Is There Anybody There?

THE SOUND CRASHED into her consciousness, startling her. The insistent, persistent knock set her teeth on edge.

Struggling, she tried to open her heavy, unwilling eyes.

If she didn’t know better, she would have thought this wasn’t her own bedroom. Her very own oasis of calm and serenity, decorated, of course, in the many hues of her favourite colour. It’s funny how some people don’t think of red as a restful colour. She did.

Ruby reds, poppy reds, soft petal reds, the whole palette; she loved them. Nothing made her feel better than relaxing in a personal sea of glorious red. The colour of sunsets, roses and lipstick. Surely, also, the colour of love, and all that is good.

She squinted and peered, finally making out the long, hovering shadow of her dressing table. And the chair. She marvelled at how the darkness rendered the familiar so distorted. Amazing too, she thought, just how many shades of black there were. Every corner of her room appeared pitch black. She could just make out the dusky darkness of her curtains.

Dusk. How long had she slept? Perhaps the night had come and gone, and dawn was breaking outside. She strained, listening again for the knocking that had disturbed her. No, nothing. Silence. No-one there. Not anymore. Not the vague hum of traffic she often heard at this time of morning. Nor the chorus of the morning birdsong she loved so much. Not a sound.

Maybe it was yet another gloomy, miserable day. Not much for the birds to sing about, she thought wryly.

Perfect weather for… what? Domestic work? Inside jobs?

She started a mental list of all those tasks she was happy to ignore when the sun shone, allowing her to immerse herself in her beloved garden. A little rain will do the garden good, she thought. She listened for the comforting patter on her roof. Nothing. The darkness remained silent and still.

She attempted to shift and found her body uncooperative and uncomfortable. Old bones, she despaired, remaining immobile. Maybe it was around midnight, she mused, aware that she didn’t feel at all rested. She let herself drift off again.

Meanwhile, in a stark, white, antiseptic environment her daughter, a woman in her mid-40s, looked pleadingly into the eyes of the doctor.

“I thought I saw a flicker in her face,” she whispered hopefully. He re-checked her vital signs, and the monitors and machinery humming quietly beside her.

They both looked at the silent, still woman, breathing shallow, but steadily. Who knew what life there was behind the serene mask? Her mother, present, but absent.

“These things take time.” The kind-faced, white-haired doctor lifted his glasses up onto his head and wiped his face with his hand, the gesture saying more than words could at how he felt about being the bearer of bad news.

Complex and sophisticated machinery was keeping this woman with them at the moment, but just how long could it go on for?

She left the hospital in a blur of tears, hurrying to her car in the bitter cold and depressing gloom that reflected her mood. Once in the car she let herself howl like the wind. Her mother was a vibrant, healthy woman, not the shadow of a woman that she’d just been with.

It just didn’t seem right that she was here in hospital, prone and unmoving, and not in her own space, surrounded by the things that she loved, sounds she enjoyed, and the scent of flowers in her garden.

Through these thoughts a little idea began to take shape in her mind. Of course! She would gather the sounds and scents that were some of her mother’s favourites and bring them to her. She would move heaven and earth in an attempt to bring her mother back into the world of the living. With renewed purpose she started up her car.

She returned later that day, motivated and ready. Fresh bread, flowers, music; she’d brought it all. She walked briskly along the corridor with all of her hope tangible in the box of items she carried.

Pausing before knocking lightly, she summoned her courage and entered the room. Instantly she knew something was different.

A nurse turned, a smile on her face, and told her of the flickering of her mother’s eyelids, the eyes that opened, the mouth attempting to form speech.

And that’s when she realised that the greatest gift, the greatest treasure in this world was, quite simply, hope.

Hope. Knocking at the door to bring light to the darkness. She took her mother’s hand, hopeful at last. The door was opening.

‘She walked briskly along the corridor with all of her hope tangible in the box of items she carried’