by Amy Miles
“We’ve done all we can on our end,” Dr. Kendall said, taking off his scrub cap to reveal his bald spot. “All we can do now is wait. If it works, we’ll see her vitals start to recover within a few hours. If not...”
We all knew the outcome if her vitals didn’t improve. She’d go into cardiac arrest and there would be nothing they could do to bring her back.
I went to her recovery room while Ma and Da lingered a bit longer to ask the physician more questions. I knew my time might be limited and I had things that needed to be said.
The sound of Alana’s heart monitor beeping in the background when I entered was comforting. As long as the current rhythm stayed consistent, she was still in there. Still my sister—recovering from the beast that tried to kill her.
Pulling up a chair and grabbing her hand, I swallowed down my emotion. I looked up at the off-white ceiling in an effort to hold back the tears. My eyes lowered to the coving in the hallway. A sparkling garland peppered with red plastic berries was still tacked to the wall, even though the time for making merry had long since come and gone.
“At least she made it through Christmas,” I could hear Da saying in my head. I remembered thinking at the time that perhaps she had been holding out for the holidays to pass. They had come and gone, yet she still clung to life.
I looked down at her skeletal body and knew how this day would end.
“Oh, Lana. Ever since you got sick three years ago, there has been this weight in my chest.” I grabbed at my shirt and yanked at the fabric. “I was a fool to believe I’d come in here today to finally feel that weight lifted.” My eyes filled with tears. “But it doesn’t feel better, Lana.” I sank down into the chair beside her. “In fact, it feels a lot bloody worse.”
The procedure hadn’t worked. I could feel how weak she was now. My own life felt as though it were on its last breath.
Fat tears began to stream down my face, completely destroying the strong mask I wore at home. “It’s okay, Lana.”
The tears came freely now, making it hard to speak, but she had to know. She had to know she had my permission. “You don’t have to fight anymore. You can let go now.” I looked down at her frozen face, half expecting her relief to show. “I will take care of Ma and Da. It will be okay. I want you to be at peace. You don’t have to hold on for us anymore. It’s okay...”
I looked down at Alana’s hand and held fast. “I love you, sis. You are the other half of my soul and I’ll be lost without ya, but I also can’t be selfish anymore. I can’t keep praying for you to fight a battle you never had any hope of winning. It’s clear to me now that your spirit is needed elsewhere.”
The thrum of her monitor seemed to hesitate as though it was processing my words. “I don’t want to see you in pain anymore,” I managed to get out.
I could only make out vague blobs of colour around me through the wall of tears hugging my eyes. I pinched them closed and rested my head on her pillow, thoroughly drained with emotion.
A moment later, a single beep began an erratic pattern. Faster. Much too fast. I bit back the tears. She was going into cardiac arrest. The chemo was killing her.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.
A nurse came in, alerted by the alarms, followed shortly thereafter by Ma and Da. Their wails of dismay bounced off the corners of my brain. It was all happening so fast and yet I felt like I was moving through mud. I felt myself stand up as Ma swooped in to take my place and hold tight to her daughter’s hand. That was how it should be.
Numb, I moved towards the door and out of her room. I had said my goodbyes. I didn’t need the memory of her writhing in pain as they attempted to restart her heart. I wanted to remember her as she was. Calm and peaceful.
“Goodbye, Lana,” I whispered before escaping the room to collapse into a heap in the first chair I saw.
CHAPTER TEN
TARYN
I T HAD BEEN A really long and surprisingly uneventful day. The old geezer that was first on my list went on the ferry without a fuss. He just mumbled something about football and followed me straight back to the dock. Soul crossings weren’t always that easy. Not one, but two of my crossovers today needed a bit of persuading before they accepted that they were really dead. My training as a banshee demanded that I help ease the souls into the Netherworld gently, but sometimes I’d rather just kick them for being so blind and say, “You’re dead, mate. Yeah, it’s bad luck and all, but that’s the shite you were dealt, now move on.”
I kept looking over my shoulder, just in case, but there were no shadows lurking or menacing bad guys waiting to jump me. And there wasn’t any sign of that reaper I ran into at the hospital.
Reaching my final soul of the day had been quite a trek for me. Usually, my territory didn’t stretch this far so late at night. On a nice summer day, I might have enjoyed the walk, but not at twilight during the middle of January. It was bloody well the bitterest cold I had felt all year. The king might not have tried to kill me today, but he sure as hell made sure I had to suffer a bit.
By the time I stopped in front of the building and looked up at the name, I was frozen through. Saint Brigid Cancer Centre.
A chill ran down my spine as I blew warmth back into my fingers. I hadn’t stepped foot in this building since my attack. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as I placed my hand on my hip, feeling the reassuring bulge of my dagger beneath the layers of my cloak. My rational brain told me that an attack could happen anywhere, not just at this particular hospital, but I wasn’t going in there blind a second time.
As I stepped through the front door, I remained alert, watching for anything out of the ordinary. I passed a couple of banshees going about their jobs and pulled my hood lower, heading on instinct to where the stairwell would be. I hated how all hospital wards inevitably were laid out the same. Nurses became faceless, doctors were a blur of pastel surgical garb or white coats, and the sounds of grief-stricken families huddled in patient rooms held the same wailing tone.
