Storymakers: "Can You Hear Me?"

Storymakers: "Can You Hear Me?"

By Kimi
Sixth Grade
McClure Elementary
Seattle, WA

Rain fell persistently from the rat-grey clouds embedding the sky. The thick frigid air of the hospital room nipped at my exposed flesh, and seeped into my clothing.

Mom resembled a frail porcelain figurine as she lay in the bed. If she were to fall, she'd breakaway into intricate pieces, impossible to piece together again. The crisp, thin pale-blue sheets covered her to her arms, which relaxed at her side. I couldn't help but notice her alabaster cheeks; how they continued to whiten each moment, how she appeared more feeble and helpless than ever.

"Mom?" I whispered, standing beside her bed. My hand outstretched to touch her hand, yet I snatched it back once I felt how bitingly freezing she was. Her auburn hair fanned evenly across the flat white pillow the hospital supplied.

"Mom? Can you...can you hear me?" I said, my voice lowering to assure no one would hear me, "May doesn't want to come inside," I choked breathlessly, about my elder sister, "she says...she says she doesn't want to see you die." I froze, and bit fiercely on my lower lip. She couldn't hear anything. her eyes didn't flutter open as hoped; they stayed clamp shut, as well as her lips, which pursed into a tight line.

"I don't think she can see you right now," I said, lightening the tension, "she'll come, though, I know it."

I waited for a response. She didn't budge. You could barely see her stomach lift from breathing. It hurt to feel like you're talking to no one, even when someone's there.

May sat impatiently in the waiting room, trifling with a loosely threaded button on her sweater. My shoes squeaked against the floor as I walked towards her. My eyes glued to the floor; examining every imperfection and crack in the ecru shaded tiles. With frustration, May shot to her feet, an expression of anger carved deep into her bleak face.

"You took long," she hissed, racing towards the exit door, opening an umbrella she brought as she fumbled with the door. She heaved a sigh, and stumbled into the rain, the umbrella catching the rain above us as we left. All was silent except for the consistent patter of raindrops splashing off the tarp-like material.

We didn't mutter a word as we climbed into the worn car. After moments of sitting in the awkward hush, the car roared to a start, and May began to pull out of the public parking, a solemn expression painted on her face. I stayed content in my seat, glancing out at the unfamiliar thrift stores lining the abandoned streets, the neon signs illuminating through the stocky, damp fog. The windshield wipers moved rapidly across the front window. May fidgeted with her rich coffee-like hair; it was thick and luscious as it cascaded down her shoulders. I envied how she adds a bounce to her step, and walks confidently, not slouched and hidden.

"How was she?" May mumbles beneath her breath as she swerves to a different lane. I glimpse at her from the corner of my eye.

"She's...okay," I lie hesitantly.

"Great," she says sarcastically.

"I think she'd like it if you went in to see her..." I began. She stopped the car abruptly,

"She's in a coma, she won't care, Jenny!" May cries unusually loud. I pause,

"But she can hear us, May."

May scowls, and begins to drive. We're quiet the whole way home.

Aunt Bethy is waiting for us on the porch. The heavy articles of clothing she's wearing conceal her thin body. Excitedly, she waves when May pulls into the cobblestone driveway, her arms flailing as she scurries down the steps.

"Oh, May! Jenny!" she cries. I can't tell if she's crying, or her face is wet from the rain. Her arms open and we reluctantly wrap our arms around her stiffly. She leads us inside, and peels off each layer of clothes, and hangs it on the hook nailed to the wall.

"How is she?" she asks immediately as she seats us, her hands intertwined and on the table. We hem and haw, and mumbled, 'she's okay,' and let our eyes dart around the room. Aunt Bethy rolls her eyes.

"I'm not a stranger. You know you can tell me anything, right" she lowers her voice, and leans closer to us. We nod.

"She's in a coma," I say. May nudges me in the ribs with her elbow. I cringe yet don't react too dramatically.

"She's fine," May says firmly, her eyes fixed on Aunt Bethy's,

"You don't have to be worried about anything." Aunt Bethy digests this information slowly, and shuts her eyes.

"I'm coming with you," she says sharply, biting each word out.

Mom is still in bed. I insist May comes in, yet she refuses to see her. May continues to wait in the waiting room, skimming through outdated magazines, ripped and written in. I lead Aunt Bethy into mom's room. She clutches my wrist unknowingly as we step towards mom.

"Mom? It's...Jenny. Can you hear me?" I ask again, yet I know her reply. Aunt Bethy looks traumatized as she examines mom with widened eyes, prickling with tears. She sniffles, and repeats mom's name, in a low whisper. Over, and over again.

"Mom? Aunt Bethy's here," I say. Aunt Bethy quickly pipes in,

"Oh, I'm sorry..." she says, swallowing her tears in gulps, "I'm so, so sorry."

Aunt Bethy couldn't take it anymore. She fled the waiting room before she broke down and sobbed.

"They aren't brave enough," I say irritably. Mom won't even budge.

"Can't you hear me?" I burst with frustration, "Why won't you wake up?" I feel tears roll down my cheeks,

"You can't just leave! I love you!"

I begin to cry until my chest heaves. Until my lungs sting, and my knees feel weak.

Then, from the bed, a soft voice croaks my name.

Maybe it was just the wind.

Storymakers: A Creative Challenge for Young Writers, is a program inviting students in sixth, seventh, and eighth grades living in Washington State and British Columbia, Canada, to submit their own original creative writing pieces.