My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  “What’s wrong?” Mark asked as he lightly held her soft cheek with his palm. Mary broke eye contact quickly, pushing the hand away, and began to explain.

  “Well I’ve been watching many talk shows on the television and reading many books. I continue to find out that we aren’t Christians.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We aren’t Christians. If we die today, we’d both go to—”

  “Why are you talking about death?” Mark asked with a lower, sterner voice. His muscles tightened and heart raced faster as he took a half step back, immediately thrown out of his comfort zone. Yet from Mark’s hostile reaction, Mary seemed to double in her own hostility and agitation. He proved Mary’s judgment to be correct, as one of her deeper meanings in the silence proved not to be worthless, paranoid thoughts.

  “Because we’re all going to face it, Mark! One hundred percent of us will die! You can’t live life ignoring it,” she said, her fists clenched to the sides of her deep-ocean-blue skirt.

  “We aren’t ignoring it. Every Sunday is dedicated to God!”

  “Even Satan can attend church, that proves nothing.”

  “Then please tell me why we are going to Hell.”

  “Because we’re sinners!”

  “Everyone is a sinner. That’s why we have Jesus!”

  “But you’re not saved by a single prayer and a dip in a pool! You must live for God!”

  “I do!” Mark yelled, his voice traveling through the walls of the house, into the street and the ears of their neighbors. His face was turning red, furious, yet more afraid than he could imagine, hardly able to conceal his weakness from Mary’s eyes.

  “Then why do I feel like I have become your idol, your cane? You don’t cry, I have only seen you cry once, yet I know what you’re doing. You have changed ever since that day. That dreadful day a switch turned on, and I have a sinking feeling that you will not make it to age thirty. What happens when I get cancer, and you are alone? Are you going to lose God? Are you going to lose all your senses of reality? You can’t depend on my life. I’m a ticking time bomb, Mark, ready to go off. You cannot expect stability from a bomb, from me.” Mary began to break down from her own words, tears gushing from her eyes like those two times before. Mark ran over and covered her body with his own, squeezing with comforting force, as if she were the priceless Smithsonian Hope Diamond. She immediately grabbed him and cried hot tears on his shoulder, seeming to never end. They both loved each other more than themselves, more than any married couple was expected to. They were together not only through vows but also as a necessity that under no circumstances could ever be broken.

  “I won’t ever let you go,” Mark whispered, grasping her a little tighter. He then shed a tear.

  From gravity, the tear rolled, trickling down through the peach fuzz on his face, down to his lips, and then to his chin, pausing as the droplet grew in volume, the stream struggling behind, catching up to the collection of water. Then finally, the tear grew too large, hitting Mary’s shoulder, innocently. She flinched from the diminutive, warm drop that touched her shirt, and then smiled to find that Mark was truly human, that he could cry, yet her heart grew with fear, afraid that he was, in fact, human. Then the doorbell rang.

  It echoed through the dark house, and Mary leaped up, terminating their lengthy embrace. Mark struggled to get on his feet. He crawled to the couch and used it as a cane to hoist himself to a sitting position. He needed Mary, but she was looking through the peephole to find a dark shadow in the shape of a man. When the painter opened the wooden door, it was slow and cautious. The handle was cold and gave Mary a chill, parallel to the one she’d felt when he called earlier that day. But when she saw the face of the old man, she took a breath of relief. He wore wire glasses with orange circular lenses, a very fluffy coat made of sheepskin, designer shoes, and a very nice, expensive cane made with some mystery wood withered throughout the years and painted gold. He was old, with very thick white hair and a perfect, friendly smile that seemed to shine back.

  “Hello, madam. You seem very surprised to see me.”

  “I’m so sorry, sir, I’ve never seen you before and didn’t know who to expect,” Mary said, her eyes beet red from the crying. The old man, though, wasn’t filled with any curiosity for her eyes, nor for Mark’s weak, slowly approaching body. He already knew.

  “Well, don’t be surprised anymore, because now you’ve seen me.”

