Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Once upon a time there lived – or rather, struggled to live – a woman named Ethel. Her skin was pale, stretched paper thin by the ravages of time. After her second fall, which had shattered her left hip and stolen her independence, they had brought her here. Eyes downcast as they pushed her wheel chair through its looming doors, Ethel’s family had stayed long after the necessary papers were signed. Their guilty small talk kept them pinned to the plastic chairs. To Ethel it was nonsensical chatter, white noise that drowned out the bustle of white coats padding up and down the long hallways.
Every day began and ended much like the one that preceded it. A tray of lukewarm cereal, a glass of orange juice and a small, red bowl of canned fruit. No longer able-bodied and strong, she pushed the tray aside and resigned herself to the fact that the Wesley Mission would be her home until she left this earth.
She had mourned the independence afforded by the tiny, second-hand red Fiat that she had driven for some twenty-odd years. She mourned the childhoods of her children, long grown, and the stability of married life. It was far from rosy, but in those earlier days she had gotten out of bed in the mornings, placed one foot in front of the next and taken on the responsibilities of raising a young family with stoic determination. There were mouths to feed and dirty floors to clean, not to mention the task of balancing her husband’s books, all the while pretending not to have discovered the cash payments he made. In those days, numb to the pain, she had simply continued to live. But now…well now there was no reason to live. No breakfasts to make, no spills to wipe, no ability to get out of bed in the mornings. And so finally, after 53 years and five days, Ethel gave herself permission to grieve.
It was not for the whims of youth that she wept, nor the friendships of those who had passed before her. Finally, after all these years, she would allow herself permission to grieve the loss of her first born child.
It was during the war years that she had met and fallen in love with an American serviceman. His boat had docked and after much persuasion, Ethel had finally agreed to meet Arthur for a drink. He was not traditionally handsome, nor charming – but what he lacked in looks, Arthur certainly made up for in wit and humor. Because of that, she let him walk her home. When his hand lingered on her knee she had brazenly leaned in to kiss him, right there on the love seat. Just the thought of it still made her blush, all these years later.
Several weeks later Arthur’s boat set sail, with him on it. He had gone in a flurry of promises, he promising to return quickly and she promising to wait, no matter how long it took. The weeks turned in to months and with still no word, Ethel made the heart stopping decision to keep her baby. An unmarried woman in the 1940’s was no longer as uncommon – albeit still scandalous, as you might think. It was the war, after all. And because of that, she would simply nod and smile at the prying eyes of those who judged her rounding belly.
Money was hard to come by and after struggling to raise a baby on her own, Ethel relied heavily on her only sister, Mary, to babysit. Shifts at the diner were long, and Mary’s five children taxing. This went on until Mary’s husband had finally had enough. Putting his foot down, he insisted that Ethel find her infant son somewhere else to go.
It just so happened that Mary knew of a childless woman who was more than happy to mind the child for free. Barren, the couple had given up on the dream of having their own children years earlier. After some time, the couple had managed to convince Ethel that her son was better off in their care. They were well off, with the ability to give a small child every opportunity the world could offer. Ethel finally relented, agreeing that she would spend a year getting back on her feet. When she had managed to save some money, she would be back for him. Without help, she could no longer feed or clothe her child. There were no other options. Regular visits were of course welcomed and Ethel left their home, feeling reassured.
Barely a week had passed when she knocked on the large, wooden door, patiently at first. Her patience soon turned to panic, a knot in her stomach that twisted violently as she banged on the door, shouting. She had stood there, pounding fists until her raw knuckles bled and a frightened neighbour had finally called the police. That day – the day that she had returned to find the couple gone, their home packed up and no car parked in the drive, her three year old child in tow – was a day she would never forget. Nor would she every forget his face, with every freckle etched in her memory, just as raw as if it had happened yesterday.
And so she lay there, on that steel framed bed in a tiny, white room. The Wesley Mission was sterile and clean, the perfect place to rest, reuniting with her grief until she could be reunited with him. With Lee, the son that after all these years she had finally given herself permission to grieve.