My Hand Mitten

by Austin Thacker

  Then everyone in the building froze. It was as if time stood still, women gasped and men shook their heads in anger. Children were too young to understand what was told through their medically inserted brain pieces, although some did because of the repetitive talks their parents had with each other. Then finally one very muscular man spoke out of his plump and well-fit face in shock.

  “We are at war.” An inflated balloon of excitement had just popped in the room. The staff of Domino’s attempted to continue their cooking but couldn’t. Many were shaking with fear. Some customers began to walk out, others stood around in shock, not knowing what to do, and a minority of men over seventy waited for their order or continued eating. There was a large population of older men. Eventually, they left as well because the owner knew his staff couldn’t continue, and in the town everyone was family. On the ride home, Aaron’s curiosity forced him to ask, and Mark explained all the political disputes he’d missed.

  “When I left jail in twenty twenty-six, we were in the middle of a Cold War with Russia,” said Mark. “They continued to push south into Turkey and west toward Europe. Soon after, the Russian Empire crumbled; for the world around it, it was first come, first serve. The countries that gained the most land were Japan and Turkey, and they became the dominant countries in their regions. Then the two countries became allies after pressure from the United States. For some reason we were afraid that their sudden rise to power was dangerous.” Mark then began to wonder about the same topic he was explaining: why the United States, the last mega power of the world, was afraid. “Then we built a nuclear military satellite base four years ago, and a few months ago the Turks and Japanese set up a nuclear satellite as well. Both orbit opposite each other, and people feared that the Japanese-Turk alliance would fire at any second. Now apparently, what their technological implants said, is that we declared war.” Aaron didn’t panic in the least and watched what seemed to be small drones flying through the sky. He noticed that there were far less people in the city. He noticed that there was almost no homeless population selling newspapers or playing guitars. He noticed technology’s growth in buildings and in automobiles, like Mark’s 2048 Toyota Camry that ran on something other than gas, something like electricity, and the roads it drove on seemed to hold a glue that made the ride even smoother. Or maybe it was the tires that seemed different, with their shiny and healthy appearance that seemed to him as more eco-friendly than before.

  There was now a noticeable majority of Mexican Americans who walked from point A to B, and Broadway seemed crisp, surrounded by technology that crowded these now fairly old buildings. Aaron chuckled under his breath after watching for minutes with wide eyes through the Camry’s windows. Aaron laughed because of a thought that warmed the old man’s heart. He knew that this was the first time in the twenty-first century that Mark understood more than him. It was the first time Aaron was clueless in his surroundings, and Mark was filled with local and world knowledge—though this thought Aaron held was one that only could be possible through age. In their childhood, it was obvious that Aaron would anger from Mark’s rational decisions, although time even alters the most stubborn of people. In the beginning of life, you search to please your heart, and at the end your heart is completely satisfied with what you found. Aaron’s heart held no more anger. His heart held no envy. His heart held no rebellion; all that was left was a little wonder, faith, and an old man’s love. He thought of Mark and fell in continuous joy from knowing that Mark was smarter than him. Aaron shed off his young thoughts and anger. He was a much different man. Wonder, faith, and love.

  Wonder was grown through the metallic cave Aaron was in for forty years. Professing Christianity with the prison’s Bible taught him faith, and the thought of Mark’s heart during their time of childhood taught him love. Love is an element in your heart that is given to you before your breath of life. Aaron lost and learned again from Mark, and unlike most of the world, Aaron’s newfound love stayed even through death.

  Now Mark lost excitement. He lost the craving for adrenaline, the craving to become something the world would see as a hero. Although the main qualities his heart craved were still present, it was love toward everyone who breathed, strength toward words that slithered off tongues to only harm, or life obstacles that threw everyone into trials with their hearts. Mark had faith in the Gospel and Jesus Christ because he finally realized what his sick wife’s words meant while she lay on her bed in near death. Then finally there was hope. Hope.

  His hope came from Mary, now somewhere in the clouds. Mark hoped to one day see her face again and talk to her. He wished to hug her and spend his eternity with the only woman he’d married. Mark was past the thought of the lovely face and figure; those thoughts were for fools, even if young. Her soul was the beauty. Mark wondered what his first words would be to Mary, if they would be gentle, if there would be tears, or what Mary would say. Then he wondered what Heaven felt like, if there were gusts of light wind, or rain that would cool your body from the sun. Then he thought of God, the Lord’s presence, judgment day, and the overlooking of his own life. Toward his religion, this was one of the topics of which Mark was completely certain: he knew that God would make the right decision, if he were worthy for either Heaven or Hell. If his heart craved either love or hate. If his heart craved either life or death.

