Death and the Girl

Across the wood-chipped playground, a little girl ran to the swings, a skip in her step and a giggle bubbling from her mouth. Her father trailed behind, a little less enthusiastic, kicking at the chips and shaking them out of his shoe. The girl tried to get into the swing herself, but being so small, she could only wiggle onto her stomach and push herself with her feet. Her father walked up behind her and helped her sit on the swing rightly, giving her a push which sent her laughing and kicking her feet up into the air as she rocketed forward on the swing. Her laughter could be heard all the way to the fence line where I stood, watching.

The higher and higher up she went, the louder her giggling became. A cool gust of wind rattled the limp swings beside the little girl and her father. It didn’t faze me, not much could. I usually just stood and watched people as they went about their days. People watching was one of my favorite past times, although if they knew, the ones I watched probably wouldn’t like it very much.

This little girl, something about her, urged me to get closer but I didn’t. Not yet, anyways. Here, her laughter made her more alive and vibrant, which was odd, seeing as her soul seemed to be crying out to me. She probably didn’t know it, perhaps neither did her parents yet. They would soon discover my looming presence though and then I could get closer. But for now, I watched her swing high into the air, her father’s gentle pushes keeping her flying high.

I did notice the bruises. The ones on her frail little legs, on her elbows, even the nasty looking one on her forehead, where she must have fallen down, tripped over her own small feet. Her parents had dressed her in shorts and a little pink t-shirt, exposing the imperfections they didn’t realize had a more sinister meaning yet. The other children at the park would glance at her and stare for a moment, before running off and clambering up the playscape, already forgetting the girl with the strange bruises. Her parents didn’t seem too concerned, as she was still young and clumsy, attributing them to her lack of balance.

“Come on guys, I’m hungry!” A woman called from across the park after a few minutes. I switched my gaze now over to the mother, who waved to her husband and little girl. Before I could even look back to the swings, the girl had already jumped off the swing and stumbled to regain her balance enough before taking off towards her mother. Her father chuckled to himself, shaking his head and his shoe, trying to shake out a loose woodchip that had found its way inside again. The little girl glanced behind her, calling out to her father to hurry up, and as she returned her gaze to her mother, her eyes paused on me. I stared back, unsure if she really was looking at me, or past me.

She held my gaze for a moment, shocking me more than herself. Could she really see me? The girl had stopped in her tracks, taking me in with curiosity. After a moment of examination, her little pink lips began to crack into a friendly smile, and she began to wave. Taken aback and not wanting to confirm her vision of me, I quickly turned around and stalked off. She wasn’t supposed to see me.

The girl’s father came up behind her and scooped her up, breaking her gaze trained on my back as he carried her to the car. I turned back around for a moment more and watched the girl get buckled in and the car door shut. The family drove away, leaving me alone to wonder how much time this little girl had left if she could already see me.

One of my most popular spots to watch people was the old folk’s home. They shuffled around with their walkers, straining to keep breathing and stay hydrated throughout the day, and yet strangely determined not to admit their bodies were failing them. Some would wait for me in their chairs, having fallen asleep watching the news, only to never wake up. Others popped out their dentures and went to bed, praying that when I came to get them it wouldn’t hurt. Once I even had one clutch dramatically at their heart, let out a faint cry, and face plant right into their rice pudding they adored so much. I had to stifle my laughter when going to collect that one. He had laughed at himself afterwards as well, so I wasn’t too ashamed to crack a smile.

I frequently think about death perhaps even more than the people I come to collect. People could die, feel pain, cease to exist in a second. What pain did they feel when their heart stopped beating, or when a vessel in their brain popped? Or when their lungs filled with liquid to the point that they were drowning with every breath of air they tried to drink in? Every time someone suffered from these ailments, I was there, watching over, pondering what was happening inside their minds. They never suffered long once I showed up.

Once I arrived, a simple touch would cure their pain and anguish. I would help them stand up and move on. Most were horrified. Scared of me and the pain they think I inflict upon them. Thinking that I was the one who made their kidney fail– how could I make them suffer so much pain? They would curse at me, try to attack me now that they had some strength again. I would just shake my head and drag them behind me, off to their afterlife.

Being death drained me, I think, more than the people I collected. Over the years I have become more of a quiet, stonewalled collector. I tend not to talk to those I receive, as I don’t want to hear about what they’re leaving behind, or them asking, begging, pleading to be sent back, just for one more day. This was my job, after all. It’s not like I chose this for myself. I also don’t get to choose who comes with me when. It’s a thankless, loveless, rewardless job.

Today was a man named Robby. A very old, darker skinned man. His daughter frequently came to visit him, making his last hours enjoyable, as she was just leaving as I was arriving. He lay in his stiff hospital bed, thinking about his daughter and the treats she might bring him tomorrow. He shut his eyes, his breath slowing as I approached. I eased open the door and came to sit beside him, letting him have a few more breaths. His eyes moved quickly under his closed eyelids, making me wonder what he was thinking about now. His leg jerked erratically and he yelped quietly. Robby’s bottom lip trembled, fear washing over him. He must realize I’m here now. I sighed and stood over his frail, thin body. He had been losing weight for a few weeks now, and he was reduced to mostly paper-thin skin and weak bones.

