Mr. Musau

The following short story has been shortlisted to appear in Chicken Soup for the Soul - The Power of Positive scheduled to hit bookstores in the U.S. in October, 2012.

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I stared down at the newspaper that lay on the table in front of me, idly drumming the red ballpoint pen in my hand against my coffee mug. I had been looking through the job vacancies section but none of the openings listed seemed to fit what I was looking for. I looked up and caught my reflection in the window – sitting at this desk, in my perfectly tailored charcoal-grey business skirt suit.  You would have never guessed that that was the image of me sitting in a men’s high-end clothing store in a mall. What was I doing here? I didn’t belong. I looked around at all the men’s suits hanging neatly in rows, the expensive fabric almost shimmering under the lights that shone on them. I had recently found myself out of a job and had taken up the position of store manager for this up-scale clothing store as a temporary solution while I searched for work in the corporate world that I was better qualified for. It had only been a month and my frustration at not finding another job had been growing steadily.

My attention turned to a well-dressed woman who had just walked into the store, pushing a man in a wheelchair. At once, one of the store attendants rushed towards the man in the wheelchair to greet him. “How are you feeling, Mr. Musau?” he asked. The man stared blankly ahead of him as though he had not heard the question. He was also well-dressed but he slumped in his wheelchair, and had on his face a look of resignation. I had heard about Mr. Musau from the store attendants – he was a regular customer at the store and a good tipper. He had recently suffered a stroke and nobody had seen him for about six weeks.

The woman wheeled Mr. Musau over to the table where I had stood up from my chair, and said to me, “I’m going to pick out some new shirts for my husband. I’ll leave him here while I look around.” I nodded and smiled as she parked Mr. Musau’s wheelchair at one end of the table. “Hello there, sir,” I said as I sat down again. Mr. Musau did not respond. I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Silences made me uncomfortable and I usually ended up babbling away in spite of the lack of response.  

“My father had a stroke four years ago,” I blurted out without thinking. Mr. Musau continued to stare into space. “He had a blood clot in his brain which caused the stroke,” I continued “He was in a wheelchair too after that and had partially lost the use of his right leg. He had also suffered memory loss. It was incredibly difficult for him to go from being the head of the household to being dependent on my mother and me. I think he even became depressed when he got home from the hospital, and wouldn’t speak much for a few days. Then, as though something in his head had snapped, he began to behave differently. He wouldn’t allow us to do anything for him unless he had tried to do it himself first and been unable to. A couple of weeks later, he began to push himself to try and stand up from his wheelchair and walk a couple of steps at a time. He would sometimes fall down and we would have to help him up, but he always got right back up and kept trying. My father has always been a determined man. Every week, he would make it farther and farther from his wheelchair without losing his balance. Eventually, he did away with the wheelchair and was able to walk on his own without any assistance. He was back to being completely independent!” Mr. Musau had not even glanced my way the entire time that I had been speaking. “It’s incredible what the power of the mind can do, Mr. Musau,” I added softly.

At that moment, Mrs. Musau walked up to us with a bag in her hand and said to me, “I hope he hasn’t been a bother. Thank you for keeping him company.” “Not at all, Ma’am,” I replied. “Have a great day! See you later, Mr. Musau,” I called out as Mrs. Musau wheeled him out of the store.

A few weeks after that meeting with Mr. Musau, I was offered a job with one of the corporate firms I had applied to, and joined them immediately. Glad to finally have found my niche, I moved on and seldom discussed my short time spent managing the clothing store. As for Mr. Musau, I had completely forgotten about him. That was, until one Saturday, a year later when I got an unexpected call from the new store manager at the men’s clothing store. The manager said that a Mr. Musau had been asking for me for months and had finally persuaded the manager to retrieve my contacts from their system and call me so that he could speak with me. Was this really the same man who would not utter a word for the entire duration that I was with him?

