feet.” I never gave the paddling pool another thought.   

One hour later, I was sitting in the kitchen admiring my gifts as Mum washed up. Should I open the bead set or should I try the paint by numbers kit? What about the new set of clothes for my dolls or the plastic tea set? Sam was under the table, and I passed him the empty boxes to play with and took away the gift wrap he’d been chewing. That was my last memory of seeing him in the kitchen that evening. I set up an elaborate play area on the table and was absorbed in my world of make believe when Mum suddenly put down her cloth. “Where’s Sam?” Her voice sharpened a tone. “Kelly, did you see where Sam went?”

I looked under the table and shrugged my shoulders. “He was here a while ago, Mum.”

Maternal instinct carried her outside, shouting his name, running to the patch of lawn where the paddling pool sat in a ring of squelchy mud. Her scream still reverberates through my nightmares. A gut-wrenching, primeval scream torn from the depths of her being. I dropped everything and raced outside, just in time to see her pull his lifeless body from the water, limp like a dead possum plucked from the road. “Run for help!” She screeched at me. “Run next door! Tell them we need an ambulance!”

Within minutes, sirens could be heard echoing strangely down our quiet, suburban street. Strangers in white outfits clustered round my baby brother. I clung to the neighbor, terrified, and she held me close, clucking softly as she rubbed my back.

Mum went with Sam in the ambulance. I remember her hugging and kissing me before she left, tears streaming down her face. “Be brave, Kelly.”  She said. “Try and be brave whilst I’m away.”

Aunt Leonie, Dad’s sister, stayed with me that night and I don’t know who cried more, her or me. My tears were more of a selfish nature. I was worried about myself as well as Sam. Where were my parents? When were they coming home to me? Would they bring Sam with them? Leonie cried for Sam who she loved as her own child.

When Mum and Dad did come back, their faces were pinched and white, drained of the happiness that normally shone in their eyes. Mum sobbed as Dad sat me on his knee and tried to explain the inexplicable. “We’ve had to leave Sam at the hospital, Kelly. He was underwater too long and it’s damaged his brain. The doctors are trying to make him better but it might take a long time.” Mum spent every day at the hospital after that. I survived between baby sitters, Aunt Leonie and Dad.

It was winter before Sam came home. Nearly four months had passed but instead of growing, he seemed to have shrunk. I was shocked to see his frail, little body as he lay helpless in his cot, moaning and shrieking as his limbs twitched and convulsed. Mum spent hours with him, feeding him through a tube, massaging his palsied legs and crying helplessly as she held him. I hated the smell in his room. A sour, antiseptic odour that reminded me of death.

Mum and Dad were never the same after Sam’s accident. The glass of wine Dad enjoyed after dinner became two, then three, then four, until finally he downed a bottle a night. He and Mum started to fight. I remember their raised voices shouting blame and insults at each other until Mum would cry and Dad would open a new bottle of wine. I would huddle in my room, guilty and ashamed.

Aunt Leonie became my friend that year. At least once a week I would spend the night at her house, helping her cook strips of steak with fried tomatoes and onions. To this day I associate their aroma with her quick smile and gentle movements. Her arms spent many hours comforting me and her voice whispered soothing lullabies as I dozed off on her bed. When I was drowsy and soft, she would scoop me from the smooth sheets and carry me to the room we’d decorated together; a creation of yellow gingham, bows and sashes. I often cried when it was time to go home and she would scold me gently. “Kelly, you need to be with your parents.” Her heart wasn’t in it though. We both knew what I would find at home. Mum huddled over Sam’s cot and Dad slumped drunk in front of the television.

After a few months I dropped the “Aunt” and Leonie became my confidante. I told her many things my parents couldn’t or wouldn’t understand. I shared my terrible guilt at asking to use the pool. “No, Kelly.” Her forehead puckered as she drew me close. “You must never blame yourself. It was an accident. Just an accident. It wasn’t your fault.” Leonie was so patient, so understanding. I used her as my sounding board as I raged against the unfairness of life. As I yearned for things to be the way they used to be.