Saint Brigid Cancer Centre had one very distinct difference...the scent of death was far more prevalent here than a normal hospital.
Turning down another wing, I moved beyond the nearly empty waiting room with its channel fixed on the news and moved towards my soul’s room. With each step I took, I grew more ill at ease. My final soul of the day was located in the room directly across from where I was attacked.
As I approached the area, I could still see my bloody handprints smeared across the walls. This was the spot I almost died. I reached out to steady myself on the wall as I sucked in huge breaths.
“You are strong. You are in control.” The words sounded just as ridiculous as when my da had told me to use them anytime I felt anxious. “What a load of bollocks.”
Stepping over the cleaned tiles, I turned to face my intended room.
Although I had been doing this job for years, it never got easy to watch people die. Some were bitter to the very end, belligerent and downright hateful. With others, you could smell their terror as the shadows began to creep in. While other humans went with a peace and grace that I admired. It was that sense of calm I felt radiating out of the soul I was here to collect when I entered the hospital room of my last assignment: Alana Gallagher.
The steady drone of a heart monitor beeped between the wheezing sobs of people around her bed. A woman stood in a man’s embrace, her shoulders shuddering as she buried her head in his chest. She was slight of stature and her wedding band a perfectly smaller match to her husband’s.
The woman was clearly the mother of the dying girl. She had reddish tones in her hair. I liked the way highlights of auburn caught in the fading sunlight that ran the length of the wall just over the hospital bed. Her husband was tall and thin, his hands calloused, and his nails painted black at the edges with what appeared to be oil residue. There was a light dusting of gray at his temples and deep lines etched into his face.
Their clothes were simple, plain, and u
nassuming. I liked them instantly. No pretenses. No masks.
Tears were normal. Wailing and unintelligible pleading were, too. Sometimes I walked into the complete silence of shock. This room was in mourning, bracing for the final moment to arrive. All very common reactions.
It was the girl, however, who was different. She lay still and fragile in the hospital bed, her eyes closed and yet I felt as if she sensed my presence. Her skin was pale and gaunt, stretched too tight over her cheekbones. Her hands and arms were a patchwork of bruises from recent IV sticks. A feeding tube and a secondary coil of tubing snaked out from under her covers, trailing down to a small yellowish pouch that hung from a bar on her bedrail.
Despite my inability to look into this girl’s eyes, I recognized the life that lived beneath her lids. This one was a fighter. There was little doubt of that, considering how long she had fought to remain on this earth.
Humans liked to believe in fate, in a greater purpose. In reality, death was unavoidable. It was planned and executed. I never could understand how or why King Baylor chose someone so young.
I didn’t make the rules and I sure as hell didn’t like many of them. My role was to enforce them. That was it. Contrary to what the myths said, there weren’t any silly strings to be cut or a giant hourglass slowly sifting the sands of time. It was far more mundane with only a man at a desk with a pen.
As I approached this girl’s bedside, I couldn’t help but feel the urgency in her aura. Her fingers twitched against her sides as if she subconsciously wished to reach out and touch me. She looked so tiny in the bed, her body taking up less than half of the space. I could make out an indent where someone had recently sat beside her. Droplets of tears stained the sheet a darker white.
Beside me, the girl’s mother wiped at her nose with a tissue. Her face was red and blotchy. When she opened her eyes I saw how bloodshot they were. Her husband hardly looked any better. He appeared barely able to remain standing.
“We nearly lost her,” the woman cried into her tissue.
“Mrs. Gallagher,” the physician said, lowering his gaze. “She may seem at rest now but that is only because we have given her something for the pain…”
The woman’s fingers clutched her husband’s. “What do you mean?”
The physician looked at the husband and then back at the wife. “I’m afraid that the surgery was not a success. Her heart is failing. It’s only a matter of time now. A brief time at that.”
The woman’s hands went to her mouth.
“It’s time to say your goodbyes,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
The physician gave her shoulder a slight squeeze before walking to the door and leaving them with their daughter.
“Well, we knew this moment would come.” The sadness in the father’s voice made my throat tighten.
I had seen this same scene play out a thousand times and yet this one started to get to me. Maybe it was because I saw a part of myself in the girl, in her will to live and fight against all odds. I admired that.
I reached down and took the girl’s hand in mine, careful not to move her so much that her parents would notice. Her fingers twitched in mine. I stared down at her hand, amazed at the warmth pooling in my chest at her touch. I never touched the dying, not before their passing, at least. Not because it was forbidden but because I wanted to remain detached. I needed to. This girl, Alana, however, made me long for a connection. To understand what this moment felt like when it was surrounded by peace and serenity instead of the fear I had felt when fighting for my own life.
Her body may have wasted away, caving in where it should have been flush with vibrant life that youth held for humans and yet I saw beauty.
I smiled down at her as I knelt beside her bed. “You have fought bravely, lass. No one will be taking that from ya.”
I drew my hand back as I felt my chest tighten once more. Fate was a cruel bitch to take someone like her so soon. Death was the humane path for her to take considering the alternative was no life at all, but it was a path that should not have been forced on her until she was old and surrounded by grandchildren.