Bewildered and caught off guard, I agreed to speak with Mr. Musau. “Hello?” His voice was unexpectedly steady and strong. “Hi there, Mr. Musau!” I said, taken aback, “How have you been?” The steady voice replied, “I have been trying to contact you for many months now,” he said. “I need to tell you something. After my stroke, everybody around me, including my wife, was treating me like I was already dead. I prayed every night that God would take me and relieve me of my misery and the situation I was in. And then I met you. You spoke to me as though I still mattered, even though you may have thought I wasn’t listening to you. You inspired me with your story about your father and how he used positive thought to reverse his disability. I would like very much to meet with you and your father.” With a lump in my throat, I said, “Of course, Mr. Musau. We can come and see you at home if you like – it may be more convenient for you.” The words that ensued from the other end of the line were ones that moved me a great deal. “My dear, I want to show you what your words have done for me. Thanks to you, I can now drive myself or walk to wherever it is convenient for you to meet! I want to thank you in person for helping me to realize that it was up to me to make sure that I did not waste away.” As a tear escaped and rolled down my cheek, he asked, “Isn’t it indeed incredible what the power of the mind can do?”

Tumble

It was eight thirty on a Tuesday night. I stared at my laptop screen blearily. If only I could feel this sleepy when I needed to sleep, and not when I was up against a deadline. After weeks of intermittent insomnia, I was constantly tired and I just wasn’t being as productive at work as I should. As a result, I often found myself bringing work home just to get it done on time. As the screensaver appeared on my laptop screen for the third time, I decided I would have to take a catnap before I could get any more work done. I set the alarm on my cell-phone for nine thirty and crawled into bed.

I could hear the faint sounds coming from the TV downstairs where my mother was no doubt watching one of her favourite soaps. My father would be home soon from his evening prayer session. I felt a pang of guilt as I thought about how little time I had spent with him over the weekend.

Over the past few years, I had been watching my father slowly deteriorate physically, following his second debilitating stroke. He used a walking frame to move around and was relatively independent but getting up the stairs to his bedroom was now becoming his biggest challenge as he couldn’t always lift each leg high enough to take the next step. The doctors had spoken to us about what they called ‘tough love’. As tempting as it was to do things for him and help him up the stairs, we were encouraged to allow him to try to do things for himself. It meant being patient and allowing him to get up the stairs in his own time. And although it was now taking him much longer and was much more effort for him, he always managed to do it on his own.

As he was also having increasing difficulty walking, he would sometimes lose his balance while moving around the house on his walking frame, and end up in a sitting position on the floor. Both my mother and I would be rather alarmed each time this happened as my father was now seventy. But he would look up at us with a sheepish grin on his face, not unlike a child’s, and simply ask us to help him up. He never let his disability get to him. However, once he was on the floor, it was quite the task to pull him to his feet again as he was not a slight man and didn’t have much strength from the waist down.

I briefly debated waiting for my father to get home so I could chat with him for a while but the temptation of sleep was too sweet to resist at that point. I pulled the warm duvet over me and almost immediately drifted off into a deep, dream-filled slumber.

After what felt like only minutes, I heard my mother’s voice calling me. Surely it wasn’t nine thirty yet. Had I slept through the alarm? I just needed five more minutes. I felt my mother’s hand on my arm, nudging me, as I heard her call my name again. This time, I heard the urgency in her voice. I bolted up in bed and looked at her, my eyes searing from the light. She stood beside my bed, her eyes wide with fear and tears that streaked the sides of her face.

“What’s wrong, Mama?” I shrieked in panic.

“Dad fell… tumbled down the stairs…” Her words, uttered in between gasps of air as she hyperventilated sent me into hysteria. I jumped out of bed and shoved my mother out of the way as I flew toward the stairs. I heard my mother sobbing behind me as she followed me. As I rounded the corner of the flight of stairs, I saw him… lying motionless a few feet from the foot of the staircase. My heart stopped. I tore down the remainder of the steps, holding back the wails that threatened to escape from my mouth as I feared the worst.

I stepped over his stationary body and crouched beside him so that I could face him, not sure what to expect. His eyes were open but they stared blankly ahead at the skirting board at the base of the wall. “Daddy?” I whispered, as a tear escaped down my cheek. At the sound of my voice, my father looked up at me, an expression of utter confusion and fright on his face. “I lost my balance. I don’t know how it happened.” His voice was steady but the expression on his face remained. A wave of relief came over me as I quickly composed myself and wiped my cheek. “It’s okay, Daddy. Everything’s going to be okay. Did you hit your head? Where are you hurt?”

It was nothing short of a miracle. He had not hurt himself seriously and nothing seemed to be broken.

