My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  Then the woman began to speak in her dry, ancient voice.

  “You know, throughout my entire pediatric oncologist career, our patients either came in strong, with ignorance of what’s truly happened, or scared, with knowledge of the truth. But when they left, the ones who knew nothing in the beginning knew everything and lost that strength they had. However, whoever came with no strength and knew everything just had anger in the end. Now the question is, which one are you?” The nurse looked up with her fragile eyes.

  “My wife thought she knew everything when she got sick, but she didn’t understand at all. That’s why she has strength, and that’s where she’s weak.”

  “How is that a weakness?”

  “Because she’s oblivious!” he cried while shaking his fist at the ground. He whispered, “She doesn’t know.”

  “Ignorance isn’t always a weakness.” The old woman touched Mark’s shoulder. He lashed it off.

  “How? Tell me how!”

  “When knowledge is the enemy.”

  “When is knowledge the enemy?”

  “When the truth becomes too much to bear, ignorance is strength and knowledge is the enemy. Even if it’s fake.” The woman closed her eyes, as if she began to hold in emotions of her own. She was the only one who didn’t freeze when Mark spoke of Mary, although the woman began to half ignore Mark’s existence, as if she were attempting to purge him out of her mind. Then he realized that she wasn’t attempting to convince him but continuing to convince herself of something far deeper.

  “I will walk you over and wait outside. Don’t you dare mess this up, and I mean it, you bugger.”

  He couldn’t speak. Mark was struck with understanding of who the nurse was and fell in shock. A person only found in memories until today, I found her. I can’t believe it. Mark stood up, and a dull pain from the wreck shot up his back, but he ignored it and walked around. The old nurse, washed up from the unavoidable curses of time. Those years lost, the years that felt like minutes, seconds, maybe time had never passed. Some feel like it was yesterday, maybe yesterday happened twenty-four years ago, anything was possible, even for them. Even for Mary’s family doctor, an eyewitness to Mark’s marriage, from the beginning to what seemed like the end.

  “Kennedy?”

  She reacted to the name—a tear fell from her face, and a smile unfolded. She looked up from under her shameful hands, and the mothering face showed once again, a face forgotten by everyone but Mark. It was only yesterday.

  “Hello, Mark.”

  The Telemarketer

  When Mary’s mother died, the outside gossip circle froze. An unexpected phenomenon occurred. A woman with meningitis passed, and on the same day was confirmed with no trace, but instead colon cancer. The funeral was held in a wealthy, green-lawn cemetery, with a short sermon but a large attendance. Neighbors, relatives, and friends all gathered to mourn around the lifeless body in an oak casket. The sun was covered, and the old pastor with his white ceremonial gown spoke with ease, another funeral in his eyes. The noises consisted of sniffling and crying, but Mary stood in the back of the memorial with Mark, gently holding his hand. Unlike the others, Mary didn’t weep, cry, or even mourn while the pastor asked for anyone to say a few words on behalf of her dead mother. She didn’t shake when her all-black-attired aunt was taken off the podium by Mary’s round, bald uncle as she burst with tears for her younger sister. Her gaze wasn’t affected when a young, close friend began to speak about how much her mother changed the world with her beautiful smile and admirable personality. When her mother had passed three days earlier, Mark drove over to Mary’s house in a rush and arrived to find Mary speechless, seeming to have a mind occupied with absolutely nothing, as if her mentality decided to abort from the body, leaving the remaining parts to only comply with basic functions and tasks that would continue her natural lifestyle from before with the least amount of effort. She was sitting in a white bench outside their front door when he came, with a blank expression and a straight, awkward posture. She gave him a light hug and tucked her hand into his robotically. The next day, her father sent a formal letter to Mark. He told him that Mary would “enjoy your presence at the funeral, on Wednesday at 3:00 p.m.” So two days later, Mark came in with a worn coal-black suit and dirt-brown sneakers from his father’s closet. All Mary did was hug his waist gently and fragilely hold his hand, again without anything special in movement or emotion. Aaron told Mark he wouldn’t miss it for the world, sounding as sincere and supportive as he could, but he never came. Mark continued to watch the main road into the cemetery crowded with engraved stones. When her father stepped onto the podium, she spoke for the first time in three days. Her voice was not soft, but controlled and clearheaded.

