Abbey Burning Love. Donan Ph.D. Berg
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When closed, Melissa slid out of bed feet first, walked barefoot to the girl, and wrapped both arms around the girl’s shoulders. Melissa gently comforted the girl in a big loving hug. She whispered into the girl’s right ear. “Jane, thank you. I’m blessed to know you. You’re a strong young lady. We all love you, now and always.” The mother’s hand touched Melissa’s as Melissa released Jane.
“We love you too, Melissa,” the mother said. A mother Melissa understood always told Jane she’d never have to stay in a hospital for more than an hour. Melissa couldn’t sleep imposing such unreality upon a child and, simultaneously, couldn’t negate the underlying hope the action attempted to foster. “Jane and I must go. You understand why we can’t stay long.”
Melissa walked bedside, pressed the nurse call button, and slid onto the mattress, chilled toes under a sheet. She blew a kiss to Jane. The girl’s rebounding smile displayed a dimple.
As mother and daughter left, Melissa’s emotions tugged on both heart chambers as Jane clamped both hands hard onto her mother’s arm. Melissa experienced the pain of losing a mother early. A helpless mother with a child ravaged by cancer must endure even greater pain. The nurse arrived to disrupt Melissa’s thoughts. “I’m exhausted,” Melissa explained. “Please thank anyone else waiting. My energy’s sapped.” The nurse adjusted Melissa’s bed to horizontal and flipped a quiet indicator on the door to do-not-disturb.
Melissa dropped a heavy head on the pillow. She’d spent years conditioning mind, heart, and soul not to be buried by emotion. Jane chiseled a chink into the wall erected around Melissa’s heart. The girl celebrated a thirteenth birthday last month at Wally’s Club, Melissa’s employer. Jane’s doctor confided to Melissa and Jane’s mother that even with aggressive chemotherapy and the best scenario Jane wouldn’t reach twenty-one years.
Cancer didn’t instigate Melissa’s sobbing waterworks. She’d written out a resolution prior to The Abbey Gala to revamp her life. She prayed she could attain both a loving relationship with a male partner and fulfill Father’s legacy of Abbey good works. The fire had a cause. First and foremost, no matter the fire’s cause, it fell upon her shoulders to galvanize community support for rebuilding. A community couldn’t deny Father’s dream. Citizens needed the rebuilt Abbey as a memorial to the faith and generosity of those who perished. A new Abbey would cleanse the tarnish of past misdeeds committed within its walls. That, to Melissa, spoke of a rational God’s plan.
* * *
Melissa reached into the hospital room closet for the sweats and sneakers Carol delivered the day before. She’d spent a restful Thursday morning. Hope rode warm sunrays dancing on walls and floor. Her throat improved fifty percent and lungs didn’t ache on the first three or four deep breaths. At the floor’s nursing station, she cajoled a friendly nurse into hinting that Pedro’s room could be found with a walk down the west wing. Pedro’s younger sister, barely four-foot tall, stood outside a room door.
“Juanita, how’s Pedro?”
The dark eyes closed. Melissa refrained from caressing the fluffy black hair. “They took him away.” She rested a heel on a toe. “They took him.”
Melissa bent forward and wrapped arms around Juanita’s shoulders, tried not to squeeze too hard, and held on unable not to sob. Through tears Melissa asked, “Where’s your mother?”
“She said to wait.”
If Juanita cried, the eyes didn’t show it. Sad eyes, terrifically sad eyes.
“Miss Malone, are you all right?”
Melissa released Juanita and turned to gaze at Mrs. Lopez, Pedro’s mother. “Si. Juanita says Pedro’s gone.”
“His spirit in heaven. Funeral maybe three, four days.”
Melissa leaned against the hallway wall to prevent a collapse. The expected happening unexpectedly always ripped to the core, drove the hurt into the soul. Pedro played basketball in The Abbey ballroom both before and after coming to Wally’s Club. “I’m so sorry. Sorry I didn’t visit him before today.”
Melissa slumped into Mrs. Lopez’s arms until summoned assistance arrived. Two nurses guided Melissa into a wheelchair destined to make the return room journey less complicated.
* * *
After two bites, Melissa’s stomach balked, acid rose to burn inside her chest, and she bypassed lunch. With the doctor’s earlier blessing and notice at two p.m. to the nursing supervisor, Melissa carried two flowering African violets to the patient third floor sunroom.
“Young lady, there’s an open chair next to me. You can add more than sunshine to my day.”
“Mr. Pfitzenmaier, your sweet talk will have me blushing in a minute.”
The older gentleman, sitting on an armless wooden chair with a walker at his side, flashed a broad, yellow-stained, ragged-edge-tooth smile. Streaming sunlight from a south-facing window warmed legs encircled with pressure bandages below the knees. Melissa carefully avoided bumping either leg. Additional gauze wrapped both palms with the nicotine-stained fingertips barely visible. “Doubt that. A pretty lady like you must get compliments every day from men younger than seventy-five.” She set one violet on the room’s center table. “And, please call me Oscar.”
The second violet, she decided, should adorn the east windowsill. Melissa greeted two women patients before she honored Oscar’s invitation. One woman responded with a scowl before Melissa turned to Oscar. “How are you today?”
“Doing okay.” He bent sideways, closer. His large, black-rimmed glasses nearly fell off his nose. “That’s if I can sneak a cigarette.” He laughed. “How’s your father? He took a terrible blow from that ceiling beam.”
“He’s in Iowa City. Not too good. We’re all praying for him.” Oscar bowed his head. “Were you at The Abbey Gala?”
“Yes, indeed. Haven’t missed one in thirty years although they’re tamer now.” He placed a bandaged hand in front of his mouth. “Enjoyed myself in the old days. Never had woman refuse a good banquet invitation.”
Melissa sat up straighter, crossed legs at the ankles. “Where were you seated, if you can remember?” She wasn’t trying to be cruel.
“Let’s see, maybe sixth row of tables, aisle on the hallway side.”
She tried to mentally twist perspective from standing on stage to being on the ballroom floor. “Would that be on the left as you face the stage?”
“I’d say so.”
A bath-robed gentleman, newly arrived, stood at the sunroom’s entrance and stared at Melissa and Oscar. A woman in a blue blouse flexed her index finger to have the new visitor come to her. He started to. Melissa lost sight of him as she returned gaze to Oscar. His gala presence intrigued Melissa and closest exit would’ve been via the vestibule she’d been carried through. “You remember seeing a woman being carried out on the shoulders of a man?”
“Yep, sure did.”
Melissa’s fingers to an inside wrist estimated a forty-point pulse rise. “Did you recognize the man?”
“Yep, Clarence Jenkins.”
Melissa couldn’t mentally picture Clarence. She’d heard the name. Possibly a farmer. He’d have calloused hands. “Did you see the woman?”
“Like I said. Maybe a double arm’s length in front of me. Embarrassing it was.” Oscar’s exposed fingertips rubbed his chin.
“Whatcha mean?” Melissa’s stomach twisted into knots; heart palpitations constant, ready to zing off the chart. Was she the woman?
Oscar coughed, a hoarse raspy effort requiring the hand gauze absorb spittle. “Women in short dresses shouldn’t to be carried. You get my drift.”
“Yeah. But maybe you recognized the woman?” Melissa held her