It took me about twenty minutes to get him to a standing position, all the while pleading with him to let me take him to the hospital. But whilst my father’s physical form might have worsened, his stubbornness was just as strong as ever. I helped him up the stairs as carefully as I could, my mother trailing behind me, a lot calmer than she had been. With her help, I got my father into bed and asked him for the umpteenth time if he was certain that he wasn’t hurt. His words were reassuring but I could tell that he was still shaken by the incident. I stroked his face and kissed him on the forehead before I turned around and bolted out of the room. I made it to my room just in time as the tears came hot and furiously down my face, my body convulsing beyond control…

Bee-wildered

I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked out the door of the Patels’ home. Mrs. Patel was a lovely old woman, bless her, but she always insisted on feeding me Indian sweets or some sort of deep-fried vegetarian snacks. She would take my polite refusal to these offerings as demureness on my part, and would proceed to bring out little plates of the food to me anyway. On this particular day, I had a legitimate excuse not to stay as I had to pick my disabled father up from the community centre, which was a thirty-minute drive from the Patel’s residence, and take him home. I also had to get home early enough to prepare for a work trip early the following morning.

The Patels lived in a beautiful bungalow in one of Nairobi’s prime residential locations. They had these lovely trees that grew around the house. As I walked across the driveway, I admired the mango tree whose low branches almost touched the roof of my car. I resisted the temptation to tug at one of the fruits that dangled just above my head, and got into my car. It was dusk and I would have just enough time to get to the community centre to help my father make his way out of the hall.

In just over a half hour, I drove into the community centre compound and into the building’s parking lot. The harsh, white lights from the ceiling of the parking area were a stark contrast to the dimly lit streets outside. I pulled into a parking spot and stepped out of the car. As I swung the door shut, I noticed a winged insect perched on the roof of my old grey saloon car. Closer inspection confirmed that the insect was a bee. Now, ordinarily, I would not have given it much attention but this bee seemed to behave in a most curious fashion. At first, I thought it might be dead, but then I realized that it wasn’t on its back as I figured most dead insects would be. Instead, it was moving ever so slightly over the faded grey paint, its wings flapping just enough to produce a low hum. ‘Poor little guy’, I thought to myself. ‘He doesn’t look like he’s doing so well.’ I looked up, trying to figure out where the bee might have fallen from. I couldn’t see anything except for those bright lights shining down from the high ceiling.

There were people starting to filter into the parking lot from the hall where they had gathered. I began to make my way towards them, looking out for my father. I spotted him slowly moving through the crowd and I walked over to him. He stopped briefly to smile at me and say hello before he went back to concentrating on his gait. I watched patiently as he placed his walking frame forward and then slowly dragged his feet forward, one after the other, before he repeated the seemingly tedious task. In a few minutes, we had reached my car and I opened the passenger door to help my father into the vehicle. The bee was still on the roof of the car and hadn’t seemed to have moved much but there was no chance it would be able to hold on in that state once I started driving. I got into the driver’s seat and drove out of the parking lot.

Less than fifteen minutes later, I drove into the compound of town houses where we lived. I maneuvered my trusty Toyota into the parallel parking with ease, careful to leave an equidistant amount of space in front of the Land Cruiser behind me and behind the Mitsubishi in front of me. I got out of the driver’s seat and rushed over to help my father out of the passenger seat. As I pulled him up, I heard a distinct buzzing sound. I looked over dubiously at the roof of the car where the ‘dying’ bee had been. Sure enough, there it was, wings flapping and all. Only this time, it had company! There were two other bees not more than a few centimeters from each other that seemed to be in a similar predicament as the first bee. ‘How bizarre,’ I thought to myself as wished my father would move a little quicker away from the strangely behaving insects. I couldn’t understand how it was possible that after having driven home, there were now three dying bees on my car. At this point, I realized that my father was struggling to make his way down the paved path that led to our front door, so my focus switched to helping him into the house, and I put the ‘bee incident’ out of my mind.

As soon as we were in the house and I had gotten my father settled into his favourite armchair, I got down to work, preparing my notes for my work trip the following day. In two and a half hours, everything was in order and I had even packed my bags. I was about to settle down for the night when I realized that I had forgotten to pack a folder of documents which I had left in my car. I made my way downstairs, passing my mother who was reading in the living room, and opened the front door.

It was a lovely night. The almost-full moon shone brightly and seemed to light up the outside better than the dome-shaped lamps that dotted the periphery of the compound. As I walked down the paved path towards my car, I noticed that even the dull grey paint of my beat-up old Toyota shimmered in the moonlight. In fact, it glistened so much that it almost appeared to be vibrating. Really, it seemed like the entire car was quivering into the night. And then I heard it. It was the buzzing that I had heard earlier that evening. Only it was a few decibels higher. I stopped short in my tracks, a few feet from my car and my blood turned cold as I gazed incredulously at the sight before my eyes.