  Mary rubbed her eyes one last time, sniffled a little, then strolled farther inside. “Well, I have the painting right here, still wet, though. I don’t know how you will transport it without some of it smearing,” Mary said, walking toward the canvas, picking it up by the wooden frame as she did before. “Do you want to see it first?” Mary asked with a twirl toward the door, yet she was shocked to find that the old, white-haired man was still at the door, not a single hair out of place. “What’s wrong?” Mary asked.

  “I’m so sorry, madam, but as you can see, I am very old-fashioned,” the old man laughed, tapping his finely polished leather shoes with his cane. “I can’t come in unless you invite me.”

  Mary laughed from his charm.

  “Well, come in, sir, you’re invited into my house!”

  The old man’s smile grew wider, two dimples showed from his wrinkled, rosy cheeks, and without a second thought the man took a step inside. He closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath, cherishing the moment, and let it out.

  “And…and what is your name?” Mary asked with a stutter. The old man quickly opened his eyes and smiled again, leaning on his cane.

  “Why, my name is Christian. Now enlighten this night with your magnificent portrait.”

  ◆◆◆

  The weeks passed faster than they could ever believe. Mary began to practice speed painting and, in the rush of the week, could whip out three paintings in a day! Of course they were breathtaking, so much that her prices continued to stagger higher and higher until the fridge was consumed with checks. Mark’s jaw dropped, his shoulders drooped, as he stared at the increasing gap between their overall earnings. His checks, although not close to Mary’s, also began to add up. While Mark started to regain strength, his position also became more involved, more demanding. An open position for an officer became available around the end of December, and although his application didn’t have the recommended college education, it did have the support of a few persistent coworkers, edging the chief of police (or as they simply called him, Satan’s Little Helper, as he was well known for stealing food out of lockers, for commenting on others’ appearances, for throwing his lucky black staplers at anyone who either commented on his own sloppy appearance, rolled their eyes, chewed their ice cubes, or slept in their offices, and for constantly sleeping during the day, cradling the same, lucky stapler).

  Mark had to perform an oral board first, where five police officers rapidly put him through tough questions about stressful situations as a test to see how he reacted under pressure, to see if his mind was equipped to do the best in any given situation.

  “The window rolls down and you see the driver has a weapon that isn’t concealed. What do you do?”

  “You are alone and stumble upon five men who are smoking marijuana and will be dangerous. What is your first action?”

  “There’s a suspicious automobile that has a driver with a clear drug issue. What is your first reaction?”

  Mark quickly answered like a robot, calm and collective, yet his nerves ran wild. “You pull the suspicious character out of the car and perform a drug test.” He shortly found out that his answer was the most agreeable.

  Then there was the fitness test in the following day, which Mark passed, children! He passed! But with the lowest score you could possibly pass with. Then he had to communicate with the state and obtain certifications. Then there was the drug test, background check, and a bunch of other baloney. After all
of that, the “Three Rule” took play—where the chief of police chose one person from the top three eligible and well-performing applicants; although in the much smaller station, there were only four who applied. They all stood shoulder to shoulder, stiff as nails, and when Satan’s Little Helper shook Mark’s hand, he almost toppled over in relief. Mark heavily bragged about how the promotion would cover the fridge in green and couldn’t bear the thought of returning home to Mary’s common “I win in everything” speech, telling her that he didn’t receive the promotion, the two-dollar raise.

  Mark was always accompanied by a second officer, since the chief wanted him to recover fully before handling situations alone. Except this time around Mark was actually able to step out of the vehicle!