  Aaron walked inside the two-story house and was moved when opening the door that was made without even the slightest touch of man. It had been decades since he’d seen the luxury of carpet and wooden chairs. Of a bed made for comfort and not for necessity. In modern society, the house was fairly plain, with a house payment of only $800 a month and absolutely no technology around. No radio, no television, no drones, no cameras. The stairs were carpeted, and the house smelled dusty. Aaron’s wisdom sparked as he asked for a tour of the house. Upstairs consisted of a bleak bathroom and the guest bedroom Aaron would sleep in for ten years until Mark’s death. Both mechanical doors were connected to the hallway, and downstairs there was far more room, but not a lot. There was a kitchen with many old pots and pans, a sitting room with ancient furniture from long ago, and the master bedroom, where Mark slept alone. On the walls were photos of Mark and Mary in their youth, paintings that were from Mary, and nothing else. Aaron wondered if the decor was safe for Mark to witness, if the paintings would create a panic attack, if the pictures would create a spiraling visit to the past, although Mark didn’t seem like he was in distress. In fact, Mark’s appearance made it seem as though his thoughts were solid and his mind was present for every conscious second. Even in their childhood it hadn’t been like this—something in Mark made him radiate with confidence and joy. Aaron didn’t understand what it could be. How could Mark now glance at pictures and portraits that for decades had slammed him with anxiety and pain of the past? How could such a man as before be such a man like this?

  Although dinner didn’t help, as Mark cooked cheeseburgers with bacon and fries, Aaron was confused as to why an old man like himself would make such unhealthy dishes.

  “I got cancer again,” Mark casually expressed.

  “Mark,” Aaron stated, “are you going to be okay?”

  He laughed to Aaron’s generous words.

  “I’ve never felt better in my life.”

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  Mark’s death was long. He sat on his bed blind and partially deaf. He didn’t have any family left besides Aaron, although his days as a pastor brought him a group of about ten young and old friends that he called family. Mark spoke to them softly, lightly, asking one of the young ones by his bedside to tell him of their day. Aaron spoke the least while sitting on a chair in the corner of the room and patiently awaiting his turn to speak. Although both were the only children from their families, a bond like brothers was between them. This day was as casual as any other day; nothing changed except Mark’s energy to speak and the nurse’s urgency to have his family wrap up goodbyes to the old man’s w
orthless body. So far, Aaron knew this day to be casual, since he was with Mark through all the visiting hours the hospital allowed and sat in the corner to speak as if it were any other day. As if they were still in the small home that he’d come to know in the past decade. Aaron was ninety-four, Mark was ninety-five, and no tests were done to see if the cause of death was cancer or nature. Both were, in fact, slow deaths. Then Mark—with the light pigmentation in his eyes—stared in the opposite corner of the hospital room. He very slowly turned his head and began to cry with a delicately placed smile. Tears wet his skin, and the young boy halted his very nervous sentences about his college and future career. Using frail muscles and bones, Aaron stood up, and everyone easily allowed him to join the front of the crowd and watch his brother’s final movements. Then Mark whispered a single word. “Mary.” The heart monitor began to slow down, and the room nurse was alerted on her phone, but all she could do was watch.

  “Mary,” Mark whispered again as he reached for the corner in which no one stood by. “I missed you, Hand Mitten. Mary. I’m ready.” The heart monitor was silenced by the nurse and showed Mark’s heart rate continuously drop until he was no more. His family cried from the shock of watching a man hallucinate and die in front of their eyes. But during the time of his death, the overcast sheet loosened up and shone inside, with rays from the sun touching the still blood-warm ancient man. The nurse recorded Mark’s time of death and covered his face with a blanket, then while mourning over his dead body, the family began to wonder who Mary was. Some believed her to be Jesus’s mother; others thought that Mark’s mind was too far gone. Aaron knew who Mary was—he knew her very well but never told anyone about Mark and Mary’s love, about their struggle and demons. It was the past that wasn’t worth more than an old man’s story. Aaron stood there with sorrowful acceptance of Mark’s death. The true sorrow had passed weeks ago when Mark first lay in that hospital bed. Now Aaron stood with a dreadful feeling in his stomach and smiled with a simple thought toward a now very joyful memory.

  “Thank you Mark, for making me the third wheel. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.” Then at the end of the day, Aaron walked toward the crisp sun, chewing Bazooka Bubble Gum. All of their lives were the perfect Composition Eight.

  ◆◆◆

  “Are you ready, Tyler?”

  “Y-yes, Tom! Yes, t-thank you so much!”