What seemed like hundreds of slowly dying bees covered the entire length of my saloon car in a thick layer, pouring slowly over the sides and onto the ground almost like a dark, viscous liquid. All around the car, there was a thick border on the tarmac that was made up of the insects. Not a single bee could be seen on either of the two cars that sandwiched mine. Yet my car was so fully covered by the insects, it was difficult to tell what colour it was, save for the sides off which the bees dropped to the ground. I stood rooted to the ground, staring in disbelief at this phenomenon for a few minutes before I whirled around and ran, shrieking, back into the house.

Mama

I stepped outside and took a long, deep breath as I shut my eyes, feeling the cool breeze against my face. I had just walked out of a business meeting at this beautiful golf and country club located on the outskirts of Nairobi. The grounds were spectacular and the air was crisp and clean. It was too bad that I had to go back to the office before I could wrap up for the day.

As I got into my car and pulled out of the parking spot, I decided that I would come back on a weekend – and perhaps bring my dear mother along for one of our mother-daughter dates. My mother, whilst struggling with her own health problems as she aged, cared for my disabled father and didn’t get out of the house much. Occasionally, when my father would join his fellow senior citizens for a community-organized outing, I could steal my mother away for some quality time together and have a good girly gab. She would definitely love this place, what with its plush gardens and peaceful ambiance.

I made my way through the snail-paced traffic back into the city. The roads were being constructed and the numerous diversions caused major snarl-ups. I turned up the radio, bobbing my head to the rhythm of one of my favourite ‘80s songs. I could see my exit just up ahead to the left which, fortunately, seemed to have flowing traffic. As I belted out the lyrics to the Stevie Wonder song, I realized that the passengers in the stationary bus beside my car were watching me with smirks on their faces. Thankfully, the car in front of me moved forward and I hit the accelerator.

Just as I negotiated the corner onto the clear road, I heard the sound of my cell-phone ringing. I switched gears and looked briefly at the phone. It was my mother. I was not generally in the habit of answering phone calls whilst driving, but I turned the volume of the radio down and hit the speaker button on my phone. “Hello?” There was no answer. The phone display indicated that the call had ended. I hit the call button and turned on the speaker again. I wanted to tell my mother about the golf and country club.

“Mama?” My mother had picked up the call but wasn’t saying anything. “Mama, can you hear me?” Then I heard her quivering voice on the other end say something that I couldn’t make out. My body tensed up as I responded in a firm but steady voice, “Mama! What’s wrong? What happened?” I had grown somewhat accustomed to receiving panicked phone calls from my mother about something or the other happening to my father. I would invariably rush home to them, keeping level-headed and calm so that I’d be able to deal with the situation swiftly. My father had already suffered two strokes and I was always terrified that one day I would receive the dreaded call from my mother to say he had had another…or worse. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was what I was about to find out.

Her words were punctuated with erratic breaths… “I f-fell… hit m-my head… bleeding s-so m-much… p-please… p-please c-come quickly…”

Some of what transpired between then and the time that I got my mother home after four hours at the A&E is a blur. These are the things I do recall: I remember driving like a maniac, overtaking cars that seemed to move at a sluggish pace. I remember calling two friends to see if they could get to my house before I did. I remember calling my mother back, screaming hysterically on the phone for her to stay with me, sobbing in horror as she sounded like she was fading away. I remember getting home and somehow managing to calmly but swiftly get my mother into the car and speeding off to the A&E. I remember my mother clutching my hand as the doctor sutured the nasty gash on her head. I remember smiling reassuringly at her as she lay on the hospital bed, watching me for signs of panic at the sight of the wound.

That night, after I got my mother all cleaned up, I sat with her until she felt calm enough to fall asleep. I then got her into bed and kissed her forehead, telling her that all would be well. As I settled down under my own warm duvet, all I wanted to do was fall asleep and forget that this day had ever happened. But as I shut my eyes, I started to feel an uneasiness set in and the images began to reel through my mind… the look of terror in my mother’s eyes when she looked up at me as I flew into the house… the sight of blood dripping down the side of her face from underneath the towel that she clutched at the side of her head… her navy-blue dress, soaked in the dark liquid… the splotches of red glistening all over the terrazzo floor… the water that just didn’t seem to run clear from a washcloth that I used to wipe my mother’s face and around the stitched up wound…

As my body began to convulse beyond my control, I knew that these were images that would lay ingrained in my memory forever.

