Mum, Ill be quick. No more than twenty minutes, Ian stood in the doorway of the ward, trying to grin, though his lips trembled.
Just dont linger, Eleanor lay on her side, clutching the blanket, the doctor said the drip should be in by evening.
He nodded, tossed his jacket over his shoulder and stepped out. It was damp and blustery on the street. October in York never goes easy on anyone rain, wind, puddles that look like theyre trying to swallow the whole of a dreary English autumn: low sky, silent faces, everything waiting for the night to end.
Ian hurried toward the bus stop, feeling the minutes slipping away. Not the bus, but life itself, everything that kept rolling past.
Three weeks earlier the doctors had told him his mother was in the final stage. He hadnt burst into tears then. Hed just sat on the bench outside the mortuary for some reason his feet had taken him there and stayed until it got dark.
So, youre thinking of moving on? asked the old man from the next bed, thinnecked, eyes full of endless waiting.
Im waiting for my son, Eleanor managed a smile, he promised to drop by this evening.
Does he come often? he asked.
Every day. I just keep wondering maybe Im holding onto him for no reason. Hes got his own life.
The old man cleared his throat and whispered, It isnt you whos holding on, its him who wont let go. Until he does, you wont be able to leave.
Eleanor turned toward the window. Outside, rain pattered against the glass. Funny, she thought, because she used to love rain. In her youth it felt romantic: sitting in the kitchen with a mug of tea, listening to the drops tap the sill. Now it just blurred everything.
Ian slipped into the old park where, as a child, he and his mum used to sled down the hill. By the third birch from the entrance she had once told him, You know, son, it doesnt matter what you end up doing. The only thing that counts is that someone smiles because of you. Even just one person.
He hadnt understood then. Now he got it, all too clearly.
His phone buzzed: Mum: No rush, Im okay. He gave a halfhearted grin lately shed been sending no rush messages, probably to keep him from worrying.
The ward fell quiet. The old man had drifted off, the nurse was gone. Eleanor lay staring at the ceiling when she suddenly heard music, faint from down the corridor an old folk tune, Autumn Rain. She smiled. Well, would you look at that, even here she thought, and closed her eyes.
Then someone sat beside her, as soft as a whisper of wind. Dont be afraid, the voice said, its all right now.
She didnt open her eyes, just breathed out and murmured, I just hope he doesnt cry.
Ian burst back forty minutes later.
The doctors were already out of the room, the nurse stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed. He understood without a word.
Can I? he asked quietly.
Yes, the nurse nodded, but only for a moment.
He took a seat next to his mum, who lay peacefully, almost smiling. On the nightstand the phone glowed with an unsent text: Ian, dont wait for a miracle. Be the one yourself.
He stared at the screen until his eyes hurt, then noticed something on the window where rain had drawn thin streaks: a tiny heart, as if someone had traced it with a finger from the inside. He smiled the first genuine one in days.
A year passed.
Ian stood at the entrance of the childrens oncology ward, a thermos of coffee in one hand and a basket of fruit in the other. Are you a volunteer? asked the security guard.
Yeah, Ian grinned. I just want to see someone smile.
And when a balding little boy darted down the corridor, shouting, Uncle, look, Im getting better! Ian felt a warm certainty that miracles do happen.
Sometimes they show up through us, after all.