I leaned over and put my hand to his chest. His eyebrows scrunched together and made his forehead riddled with wrinkles. For a few pulses, his heart fought against my hand, but eventually gave up, quitting its beating. Robby’s last breath escaped his lips, the fear from before melting off his face. His body looked peaceful as I helped his spirit up and out of the bed. Robby shakily stood beside me, taking me and my tall, ghastly form in, before turning back to his old body laying before him. He lurched over and clutched the railing to his bed.

“Is that…” The old man said, his spirit shimmering and gray. He continued to tremble slightly.

“Yes.” I said curtly, my voice scratching in my throat. I hadn’t talked in a while, I realized. Most spirits wail and cry and I have to basically drag them behind me. Old folks however, are the exception, as they are normally alright with the fact that they have died, especially if they got a chance to say goodbye to the ones they love first.

“And I’m dead, huh? No going back right?” He chuckled nervously, glancing at me. I shook my head, and he sighed with resignation.

“I was pretty old,” He mused, trying to be in better spirits,and pointing to the wrinkles on his face. I shrugged. “You taken me to heaven? I believed in God and went to church when I could and all that, so I’m goin’ to heaven, right?” He had an old, southern drawl to his words that stayed with him even after death. While he seemed okay with being dead, he seemed worried now, turning to me and rubbing his hands together.

“I don’t know anything about that.” I murmured, beckoning him to follow me. The old man took one last look at his withered body, sighed, and followed closely.

…

“Leukemia? But she’s so young,” The mother of the little girl I had watched play at the park wailed. I was at their house today, checking up on her. It didn’t feel like it was time, but I had felt her little soul calling out to me again, faintly. Her mother sat in the kitchen, elbows up on the table supporting her trembling body as she listened to the phone in her hand.

The little girl sat on the couch in the other room, watching some cartoons of dogs in police uniforms. She had her hand stuffed down a bag of Doritos and she munched and sang along to the show, oblivious of her mother, who, in the kitchen, choked back sobs and nodded her head along to everything the doctor was telling her over the phone.

“Yes, we will start chemo right away. Is that the best option? She’s so little, I don’t want it to mess up with her development at all… I… I…” She muted the phone and bawled into her arm for a minute, before wiping her nose messily on her sleeve and putting the phone back to her ear. “Yes, doctor. Next Wednesday at noon. We will be there. Thank you.” She hung up and slumped into a kitchen chair, her hair sticking to her face in weird places due to her tears. She attempted to clean herself up, swiping at the sticky strands of hair and wiping away the snot and tears dripping down her flushed cheeks. She glanced into the living room where her little girl sat, oblivious to the cancer eating away at her frail body.

No wonder this girl was calling out to me. Late stage leukemia, I surmised. I wasn’t quite sure however, why she had been able to see me when no one else who was dying could. I turned back towards the little girl, walking into the living room and sitting on the arm of a leather chair next to her.

The little girl started and looked straight at me. She squinted her eyes and crossed her arms, taking her hand out of the chip bag. “I don’t know you.” She muttered, shying away from my large, looming presence. I stayed quiet, trying to read this little child, figure out what was different about her, and not sure if it was a good idea to talk back to her.

“I’m Dee.” I said, deciding to lift my pale hand and waving a little as she had done at the park.

“I’m Rachel.” She whispered, glancing at me then quickly looking down. She played with her hands in her lap. “My mommy is upset because I’ve been bad.” She muttered, pointing to the kitchen.

“No, that’s not why. You’ve been very good, I’m sure.” I replied.

“I was bad at the doctors. I must have done bad on the tests I took.” Her bottom lip trembled. I reached out a cold, boney hand to her and she hesitantly took it, her small hands engulfed in mine. Holding her, touching her warm hand sent a wave of vibrant energy coursing through me. Her body may be dying, but her soul was very much alive. She was stronger than I could have realized without touching her. How unfortunate that a girl with so much life coursing through her veins was trapped in a failing body. 

“Don’t be upset, Rachel. Your mother loves you very much. Please give her lots of hugs, okay? Your dad too,” I said, smiling as much as my thin lips would allow. Rachel nodded, taking her hand back to wipe away the snot dripping from her nose. Like mother like daughter. She slid off the couch and rubbed her eyes.

“Um, okay, Dee.” She said quietly, turning away from me to run to her mother in the kitchen who had stopped crying and was now frantically texting. Upon noticing her daughter, Rachel’s mother picked her up and plopped her down onto her lap. They embraced; Rachel’s head buried in her mother’s shoulder for several minutes. Her mother planted several kisses on little Rachel’s head, running her fingers through her child’s thick hair, her heart aching at the idea of all of it falling out.