Touch

The following short story has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul - Family Caregivers (2012)

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Touch

We all yearn to return to those days when we were completely taken care of --
unconditional love, unconditional attention.
~Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

It was a gloriously sunny Sunday morning. Even the thick drapes in my bedroom couldn’t completely shut out those beautiful golden rays. I lay in bed, reminiscing as I did on most occasions when I had the luxury of a lie-in. On this lazy morning, my mind drifted randomly to a night more than two decades ago.

There were always certain memories from my childhood that resurfaced more often than others. That night in particular would replay itself in my mind quite often. I remember pulling the soft white pillow over my ears and sobbing hysterically as I lay in my bed, wishing that the shouting would stop. It was like that most nights. They would be downstairs in the living room. He would be yelling at her, and she would be crying silently as he did. I couldn’t understand why he was so horrid to my mother. She was such a gentle soul.

I remember my bedroom door suddenly being swept open, and my brother barging in. He flipped on the light switch and stormed over to my bed, looking enraged. I had stopped sobbing and was trembling in fear. At seventeen years, my brother was just as scary to me as my father was at that point. “Get out of bed,” he said in a gruff voice. He grabbed my hand, roughly pulling me out of bed. I started to sob again as he dragged me unwillingly down the stairs and toward the shouting. I remember my father whirling around in mid-sentence as he heard my whimpering sounds coming from behind him. My brother then shoved me in front of my father and yelled, “Look at what you’re doing to your daughter!”

I guess as I grew older, I forgot what happened after that. Maybe things got better. Maybe worse. I couldn’t remember feeling hatred for my father. Perhaps I stopped hating him after a while. Or perhaps I never did quite hate him. He was, after all, my father. In the past eight years, he suffered two debilitating strokes and was reduced from the alpha male he once was to a meek man with an almost childlike disposition. The roles between us switched. I was now the caregiver. The breadwinner of the family. My father had been emasculated.

I yawned and stretched my arms as I sat up in my bed. I reached over and pulled a book that I had been reading the night before off the nightstand. It was a book by Mitch Albom called Tuesdays with Morrie and had been highly recommended by many friends. I opened the book to where my bookmark lay and began to read. A couple of pages later, I stopped and went back a page to re-read what I had just read.

Mitch, the author, was talking to Morrie about how he managed to stay positive in spite of having lost his independence and needing a nurse to bathe him, lift him and wipe his behind. Morrie’s response was that, strangely enough, he had begun to enjoy his dependency. He said it was like going back to being a child again. I read that section over and over again as the tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I had hugged my father. Truth be told, I didn’t enjoy being too close to him. He always smelt like medicine and something that reminded me of a nursing home for the elderly. It made me uncomfortable.

I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, I thought about this some more. My father and I had never been that affectionate in the past either. He had been revered and feared before his present condition. What was I to do? Completely shock him with an embrace out of the blue? What would he think? How weird would it feel for me? Did I really even care enough to try it?

I could hear my mother bustling about in the kitchen as I walked toward the living room, where I knew my father would be watching TV. Sure enough, there he was -- in his comfy single-seater couch with the clicker in his hand, staring blankly at the moving images on the screen before him. He barely looked up at me as I walked into the room and mumbled good morning. I settled onto the loveseat at the far end of the living room, watching my father’s lack of response to the comedic actions of the characters in the sitcom.

Suddenly, I felt a surge of emotion run through my body as I stood up and walked slowly over to my father. He continued to look straight ahead at the TV screen, seemingly oblivious to my movement. I knelt down beside his couch, with my arms resting on the cushioned right arm of the sofa, and softly rested my head on his shoulder, my hair nestled in his neck. What was probably seconds felt like an eternity, but then I lifted my arm and placed it over his other shoulder and held him as tightly as I could. If I had had any doubt in my mind about whether I loved my father, they were obliterated in that moment -- when I felt his body trembling under my head as he began to sob uncontrollably.