Stop it, Taryn. She’s a job. Nothing more. I lowered my gaze. Get your fool head in the game and be done with it.
And yet, I knew she was more than that somehow. She was the light to parallel my darkness, the angel to the demons I saw all around me. This girl was bound for the Isle of Glass, a place of peace and love, while I would remain locked in a constant battle with the ugliness that had poisoned my world. Alana would never see the vile Lorcan, never feel fear again.
I envied her for that.
“They love you,” I said, glancing at her parents.
They stood huddled in the corner, clinging to each other. It was time.
I squeezed her hand. “It doesn’t hurt, you know. Not the actual dying part, that is. It’s a wee bit like blowing out a deep breath. Your eyes will close and when they open again, it will all be over.”
Her heart monitor flickered abnormally. It only happened once, but I knew more would follow. I looked at her parents and saw that the anomaly had gone unnoticed.
“You’ll like the Isle of Glass. It’s warm and filled with the loveliest colours ya can imagine. Sandy beaches with tall palms reachin’ for the blue skies above. The water is clear and the birds in the trees sing each night to welcome the moon. And the City of Finals…there aren’t words to be describing its beauty.”
Drawing my hood back, I sank down onto the edge of her bed and placed my other hand on her leg. It would be no trouble at all for me to wrap my entire hand around her thigh if I tried.
“Wait till ya see the ship you will be sailing on. Made all with white birch, crafted by builders far beyond our shores with chisel and hammer. They carve magic symbols into the hull for protection in the crossing, don’t ya know?”
I had never been to the Isle of Glass, but I hoped that someday I’d see it for myself.
“The masts are bronze, gold, and silver. The railings gleam with hues of blue and green made with the finest sea glass to wash upon our shores. The long bench seats are crafted from the towering pines of the Diamuid Mountains not far from my home. They grow nearly ten times the height of a man and it takes four to fell each one.”
There was a gentle lessening of her struggles to breathe as I continued, letting the tone of my voice soothe her, preparing her for the crossing. The light smattering of freckles splashed across her cheeks stood out against her pallid skin. Her lips were a pale blue, but I was sure they once boasted a vibrant red. A small knitted cap sat upon her head, though I didn’t see the point. Whether bald or draped with long flowing auburn tresses to match her family, she was still quite lovely.
I fell silent as her breathing hitched. Her body spasmed and the heart monitor beeped erratically. She was ready.
“Alana!” Her ma lurched away from her husband and raced to her daughter’s bedside. “Don’t go. Please, not yet! Someone help her!” she yelled towards the open doorway.
I patted the back of Alana’s hand and rose. “Don’t you be fighting it. Time to rest now, lass.”
Stepping back, I watched as the mother clung to her daughter’s frail arm. Her da stood at his wife’s shoulder, holding her, seeming to know this was his daughter’s time. His lower lip quivered as he reached out and placed a trembling hand on the heart monitor.
Alana couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had finally filled with fluid, despite the doctor’s best efforts to drain them. I wanted to close my eyes, to look away from the drowning girl, but I couldn’t. She deserved to sense my confidence when she passed.
As fluid bubbled past Alana’s lips and trailed down her chin, I prayed that her passing was not as traumatic as it looked.
“Do something!” her ma begged, her eyes wide with fright. She looked at her husband for help and blanched when she saw that he had unplugged the heart monitor. “What are you doing? We have to call for help. Dr. Kendall, the nurses…someone has to help her.”
“No.” He shook his head and reached for his wife. She resisted his touch, craning her neck wildly to look towards the door. She could run out for help, but being at the end of the hall and with the rising commotion from a few rooms over as another soul was in the process of passing, I doubted anyone would hear. “No more tests. No more pain. Alana deserves to be at peace.”
“But she’s my little girl.” The mother’s wail was muffled by her husband’s chest as he enveloped her. He stared down at his daughter with tears streaming along his cheeks. His whole body shook as he silently whispered goodbye.
Alana’s mouth fell slack and her eyes shifted. Her body stopped its tremors. I blew out a slow, weighted breath. That was a hard one.
“Thank you,” a voice called out from behind me. I turned to find a stunning girl standing beside me.
Alana’s once bald head was now covered in heavy waves of dark red hair that fell around slender shoulders. Her cheeks were touched with a natural rose tint and her lips were kissed with life once more. She had been restored to her former self, and she was simply radiant, just as I knew she would be.
“What are ya thankin’ me for?” I asked.
“I could hear you speaking, telling me all of those wonderful things. It was kind of you to try to ease my fears.”
I smiled. It was rare that I was ever thanked. “You’re welcome. My name is Taryn.”
“Alana.”
“I know who ya are.” I laughed. “You’re why I’m here.”
Alana walked towards me, her feet bare and her posture already betraying a newfound comfort in her body. The hospital gown fit her better around the bust and hips now. Gone was the skeletal girl from the hospital bed. She looked down at herself, running her hands slowly along the hem of the fabric draped over her shoulders.
“Don’t worry. You don’t have to wear that horrid gown for long. You can change when we get to the other side.”