  It was true that they began to purchase nicer material with the extra doubloons. With kitchen remodels, a new television, comfortable spring beds, and a fresh layer of paint, their competitiveness definitely began to pay off. With Mark’s promotion, they were given medical insurance through the police department. So their entire house was painted a nice, light tortilla color and pine. Mark called it light brown and dark green, so of course Mary laughed from his lack of knowledge of the glorious invention of the color wheel. Their bedroom door was painted tortilla, and Mary’s office was painted pine green, which they both painted merrily, yet always called “Tom’s room” if he ever did return like Mark constantly proposed. Mary did complain to Mark that, since it was her day off, she couldn’t help him paint the house. He grumbled under his breath while stroking the house with a paintbrush about how everyday was her day off yet was well aware that she still made around five hundred more than he did a month. Around this time, Mark began to feel pains in his lower stomach again.

  “You’re probably constipated,” Mary said in a comedic manner while pushing Raisin Bran his way. But they both had a different topic glued on their mind.

  The annual colon test.

  “It’s okay, they’ll clean you out!” Mary yelled from a distant hallway while Mark scarfed down the Raisin Bran.

  Then after about three minutes, as Mark was almost done with the hefty size of Raisin Bran, Mary ran toward Mark, screaming.

  “Mark Wegman, put down that baby blue bowl, now!” she yelled in her bee-yellow dress with grass-green polka dots, almost seeming to be stroking her hands in the air with her goofy run.

  “Why?” Mark whined, pulling his chair out, facing her. “I need to poop as soon as I can. Everything’s backed up.”

  Mary slowed down and put both hands on his shoulders, three inches taller than him in the chair, staring into his eyes. “Honey, if you don’t poop it out by tomorrow morning, it’ll come out on the table.” Mark took a second to think, then made a gagging noise with his mouth.

  “Oh, God bless America, the anesthesia!” Mark wailed, spitting out his half mouthful of Raisin Bran back into the bowl, rubbing his tongue with the spoon before Mary slapped him on the back of the head.

  “Mark, how is rubbing your tongue going to help?” Mary demanded. Mark felt the back of his head before bursting out into laughter.

  “To get the flavor out,” he wailed as Mary began to join him in laughter.

  The next morning, while the sun began to wake, Mary was in one bed and Mark in the other, similar to every one of these flimsy medical tests. While her thoughts trembled her body, Mark grabbed her hand and smiled, beginning to rub her thumb with his own. Her body quit trembling from fear of any pain or of what the test might reveal afterward. She smiled back and lost her view of him. The injection of anesthetics separated even the most compelling lovers. She dreamed of some garden in the sky, where grapes were never used to create wine and everything was white. There was a stream, where milk flew, and the leaves on trees had a fine taste of sweet, fresh honey. She plucked one off and ate it, filled with its sweet pleasure. Peaceful. Very peaceful. It was faint, like a dream should be, and seemed like a world only children could hypothesize, yet it was okay because the dream was blissful, a fantasy. Then it faded very slowly. Mary reached for one last honey leaf, but it was too late. She woke up on a white bed, with a pain in her rump that slowly grew into a very painful feeling, worse than she usually believed it was. Mary hummed a little, and a nurse kindly asked if there was any pain. Mary nodded, and more morphine came in through her IV. The pain slowly faded, and Mary quickly began to remember why she was there: the colonoscopy test, and Mark. Mark, her lover, her Hand Mitten who probably took a dump on the table. She giggled to herself while facing a curtain to her left and knew he was on the other side of her. He always was. So with a painful shift in her body (Why is it so painful?), she rolled herself to see Mark, to tease him, and to apologize about slapping him on the head, all high and loopy on morphine. Although, there was only a lone nurse and another curtain. Panic. Thoughts coursed through. He was always by her side after every procedure, yet this time was different. Thoughts coursed through.

  She jerked up as quick as she could, breathing harder than before.

  “Nurse, where’s my husband?” Mary slurred horribly. Pain shot up from her butt. Why so much pain? she thought again, her focus skewed from the drugs.

  “Mrs. Wegman, lie down!” the nurse said kindly but urgently. “There was a perforation in your operation.”

  “Mark! Mark!” Mary called in a weak scream, her mind too loopy to register what the nurse said.

  “Some of your tissue tore during the operation, please stay down. He’s in another room. Rest and we will escort you over later.”