Kitty Cat

Tanya wore her hair in two pig-tails tied with pretty red ribbons. Her once shiny Mary Jane black shoes were now covered in dirt and her white, knee-length socks had streaks of brown on them too. The bottom of her red and white plaid pinafore touched the wet earth beneath her as she couched on the grass, intently watching a pretty red ladybird as it crawled up a blade of grass. She was a charming little child with a mind as curious as that of most children her age. She was fascinated by nature and all living creatures, often wandering off into the garden outside her home to observe the little insects that roamed freely around the plants.

Without warning, the ladybird suddenly spread its wings and flew off. A little startled, Tanya stood up and looked around to see if she could spot the insect again. This time, however, she spotted a beautiful butterfly fluttering its wings lightly as it flew over the lawn. With a look of glee on her face, Tanya skipped merrily alongside it, her little pig-tails swinging from side to side as she did. Her mother watched from inside the house, through the kitchen window, smiling fondly at her daughter.

The garden stretched from the driveway leading up to the house, all the way to the stone brick walls at the periphery of the compound. Unlike most homes in the area, these walls did not have electric wiring running over them to deter burglars. Instead, there were short iron rods with sharp arrow-like tips placed vertically at regular intervals on top of the walls all around the boundary. Close to one edge of the garden, the walls gave way to a sturdy wrought iron gate which was always manned by a surly-looking guard who watched with disdain as Tanya played in the garden.

Along one edge of the garden, close to a mango tree that stood by the wall, lay a small, crudely-constructed shallow pond with oddly shaped rocks that formed its border. In the centre of the pond, a birdbath had been erected that attracted different bird species from time to time. Tanya moved slowly towards the pond, careful not to scare away the beautiful little birds that had gathered at the moss-covered birdbath. She stopped a few feet from the pond and relished in the sight of the birds dipping their beaks into the water, ruffling their feathers and twittering away gaily.

A rapid movement in the rose bush close to the pond drew Tanya’s attention away from the birds. She watched the bush as the leaves rustled and a couple of loose pink petals fell off the flowers and onto the grass. Then, from in-between the branches, a most adorable little tawny kitten poked its face out. Tanya squealed in delight, clapping her tiny hands together. The playful kitten frolicked about the rose bush before its eyes settled on all the activity going on in the birdbath, a few feet from the rose bush. It then pranced forward and clambered up the mango tree whose branches extended over the pond, brushing against the boundary wall.

Tanya, enthralled by this display of playfulness, watched in glee as the kitten settled on top of the wall, wiggled its little behind and hunkered down, its wide eyes fixated on the birds. The birds splashed away in the birdbath, unawares.  

Suddenly a gruff voice sounded behind Tanya. She looked over just in time to see the surly guard raise his arm and hurl a small rock towards the kitten who sat perched atop the wall between the iron spikes. Tanya watched in alarm as the kitten jumped up in fright to avoid the hurtling stone.

Tanya let out a blood curdling scream and began to wail as her mother rushed outside to her and enveloped her in an embrace. She lifted Tanya into her arms and stroked her hair, trying to comfort her daughter as she walked briskly back to the house. Tanya, still howling, watched blurrily over her mother’s shoulder in utter horror as the guard picked up a stick, smirking as he tried to lift the kitten’s bloody carcass off the iron spike that had speared its body as it had landed…

The Boys

Adrianna hated it when they referred to her as ‘one of the boys’. She may have taken pride in it when she was younger, but now it irked her that they didn’t recognize that she was a woman and needed to be handled more delicately. They were there to be insensitive when things were rough for her, and they were there to make fun of her when things were good. But they were always there. And in spite of their annoying behavior when it concerned Adrianna, she loved them unconditionally. When she spent time with them individually, their bullying facades dissolved and their rather lovable personalities shone through. They were her boys, her friends, her family.

Earlier that week, Adrianna had stopped by the bank after work to see Darren. Darren was probably the most gentlemanly of the boys. He was thoughtful and considerate and the girls adored him. He had bought Adrianna her first bouquet of flowers on her fifteenth birthday even though he caught flak for it from the rest of the boys later. That day, Darren had looked particularly sharp in his pin-striped suit and pink shirt. He always dressed really well, even when he wasn’t working at the bank. He had been in a particularly great mood that day and had managed to convince Adrianna to join him for dinner at a nearby bar and grill. They had talked for hours over dinner about many things and by the time Adrianna had gotten home, it was past ten o’clock.