  “She knew.”

  Mark quickly turned his head toward Mary. She never looked away from her father’s formal speech, watching him cry for the first time in her life, even before his speech.

  “What did she know?”

  “She knew about the cancer, the risk.” Her voice was angry, clenching his hand harder than before. Mark knew what she wanted him to ask, so he did.

  “Why didn’t she do anything?”

  “Because she was a coward. She was afraid of the treatment.”

  “I’m sure that wasn’t the case, Mary.”

  “She told me herself!” Mary yelled under her breath. There was a period where they only watched the speech as Mr. Kenny continued to sob into the skinny microphone, projecting it through tiny square church speakers. However, every emotional word was comprehendible, from both a combination of Mr. Kenny’s adequate speaking skills and the simple idea that sorrow understands sorrow. Then Mary spoke again.

  “Our entire family covered for her, even the doctor.” She squeezed his hand. “I’ve never felt so terrible in my life.” Mark went down on two knees and pushed her into a tight hug. She began to cry aggressively. Angry tears burned on his chest like battery acid.

  He murmured softly, “I’m sorry honey,” and closed his eyes. Mark wanted to cry, but didn’t, and in fact did not until seven years later, tears that landed on Mary’s shoulder while they both sat on the carpet, the same day they met Christian. “I got you, shh, I got you, I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now.” She shed bitter tears with loud whimpers. Many looked over and assumed she was mourning like the others. In a way, Mary was. Some stared and whispered into each other’s ears; others ignored her and the noises she made, being thankful they were not the daughter to the polished oak casket.

  “If only Aaron came,” Mark whispered and lightly chuckled. “He’d cheer us up. ”

  “That’s a joke. All he does is make me feel like a tool,” she snickered. Mark laughed again, knowing beforehand what she would say.

  “Yeah, it was a joke, hun.”

  “He means well, and when I’m not around, he’s nice, but he just needs to accept me.” She let go and found herself staring into his eyes. Later that day, Mark would barge into Aaron’s trailer; he would almost seem to be waiting for him to arrive.

  “He will, and when he does, we’ll celebrate!” Mark hugged her again, and she began to cry, although softer. Words didn’t have to be said—she missed her mom.

  ◆◆◆

  Kennedy walked Mark toward Tyler’s room, through the patterned hallways and the smell of bleach, but when he arrived, there was a cart full of gloves and aprons. Kennedy told him to gown up, so he did, very used to the procedure. Before Mary was quarantined, this was what Mark did. When Mark was finished, he had on a pair of large dark purple gloves, a traffic-cone-yellow apron, and a plastic mask wrapped around his head. He knocked on the single door and grabbed the cold metal handle. There were rules to the door: it couldn’t be open for too long or the room would begin to screech. Every room was equipped with their own air-conditioning units to keep the patients away from others who could pose a threat. Many didn’t have immune
systems, so this system was critical, and no one was able to visit—this is all Mark was told as Kennedy repeatedly glanced to each end of the hallway. Mark somehow knew that once he entered the room, she would leave with an air of ignorance. Kennedy would pretend that nothing of the abnormal happened on the sixth floor, and if asked about the event would curse her own mother’s grave before risking herself.

  “You have five minutes, don’t touch him.” Kennedy rushed with a harsh whisper. “He has neutropenia, and if he isn’t up for talking, don’t blabber off. Leave him alone! He also might be asleep. Tyler just got out of a surgery. Very lucky, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay. You understand the basics, right, Mark?”

  He turned to his right. “Yes.”

  “Then go on!” She motioned him.

  “Wait. Kennedy.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why was Tyler driving to the hospital? What did he need?”

  She whipped her face toward his, then turned away just as brisk. She tapped her foot like a hummingbird, crossed her arms, and let out a long sigh.

  “Morphine. He needed morphine but ran out and couldn’t wait. So he called us to admit himself. Now please, go inside before I change my mind.” Her words rushed out like a fountain as she led him again toward the door.

