Tear Drops and Ink: A Collection of Short General Fiction Stories

Emmy's Last Christmas

"I'm sorry you couldn't find a donor."

Jessie smiled at the earnest woman standing next to her with her fingers twisting in her lap.

"It's not your fault. The doctors have done everything they can; it's just bad luck that nobody on the bone marrow register is a match for Emmy." She paused, looking down, before meeting the woman's eyes again. "I can't thank you enough; Maggie's Centre has been such a tremendous source of help for us all. Jason and I...we would never have coped without Maggie's. The guilt, the shock, the helplessness – all those would have consumed us. We would never have found this strength to get through this. Talking to you and others at the centre really spurred us on and gave us a little hope each time to focus on, and allow us to appreciate the time we have left with our daughter. I really can't thank you enough, Andie."

"Please know that we at Maggie's will continue to support you after Emmy...departs."

"Thank you, Andie," Jessie said quietly. The other woman nodded and stood up. She gave a quick nod at Emmy's dad, who nodded back.

"Say goodbye to Andie, Emmy," he murmured, smiling down at his daughter. Emmy's blue eyes, huge on her gaunt face, met the woman's and she smiled too, waving a thin little hand.

"I'll show myself out," Andie said in a soft voice.

Emmy's mum padded softly across the bedroom floor and took her seat next to the head of the little girl's bed again, slipping a hand into her daughter's. The air smelt of salted caramel due to the numerous scented candles that had been lit and placed around the room. It was Emmy's request; as the electric lighting hurt her eyes and the candles reminded her of her favourite treat back when she was well enough to bake with her mum. The flickering flames threw shadows on the wallpapered walls, making the cartoon princesses, dragons and elves dance.

The little girl lay in bed, surrounded by her adored fluffy stuffed toys, which had taken up most of her double bed and further swamped her already thin and cachexic figure. Her cuddle blanket was next to her head on her right hand side, as usual, she clutched at it as she listened to her dad telling her bedtime stories.

Looking her darling daughter's usual fascinated, intense expression, Jessie couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt, which she thought she had gotten control over. She could never forget the day the doctors told her that Emmy had cancer, or the day that they told her that there was nothing more they could do without a matched donor. While there was treatment, there was hope; without treatment, it was like an abyss had opened beneath her feet and all her hopes and dreams had crumpled into it. It was hard to accept that Emmy wasn't going to make it, wasn't going to become a teenager, that Jessie would never see her graduate from school, that Emmy wasn't going to become a mum herself. It was even harder telling an eight-year-old child that she was going to die.

But Emmy took the terrible news with such braveness and dignity that Jessie was humbled. She hadn't realised her little girl had grown up so much in the past year. There had been no tears or anger when she broke the news. There was only a small silence, followed by a quiet, "Will I still be able to see you and Daddy?"

Jessie slipped into bed, ignoring the tumble of toys onto the carpeted floor, and wrapped her arms around her daughter. She took a long sniff, taking in the familiar scent of soft skin and baby wash and nuzzled against the hat that she had knitted for Emmy when her hair had started to fall out after her first lot of chemotherapy. It was pink with purple stripes, as she had asked, and ended with a bobble at the top. She had never stopped wearing it, except for when it needed to be washed.

Jessie made herself remember everything about that moment: the flickering shadows on the wall and the pink curtains with the hearts, the quiet wind blowing outside in the darkness, the soft expression on her husband's face as he retold Emmy's beloved story, the curve of Emmy's sharp spine against her, the comforting smells and the lilt in her little girl's voice as she asked the question she always asked with that story: "Will the princess ever see her parents again?", "Will the prince treat her nicely?" and her personal favourite, "Can you tell me the story again?".