“I love you baby, everything will be okay. Mommy will fix you.” I could hear her whispering. I didn’t want to think it, but I knew that wasn’t true. Or else I wouldn’t be here.

…

A few weeks went by and we sat side by side in soft, pillowy chairs. The little girl had an IV in her arm and I sat watching her, my hands clasped together in my lap. She looked extra small; the chair made for someone much larger than her. Rachel’s mother sat on the other side of her daughter, squeezing her free hand every so often. Little Rachel had started losing her hair already, so she was wearing her favorite hat, a pink knitted mini mouse beanie. It even had ears stitched onto the sides.

“Only a little bit longer today.” Rachel’s mother comforted her. Rachel sighed and closed her eyes, slumping over to lay her head on her mother’s shoulder. She looked exhausted, but she was brave, the spark of life still flickering behind her eyelids. “Mommy is going to go the bathroom, but I’ll be right back, okay baby?” She stood, easing Rachel’s head off, and kissing her on the forehead before walking off. Rachel turned her sleepy gaze over to me.

“Dee, I’m scared.” She whispered, glancing down at the needle stuck in her hand. I offered her my hand and she took it. The heat emanating just from her little hand warmed me to the core once again

“It’ll be okay. I’ll be here with you every step of the way. There’s nothing to be scared of.” I made her smile, but it was still a sad smile, her eyes glassy and welling up with small tears. She didn’t understand why she was here, just that her mother had said it was very important for her to get her medicine, and this was the only way to do so. Helping kids pass through was the hardest. They never understood and usually cried for their parents. One day they’re full of life, and the next day, I’m there, helping them up from their deathbeds. Rachel soul is still so full of life, and yet her body is so close to death. She would go soon– I could feel it.

…

Little Rachel’s face had begun to sink in, her cheek bones pointier, her chubby body reduced to skin and bone. She was weak, hardly getting out of bed anymore to play. Her parents tried to get her to eat, but it usually came back up minutes later. Their hearts ached, wishing they could take away her pain, but realizing that perhaps she wasn’t going to make it.

When her parents left her bedside to get her something to drink, I left the doorway where I loomed and approached her bed. Rachel was asleep, looking peaceful, a slight smile spread across her thin, pale lips despite the pain she felt inside. I didn’t want to wake her, but her pulse was getting weaker. I listened closely to the blood thumping lazily through her veins, the sound getting quieter and quieter. I sat down on the foot of the bed and her eyelids flickered. Rachel peered over at me.

“I’m really tired,” She moaned, curling up into a ball on her side.

“I know.”

“I would really like my mom to be here.” Rachel whispered, trying weakly to sit up. “Mommy!” She croaked, her voice hoarse but loud enough to send her mother and father running to her side. I stood and moved to the other side of the bed so her parents could embrace her one last time, showering her with kisses. I put my hand on little Rachel’s shoulder.

“Are you ready?” I asked quietly, and Rachel lifted her head up from her mother’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I guess I am.” She muttered to me, nestling into her mother’s arm one last time. I gave her a few more moments, before her mother laid her back down. “I love you momma,” She whispered, and she turned to take my hand.

Rachel didn’t look terrified like the other people I have helped, and she didn’t cry or scream when I lifted her out of the bed and into my arms. She sunk into my arms and nestled into my chest just as she once did with her mother. She peered upon her withered body that lay on the bed and her mother and father crying over it.

“I’m not so tired anymore,” Rachel began, looking up into my dark eyes. I cracked a smile.

“Good.”

“Can we go to the park, do you think? I would like to swing again. I haven’t swung in a long time.” She giggled and wiggled around so I set her down beside me. She stood tall, her soul finally free from the dying prison it once inhabited.

“Sure. Let’s go swing.” I replied, taking her hand and walking with her out of the door and into the world. She breathed in a new breath of fresh air, her little face flushed with renewed color and energy, a smile spreading contagiously over her lips. She looked so much more alive. Little Rachel skipped and giggled the whole way to the park, clutching my hand and pulling me to go faster. Once she saw the swings, she screamed with joy and ran over to them, jumping on and flying high on her belly, her arms and legs spread wide like superman.

Watching her, my chest warmed up for a moment and I realized that I felt happy for her, relived. Her mortal body had weakened and become nothing but a shell, but her spirit was still so alive and joyful and full of energy. Her energy was impacting me still, even though I no longer held her hand, I felt my own chest swell with warmth and a smile creep upon my cracked lips

“Push me, Dee!” She called, beckoning me over with a small hand. I smiled wider and walked over, helped her rightly get onto the swing, then assuming the position behind her to push. With every swing, she went higher and higher, laughing and screeching in joy. She was finally herself again– free of the chemo, her cancer, and her pain.

And for a moment I pondered that perhaps I wasn’t as bad as everyone thought.