  He opened it with caution as his heart slammed against his skin. Kennedy folded her arms again with haste, tapping her foot and feeling a force of dread. She knew Mark wasn’t the same, though she didn’t know how or why. Yet forces she knew too well pushed her against her own will. Kennedy gave him what he wanted for the chance of finding peace with her own mind. Mark was the root to her haunting guilt, and seeing him again with a request gave her hope that the past could be forgotten.

  “Hello? Tyler?” He peeked inside the room.

  Everything was familiar. Across was a thick, semi-opaque sliding glass door covering the bathroom. On the right, farthest away, was a mini whiteboard bolted to the wall, with Expo markers of three colors on the metal holder below. It had the name of the patient, the caregiver, the date, and a blob of scribbles from a child, some child that has been there before him. In the top middle of the wall on the right was a miniature television, angled low by the anchors from the wall, playing Fox News on mute. Underneath was a miniature plastic chrome fridge. There was a half-eaten plate of fruit, with a green tea and a woman’s purse. Closest to the door was a medical supply bin full of syringes, bandages, port-a-cath needles, tubes, and almost everything needed for the nurse locked in their shelves. On the other side was a sink, with a hand-sensitive paper towel and soap dispenser above. There was a dresser against the left wall next to the bed, full of clothes and notebooks. On top was a clock, holding up a row of books by authors from Jim Gaffigan to Ernest Hemingway, and another notebook face down, with a pen on top. Someone brought all of this in one day’s time.

  On the far side of the bed was a long pole with two brains attached, which were machines that controlled the flow of medications through the IV. Two brains alone were bad news, one on top of the other, pumping antibiotics, IV nutrition, a newly placed blood bag, and saline fluids for hydration, all hanging on the pole with casual existence. Above that was a screen hanging from the wall, monitoring blood pressure, pulse ox, and heart rate by different colored numbers on the screen. The typical heart rate line ran from side to side, with the noise dimmed down to almost a silent whisper. All body activity was monitored. Directly in front of Mark was a thin couch that flattened into a bed; it had a thick royal blue soccer blanket with a pillow and a bag of makeup, all spontaneously thrown into different positions on the couch. Above was a window, overlooking the gigantic plum-purple Arizona mountains. Between the bathroom and the couch was another bag that seemed to have just recently arrived. It was brown, with two leather straps and a razor sticking out of the side pocket.

  Tyler saw the man peeking from the door and began to speak.

  “Are you a Jehovah’s Witness?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Telemarketer?”

  “No?”

  “Then come in, friend! Just drop the pizza off on the side of the bed.”

  Mark walked in. Tyler was drugged without doubt—every motion was very slow and clumsy, as if he were made of licorice.

  “Sorry, buddy, I don’t have a pizza.” Mark checked his pocket and found no pizza.

  “Good, I didn’t order one!” He laughed hysterically and rocked in his plastic bed. Tyler had a neck brace and a cast on the left leg and arm, with bandages in multiple spots, including the head, body, and knees. The skinny body fit into the small twin-size bed. There were many thin blankets from the hospital, but he wore nothing but scrubs. What have I done? Mark thought. What have I done? He closed the door and slowly walked toward the bed.

  “How do you feel?”

  “I was in pain, but I got morphine. Then the morphine made me hyper. I’m better, but…” Tyler smiled and looked down.

  “What?” Mark asked. Tyler hesitated to speak about himself, almost identical to the way the nurses reacted before.

  “I don’t enjoy it, though, any of it.”

  “What don’t you like, the hospital?”

  “No, the drugs.” Tyler looked up and began to laugh again. Mark was struck back and surprised that he’d share something like that with a stranger, and so quickly. But he also felt guilty of his judgment on Tyler, guilty that he assumed the exact opposite.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s been a while since I’ve felt normal. To walk and feel no pain in your feet, to laugh and feel no blisters in your mouth, to think without drugs fogging your thoughts. Those are the three big ones. I wish I could walk, and I wish I could think, but hey, at least I can laugh.” Tyler let out a loud laugh. “So I’m blessed, even if it’s a fake drugged laugh, I’m blessed by God.” Tyler fell into another laugh, cradled his head from a headache, yawned, and laughed again because of his yawn. Mark’s eyes fell in anger.

