Gift of Love
I don’t remember much from that night. I could only see bright lights cutting through the darkness and heavy rain. I hear my baby crying from the backseat and then nothing.
Baby, “Someone, where is my daughter? Anyone!” It took me a few moments to realize no one could hear my tormented sobs — not in this seemingly life-threatening condition.
The air is stale, and I am unable to move. I try to remember what happened, and I cannot recall anything except those oncoming headlights and my baby’s cry.
Someone is walking into the room. I can hear the tap of dress shoes. A warm hand cups mine and a man with a white coat leans over me, “Hello. I am Dr. Ramirez, and you are at the West Dale Hospital. You are safe. We are going to do all we can to help you.” In a softer tone, he assures me that Sylvie is being cared for and is comfortable.
He has a small bright flashlight moving it from one eye to the other as he talks. I can barely focus on his appearance, but I imagine he has a kind face. He squeezes my hand, and I try to squeeze back, but my hands feel encased in cement. I sense a tear running down my cheek.
That was several years ago now. Raising Sylvie from a wheelchair was hard, but she has grown to be a talented social young woman. Some days it is hard for me to believe she is a junior in high school.
I look forward to sundown when she reads a short story from a book she found on our dusty shelf. I love when she kisses my forehead and thanks me for being the best mom ever.
I have grown frail in the last two years or so. My memory is not as strong as it once was and is growing weaker. I am grateful that my younger sister has moved in with us. She has been helpful with the mundane household chores and supportive of my physical and emotional needs. Every Sunday, we tour our neighborhood streets — always stopping at Gary’s Quick & Go for tea and crumbs cake.
Sometimes I feel alone, even with Sylvie and Rhonda in my life. I feel helpless — because I am. Having to be in a wheelchair crushes my spirit. I see my hair turning gray with worry. I am concerned about being a burden to them.
I often think back to the day I first read the article about the car accident and wonder what happened to the young man and where he is in life. Did he suffer the same fate as me?
One day I asked Sylvie to bring me the old clipping I kept with the pictures of the accident from other newspapers. I suppose the accident was my fifteen minutes of fame.
“Mom, are you sure you want to read the article? It’s okay to forget. Sometimes it’s better to forget.”
“Sylvie, I need to know that boy’s name.”
With a soft sigh, Sylvie brings the tattered shoebox to me. I open the lid and look at the pictures. I can hear Sylvie’s breathing change, I look up, and tears are building in her eyes.
I read the article “Death Brings Life. A two-car collision on Mary Tavern Road in West Dale resulted in one death. The life support mobile unit rushed critically injured Cheryl Stevens to West Dale Hospital, and her daughter Sylvie Stevens suffered no life-threatening injuries.
John Wells, a sixteen-year-old driver, swerved into the oncoming lane hitting Steven’s family car head-on at 70 miles per hour. He was pronounced dead only hours after arriving at the trauma center.
With great sadness and generous kindness, John’s parents agreed to give Cheryl Stevens their son’s heart so that four-year-old Sylvie can have her mother.”
I unbutton my blouse with frail fingers and look down at the scar on my chest, “Thank you, John. Thank you and your parents for giving me the abundant gift of life.”
THE END
Yonna Alvarez and Mojha R. MacDowell