That was also the year I asked Jesus into my heart. Leonie had shared much about Him. This one who was her friend, her Saviour, the one who cared about me more than I could ever know. I learned to trust Him, to lean on Him when times were hard, when Mum and Dad would fight until the early hours of the morning.

I decided that winter that I wanted to be a doctor. Leonie was encouraging, positive. "If that's what's in your heart, Kelly, you'll do it." She prayed with me often. "Lord bless Kelly as she makes plans for her life. Give her the ability to heal people's pain with your love." I told my parents as well but they didn’t really believe me - just humoured me as I practiced on my dolls, feeding them potions of crushed mint and vanilla essence. I went through several boxes of Band Aids before Mum discovered them stuck all over my teddies. She cut up an old crepe bandage and gave me a roll of tape to use instead.

My ninth birthday was a disaster. Sam had progressed to the stage where he could manage soft foods, though his hands remained weak and useless. Mum would spend an eternity feeding him, coaxing him to swallow custard and jelly or pureed pumpkin. I didn’t like the new Sam very much and I longed to be able to fix him. This thin, bony stranger with vacant eyes was not my adorable baby brother. I wanted my Sam back. The one who sat and banged pot lids and chewed my dolls. The one who trailed toilet paper through the house.  

I spent my birthday crying for him though Mum and Dad tried hard to make the day special. They hired a private nurse to watch Sam for a few hours so we could all go out together. I don’t remember what we did but know Mum and I spent the afternoon crying while Dad hovered awkwardly in the background. “I’m so sorry, Kelly.” she wept. “You don’t deserve this. I wanted you to have a lovely birthday.”

That birthday was also the day I realised Sam was never coming back. My longing turned to a confusion of love and hate. I loved him because he was my brother. I hated him because he had effectively ended my childhood. My birthday would always be a grim anniversary of his accident. He had also robbed me of my mother, the sweet, funny mother who would let me unpin her hair and call me her special hairdresser. I still longed to run my hand through the softness of her hair, twist it into pony tails and breathe its fragrance. At first I would bring out the brush and ask her but she was always too busy or tired.

It was on those days that I wished he had died. I knew Mum would have been sad, but if he wasn’t there, she would have time to spend with me. I would wake at night, wracked with guilt at my thoughts and sneak into his room. He was usually asleep but never still. His muscles jerked and twitched with a life of their own and saliva ran continually from his mouth. I would mop it up with a soft nappy before taking his hand and praying for forgiveness. “I’m sorry, God. I don’t mean to feel like this. Please make Sam better and forgive me for my wicked thoughts.”

"Doctor." The voice pulls me back to the emergency room. "Are you going to speak to the parents?" I look across at them, huddled on a hard hospital bench. The father is dressed in scrubs, his wet clothes tied in a packet on the floor. The mother is almost lying in his lap, her face washed of all colour. I look back at their son. A frail figure attached to a dozen beeping monitors and machines. Bags of life-restoring liquids seep slowly into his veins. The readings tell me this child is one of the lucky ones. Soon he will open his eyes and after a few days, he will walk out with his parents. I move towards them and their eyes widen, fearful and apprehensive. I'm glad I have good news for them for it's not always this way.

As I talk, I understand the depth of emotions in their eyes. They are overwhelmed: grateful, guilty, angry. It will take time to sort out their feelings and so I ask if I can pray with them. They agree and we link hands and together turn to God. “Father, You are the creator and giver of life, I bring this child before you and thank you for your grace and mercy in sparing him. Please complete your healing work and restore him to full health and function.”

My mind drifts away again as they huddle round their son's bedside. As I remember my brother who lasted three Christmases before succumbing to pneumonia. Shortly after that, my parents separated for a couple of years. Leonie and I prayed fervently and eventually they reconciled and came to know the healing grace of God. Meanwhile, I went to live with Leonie and she loved and nurtured me and put me through medical school, fully confident of the calling God had placed on my life.

I'll call her tonight. Tell her another life has been saved.
 

Copyright (c) 2009 by Debbie Roome - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!

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