  “But you’re, you’re bedridden, drugged, sick, and hospitalized, how can you laugh?”

  Tyler was silent, as Mark, his anger toward God, was shown. Then Tyler laughed again and spoke with ease.

  “Because I have God.”

  “But how do you know God’s not the one who gave you cancer and the inability to walk? What if he’s letting people drown, starve, and die?” Mark began to race with memories after yelling across the room. He wasn’t understanding what Tyler’s condition was. Tyler spoke, this time very calm and sober, while enjoying the fact that someone was yelling at him.

  “If God is the enemy, why are we alive? What’s the point of being the founder of life and death? To just create and destroy, to give life to a chicken and then murder it. A hypocritical God, a God who looks down on the world, on his children and tortures them, no, that’s Satan. A God who says he loves but hates the same person at the same time, no, that’s Lucifer. And if you’re still not certain, then how can death lose its sting? If God is the founder of death, then how can I rise above?” He closed his eyes and lay back down. “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the lord, because you know that your labor in the lord is not in vain.” Tyler opened his eyes. Mark was shocked from the kid’s knowledge and whispered, “But why do I suffer?”

  “I don’t know, friend, I’m only sixteen. Please don’t ask me.” Tyler smiled gently with weary eyes. “I don’t understand your struggle, your life. You said it yourself, don’t ask me.”

  Mark was silent, with wide eyes and a frightened feeling of accusation on his shoulders. The boy knew he was the officer. The officer who slammed in the back of his Camry, accused, cursed, wanting to sue and arrest. As w
ell as the man who put him in surgery, two casts, a fracture, and countless bruises, then later Tyler’s death. But through the helpfulness of Mark’s quick thinking toward Tyler’s interaction, he knew an apology would have been worse. He could have apologized, told Tyler the situation would have changed if he only knew. But Mark didn’t, that wasn’t valued—pity would murder the joy. When a normal life was wanted, pity was the real fault. The plentiful saw him as a disability, a boy with a disease, to look at and pray you never become. People either avoided contact or craved it. It looks beautiful on your resume. I helped cancer patients. Or to gain a few followers, just caption it this: My best friend.

  A selfish game played by the plentiful, but soon enough they leave. All who are left are those in public, who see the boy as a truth that can destroy their happiness, their day. Or just someone to make you feel blessed, glad that you’re not him. Thank you, Lord, that I am not him. So why didn’t Tyler tell Mark when he was pulled over? Why didn’t he take the benefit others believe is the sweetness of cancer? The slip, three meaningful words that slide you through hallways, lines, VIP rooms, and events. His decision explained itself, so Mark smiled instead.

  “Tyler, you look like crap.”

  “Not as bad as you. Wait, that’s your face, old man.” Tyler laughed. Mark quietly placed two hands over his heart.

  “Don’t surprise me. You might just give me a heart attack.”

  “The ER is on the second floor, third door to the right.”

  “And you would know, did your shedding make anyone slip?”

  “At least my hair will grow back. When yours falls out, don’t come crying to me.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll find your hair and glue it on mine.”

  “Gross, haven’t you heard of a wig?” Tyler laughed.

  Mark followed and sat on the bed. He then saw a basket full of random gifts. Many people come through the cancer center and give gifts to the children, usually small knickknacks or cheap presents. The baskets are typically for the younger children, around three to ten, past that age the little things never caught their eyes. Teenagers were usually left out when it came to the general public, but nurses and foundations like Make-A-Wish usually covered for the loss of attention. Unique visitors occasionally walked in and passed out books. Candy was given as well, but most patients usually couldn’t eat. In the basket was a deck of cards, a very generic brand sticking out of the side, next to a slinky and a superhero coloring book. The basket must have been dropped off when Tyler was in surgery. He picked it up and began tearing off the clear plastic.