  “Then push up, one last time.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to first acknowledge Make-A-Wish and Rare Bird Books for making this wish a reality. I have been sharing stories ever since I could form sentences, beginning in the form of “What ifs” in the car seat of my mother’s Suburban, to see if possible, specific scenarios had the power to release me from my weekdays filled with coloring in the lines and learning my ABC’s. The first story I wrote was in second grade, called “Insac,” about a boy (named Insac) and a group of his friends given superpowers from God and the task to end Armageddon caused by the notorious “A Hundred Arms.” The villain A Hundred Arms was named this way because his victims, in interviews, would say that when he fights, his speed and stealth were so quick that it was as if he had a hundred arms.

  My writing began to escalate in middle school, when I left my eighth grade English teacher the first chapter I wrote of a novel about a postapocalyptic United States. I remember bothering her every day after class, asking if she had read my new work of fiction. I was overwhelmed with anxiety, unnoticeably shaking as I approached her desk, dreaming of being a renowned author by the age of fifteen and yet afraid of the opinions of others. Then, about three weeks later, Mrs. Spanier strolled across the room toward my desk with the notebook and declared, in her noticeable Southern accent, “Austin, good job,” then dropped it on my desk. The noise echoed across the silent classroom. I was shocked and slightly embarrassed as all my peers glanced over with half curiosity and half wonder. This didn’t mean I could continue writing my story though, as my classmates began to ask if they could read it next. I never saw that notebook again, and one reason was because soon after I was admitted into the hospital.

  Writing helped me survive cancer, as I journaled my experience with the chemotherapy and radiation, as well as the rollercoaster of emotions and survival instincts I had at the age of fourteen. I wrote about the dreams I had, about the anger I felt, and the acceptance I had with the idea of death’s possible invite into my young, mortal body. I also wrote about love, about God, and about the grand scheme of life. If it wasn’t for my escape into those few journals, I would have become a statistic in a medical journal, and what you hold in your hand would have never existed.

  Writing was what helped me manage my PTSD, which, at fifteen, made me fear the idea of even having a license, shaken by the thought of being alone with my emotions, to sit in complete silence. I wrote down my pain in the form of a novel for a year and a half, escaping into a world I could control. During this time in my life, writing was my sanity; it kept my head above water as I tried to move on from the pains that almost seemed torturous. My PTSD is still severe, and I have come to the sobering conclusion that the end of treatment doesn’t mean the completion of recovery.

  In conclusion, both Make-A-Wish and Rare Bird Books not only published my first novel, but have also made my lifelong dream—from my first word to my next breath—a reality. I have to admit that this entire process was emotional, from the moment I signed the contract, to the painful edits I had to write over the past summer, remembering how much of my own anger and despondency I stored inside and exploded onto these pages. They constantly portrayed a sense of patience, acceptance, and kindness that I will never forget. I would like to thank George Friedman, as well, for the inspiration for the futuristic word I create toward the end of my novel.

  I would like to also acknowledge Joy Mona, the illustrator for my novel and my good friend for the past two years. Before I even knew if Rare Bird Books would allow her to be my illustrator, she openly volunteered to brainstorm some sketches, wanting to contribute to the cause with no charge for her beautiful work. We sat at the Barnes and Noble café as I began a forty-five minute recitation of my novel’s overly complicated plotline, like a lawyer trying to convince Joy why my green door concept was such a special theme in my novel. Then I sipped my coffee, content with what I said when Joy began to spurt out ideas on how to make the symbolism even deeper than my original idea, proving to me that writing and painting are not so far apart. Her recommendations are, in fact, what you see on the front cover (and the inside cover as a full view of the painting), including the light from the cracked door stretching across the painting, the illusion of distance away from Mary’s bedroom door, and the face of Mary looking back into the world of Mark, Aaron, and Kenny, one last time. Joy’s painting is named Last Glance.

  Truthfully, it was an impossibility to find someone who could draw something anymore personal and understand my dense, serious themes more than Joy Mona, because we were both in the exclusive, yet unanimously disgusted club called “The Oncology Floor.”

  Joy’s mother’s name was Maria Mona and suffered through stage four breast cancer. Just like me, cancer was a tune she had to face while growing up and, from the hell that is cancer, grew her gift, which no one can deny. Joy drew for her mother, looking for a grin on her face, or delight in her eyes, which is why having her artwork is such an honor. Cancer is a double-sided coin; there will always be two separate stories: the story from the diagnosed patient and from the family members who had to witness it. I cannot be more grateful to have both sides of the coin represented in my novel.

  ◆◆◆

  This book was published as a wish experience through Make-A-Wish Arizona and Rare Bird Books. Author and wish kid, Austin Thacker, has generously agreed to offer a percentage of proceeds from the sale of the book to go toward granting future wishes in Arizona for children dealing with critical illnesses. For more information on Make-A-Wish Arizona, please visit www
.arizona.wish.org.