On this day, there had been whispers about riots breaking out in the city centre so Adrianna had headed home early. She had contemplated swinging by the bank again to see Darren who had promised to give her a book she had been wanting, but decided against it as she was exhausted from working late two nights in a row.

Adrianna threw her car keys on the mantelpiece and collapsed onto the couch. “Just a little TV before I get something to eat,” she thought as she pointed the remote control at the television and swung her legs up onto the couch. Before long, she had fallen asleep, curled up on the sofa.

She woke up with a start to the sound of her cell phone ringing. She reached out and grabbed it from the coffee table to look at the flashing caller ID on its display. It was Mike. Adrianna groaned and turned the phone ringer on silent. Tonight was movie night and the boys were probably calling to ask if she wanted to join them. She closed her eyes yet again, but just as she was drifting off, her cell phone rang again. “Damn you, Mike,” she muttered angrily as she pressed the ‘accept’ button on the phone. “Hello,” she said in an irritable voice expecting Mike to chide her for not answering the phone before. “Adie?” Mike didn’t sound like his normal self. “What is it, Mike?” Adrianna asked, sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Mike replied in a soft, calm voice, “I don’t want you to freak out, okay? I need you to stay calm but I need you to get to the hospital. Darren’s been shot.” “WHAT!? What happened?” Adrianna yelled. “I’ll tell you when you get here, just come to the hospital.” Mike answered.

Adrianna hung up the phone, grabbed her car keys, slipped on her shoes and bolted out of the house. A million questions were running through her head. Had thugs attacked the bank while Darren was there? Had the doctors already taken him in to surgery? Was he going to be okay? What if they weren’t going to be able to repair the damage from the gunshot wound and he was somehow disabled for the rest of his life?

Adrianna’s cell phone began to ring again. It was Denise. Why was she calling? Adrianna didn’t usually hear from Denise. “Hello?” Adrianna answered as she drove like mad through the dimly lit streets towards the hospital.  “Adrianna, are you okay?” Denise asked uncertainly. “Yeah, but listen, Darren’s been shot. I’m rushing to the hospital now to see him so I can’t talk,” Adrianna answered. “Okay – call me if you need anything,” Denise said. As Adrianna hung up the phone she thought to herself how bizarre that phone call was. Denise did not seem surprised about the news. Maybe she already knew. But why would she be calling Adrianna? With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Adrianna sensed that things were more serious than Mike had let on. She decided to call Kevin and ask him what was going on. As she deftly switched gears with her left hand, she dialed Kevin’s number with her right, leaving the steering wheel unmanned briefly. Kevin answered right away. “Kev, what’s going on? How badly is Darren hurt? Kev? You have to tell me the truth! Kevin?” Kevin remained silent for a few seconds. Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “He didn’t make it, Adie. He’s dead.”

The words echoed inside Adrianna’s head as the phone dropped from her hand and she stared blankly into the night ahead of her. Streetlamps whizzed past as she tried to assimilate the news she had just been given. And then she began to wail as the tears came streaming down her face. She was in complete disbelief. Not for a moment did she consider that she was going to the hospital to find him dead. Kevin had to be joking, right?

She turned into the hospital gate and immediately saw the shadows of people standing in the dark of the night, heads drooped. She parked the car and calmed herself down. She got out of the car and walked towards the group. She could hear silent sobs coming from a few people. “Adie!” someone called out to her. It was Jeremy. He walked towards her, crying as he put his arms around her. “I’m sorry…I’m so sorry,” he whispered as Adrianna buried her face in his jacket and wept. With one arm still around Adrianna’s shoulders, Jeremy began to lead her away from the group and into the building. Adrianna didn’t realize what was happening until she looked up from Jeremy’s chest and realized that Darren’s body was lying right in front of them. There was a white sheet pulled over the top half of Darren’s body, covering his face. She gasped and began to howl as Jeremy tightened his grip on her.

As she trembled in Jeremy’s arms, Adrianna stared at the black, dress shoes that lay on the feet of the dead body in front of her, thinking that she could have seen those shoes anywhere, and known that they belonged to Darren. It was then that it hit her. She had known this man for most of her life… and now he was gone. There were other people walking into the room now. Adrianna was so glad that the body was covered up – she would not want to remember Darren in any other way than as happy as he looked the last time she saw him. It was at that moment, without any warning, a man in a white lab coat had pulled back the white sheet and Adrianna had shrieked with terror, shutting her eyes tight as the image of what she glimpsed was etched in her memory forever…