Letters to Audrine

1- My Dear Audrine

I remember the day my brother was born. I remember the nice nurse who showed me how to get a bag of chips out of the vending machine as my mother was screaming in pain down the hallway and my dad was trying to encourage her through the ordeal. I didn't want a brother and the thought of not being the center of attention in my family infuriated me. I love him now, but when I was eleven and spoiled as an only child, I was very upset when I heard the loud cries of the new baby. But when that same nurse led me into the room, and I got to hold him for the first time in my little arms, I knew that I would spend the rest of my life protecting him from all harm.

That was the only time that I'd ever been in a hospital before. I guess I was too preoccupied with the threat of the new baby and the cheese dust on my fingers to remember how cold the draft is, and how sterile everything seems.

Now as I was being dragged through the hospital, with my mom's firm grip around my hand, I'm realizing that this hospital is so quiet but also enormous. So white, clean, and very orderly. And like I remember from seven years ago, there are vending machines. Taunting the patrons of the hospital, as if some snack could heal the pain its consumers felt.

The last time that I was here, I fell in love with a new life. This time, I'm watching one go.

"It's not looking good," my Aunt Marie tells my mother as we turn the corner into one of the sterile rooms. She's crying, wiping away her tears once she realizes that she's not alone with her father anymore. Her father, my grandpa, is lying in the hospital bed, eyes closed, hooked up to machines.

We didn't even know that he was sick. One day, he was playing golf with his country club buddies and the next, he's suffering a bad heart attack, and recovery doesn't seem very likely.

My mother and I found out that he'd been hospitalized only half an hour ago, and I have barely processed this information. I haven't cried at all, but I do have a sinking nauseating feeling in my stomach and a deep sense of denial. We just had dinner together a few days ago; he was so happy and smiling, laughing. He's not really that sick, and he'll be back home by tonight... right?

My mom walks closer to the bed, but I stay back by the door. He's so pale, his wrinkled skin looks even more wrinkly. He doesn't even look like himself. I feel like I don't even know the man lying on the bed in front of me.

"What did the doctor say?" my mom asks her sister.

"That he won't recover," Aunt Marie says in a quiet voice, as to not wake him up. "Oh, Allison, I just don't know what we're going to do."

She falls into hysterics again, and my mother goes to her side to comfort her. My aunt has always been the more emotionally vulnerable of the two, and my mom has been her rock through hard times. I'm surprised though, that my mom also sheds a few tears. Even though this is her father and he's dying, she's always been so poised and unaffected by emotions. I don't think I've ever seen her cry.

"Maisie," a quiet, raspy voice says my name and I look up to see my grandpa awake now, looking at me. I don't even recognize his voice.

"I'm here, Grandpa," I assure him, my shaky knees somehow start carrying me toward the left side of his bed.

"Do you need anything, Dad?" my mom asks him.

"I'm okay," he assures her, and then lets out a pained cough and reaches toward my hand. I let him put my hand in his. His hand is so cold and fragile, and just feeling his skin on mine makes me start tearing up. "I need to talk to Maisie alone just for a moment."

This confuses all three of us; why would he want to speak only to me instead of his two daughters?

"Why?" my mom voices her confusion, but Marie just starts nudging them both out of the room.