  “He was holding my hand!” Mary yelled louder as she pushed herself further, the pain increased. Why the pain? she thought again as she began to fall asleep. Why the pain? The nurse watched her fall into an even deeper sleep, her squirming becoming lighter and lighter as her body became numb, and was impressed. The dose of morphine Mary asked for was still continuous, adding to the amount of narcotics in her veins. Yet she almost made the stretch, almost passed through the dose and kept consciousness. Then the nurse shrugged off the slim praise and continued her rounds.

  As Mary rushed toward the B-wing on the fifth floor, pain striking with every step, she remembered the doctor’s words.

  “In Mark’s bowel movement on the table, we found C. diff, otherwise known as clostridium difficile colitis. It is in a very severe state since his immune system has strengthened yet is still weak. This is also not his first time with this bacteria, or so I read in his charts, which can also make the infection stronger the next time around. We do not know why he ignored this for so long,” the doctor said as he glanced at the nurse, then back to Mary. “His constipation was from the C. diff. there’s no doubt, but now he needs help keeping his bowel movements under control,” the middle-aged Arabian man said before patting her knee. “Get some rest, kid. Take care of yourself, too.”

  Mary ran quickly and became lost. Her focus was off and was in sheer panic, searching for a nurse who knew the ground. Then Mary smiled with over-ecstatic glee, seeing Kennedy, her old pediatric nurse, across the hall. The familiar face flooded her with joy as she felt an overwhelming sensation that made her feel as if she were in luck. Kennedy seemed new and was making some small talk to some local nurses, who at that point only smiled and nodded, as Kennedy’s version of small talk never seemed to end. Mary didn’t understand her move from pediatrics to nursing. She didn’t know about Kennedy’s two DUIs that kicked her out of the pediatric field, which made Kennedy let out a stress-releasing sigh, also aware that Mary did not know.

  “Kennedy!” she yelled in a mixture of panic and joy. Kennedy jumped a few feet from her name, looked behind her and made a half smile from the sight of Mary. Half ashamed yet half grateful it was only her.

  “Hello dear,” Kennedy yelped, scratching her head. “H-how can I help you?”

  “I must find the B-wing—”

  “Oh! I was just there myself,” Kennedy lied, trying to not seem new. “Tak
e a right, and it’s the third door!” Mary gave thanks and half skipped over to the third door on the right, half in pain, half in glee. The other nurses exchanged looks and whispers with one another and turned to Kennedy in concern.

  “Isn’t…the B-wing to the left of us?” said a small, twenty-four-year-old blond nurse, pointing to the opposite door with one of her glossy violet nails. Kennedy ignored her statement, hoping the other nurses did as well, and continued gloating about her medical career.

  Sadly, Mary couldn’t hear anything they said after she made the right turn. She passed through the bland, moss-colored doors that all seemed similar. Then she smashed through the third door with excitement, but it wasn’t another hallway, it was a patient’s room. Her smile fell and died, and she stared shocked at the character on the cheap hospital bed.

  It was the old man, with his cane propped on the side of the bed and those beaming orange lenses lying on the cheap, wooden hospital nightstand. He was white and ill in the darkness of the room. He was thin as well, seeming to only be a skeleton of a man she recognized before.

  “CLOSE THE DOOR!” demanded Christian, squirming in his bed like an earthworm in feces. Mary quickly retreated her head from the room and shut the door, catching her breath as it raced in her chest.

  “Wait. Come back, don’t leave me alone,” whimpered Christian through the door. Then a nurse named Elisabeth quickly ran up to Mary in surprise, beginning her shift with five charts in one hand and a double espresso in the other.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, are you lost?” asked the concerned nurse.

  “Yeah, do you know where the B-Wing is?” Mary said with a recovering voice.

  “Yes Ma’am, it’s—” But the nurse stopped short and ran to a middle-aged man with a terrible receding hairline who seemed to have walked out of his room. Then Christian hollered again, somehow much louder. The walls dulled the sound less and less after every word he spoke.