Mum, Ill be quick. No more than twenty minutes, Ian stood in the doorway of the ward, trying to smile, though his lips quivered.
Just dont dawdle, Eleanor lay on her side, clutching the blanket, the doctor said the drip will be on by evening.
He nodded, tossed his jacket over his shoulder and stepped out. Outside it was damp and blustery. An October in Yorkshire never spared its pedestriansrain, wind, puddles that seemed to mirror the whole spirit of an English autumn: low sky, silent folk, everything waiting for the end.
Ian hurried to the bus stop, feeling he was lagging behind not the bus but life itself, and everything that rolls past.
Three weeks earlier the doctors had said his mother was in the final stage. He hadnt wept then. He simply sat on a bench outside the mortuarysomehow his feet had taken him thereand stayed until darkness fell.
So, are you packing your bags? asked the man in the neighboring bed, a thinnecks, foreverwatchful old chap.
Im waiting for my son, Eleanor smiled, he promised to drop by this evening.
Does he come often? he asked.
Every day. I keep wondering maybe Im holding him back? Hes got his own life.
The old man coughed and whispered,
Its not you who holds him, its he who wont let go. Until he does, you wont leave either.
Eleanor turned toward the window. Outside, rain streamed down. Strange, she thought, because she used to love the rain. In her younger days it seemed romantic: sitting in the kitchen with a hot tea, listening to the drops tap the sill. Now it merely blurred her view.
Ian slipped into the old park where, as a child, he and his mother had sledded down the hill. By the third birch from the entrance shed once told him,
You know, son, it doesnt matter what you end up doing. What matters is that someone smiles because of you. Even just one person.
He hadnt understood then. Now he understood all too well.
His phone buzzed: Mum: Dont rush, Im fine. He gave a reflex smileshed been sending dont rush texts a lot lately, probably to keep him from worrying.
The ward fell silent. The old man slept, the nurse had gone.
Eleanor lay staring at the ceiling when she suddenly heard music. Somewhere down the corridor an old tune from The Kinks drifted inAutumn Rain. She smiled. Well, would you look at that, even here she thought, and closed her eyes.
Then, as if on a breeze, someone settled beside her.
Dont be afraid, the voice said, its all over now.
She didnt open her eyes, just sighed and whispered,
Just dont let him cry.
Ian raced back forty minutes later.
The doctors were already out of the room, the nurse stood by the door, cheeks flushed. He understood without a word.
May I? he asked softly.
Yes, the nurse nodded, just not long.
He sat down. His mother lay peacefully, even as if shed managed a faint smile. On the bedside table the phone screen glowed with an unsent message:
Ian, dont wait for a miracle. Be one yourself.
He stared at the screen until his eyes ached.
Then he noticed: on the window, where rain tracks ran in fine lines, a tiny heart had formed, as if someone had drawn it from the inside with a finger. He smiledfor the first time in many days.
A year passed.
Ian stood at the entrance of the childrens oncology unit, a thermos of coffee in one hand and a basket of fruit in the other.
Are you a volunteer? asked the security guard.
Yes, he grinned, I just want someone to smile.
And when a baldheaded lad sprinted down the corridor, shouting,
Uncle, look, Im getting better!,
Ian realised that miracles do happen.
Only, sometimes they arrive on our backs.