The Last Date

The Last Dat

e

I first saw her as she was walking with a limp down the side of the street around dusk. It was snowing, not enough for the street plows, but enough where my windshield wipers were keeping rhythmic time. She was an older woman carrying a folded blanket like a newborn cradled in her arms, rubbing it as if to soothe a child. She did not look down at her bundle; her eyes stared unfocused as she walked. What struck me as the oddest was that although it was mid-January, she only had on a light pink nightdress, faded from continued use, which reached just below her bare knees. She only wore a single slipper on her left foot and a sock-like bootie on her right foot, encrusted with snow and ice; the slipper's mate disappeared somewhere during her journey.
Pulling under a streetlight, I opened the front passenger side door, gesturing for her to get in where it was warm. I had to do my best to reassure her I meant no harm before she walked toward the car. We smiled as I helped her in. She pulled the blanket to the opposite side. I was standing as if I were going to take it from her. Then, I noticed the blanket was a hand-made quilt, a collage of fabrics and material. There were worn denim patches, soft blue and pink cotton prints, several flannel patches, some black silk strips, and many other pieces I could not identify. Though the colors and shapes were different, they bonded as though they were brought together for a purpose.

Sensing her fear, I covered her with a spare blanket in the car. Her legs were freezing and tinged blue from the bitterly freezing weather. Her hands, wrinkled with age and dotted with liver spots, felt slightly warmer from holding the quilt, but not much. However, if she were in pain, her face did not reflect it. She had a distant, vacant look. I shut her door, got back in, and drove to Mercy West, the nearest hospital. I left the map reading light on to watch her more closely.

Remnants of holiday decorations could be seen in and around the houses and businesses we drove by. The soft glow of red, green, amber, and blue lights, the rhythmic swiping of the wiper blade, and the car's warmth must have relaxed her enough to talk. I looked at her with concern and smiled, and she smiled back. Her smile lacked strength but was genuine.

While she spoke, I saw, from the light, her point to different areas on her colorful quilt. A special memory is attached to each square, and each square has its own story. Every story was a change of expression – in her eyes, gestures, and body language. Her hands would linger a few places as if she felt for a particular memory from that unique piece of fabric. Her hands came to rest on a man's name sewn with golden yellow thread onto a black cotton background. The material reminded me of my grandpa's old suit worn only to church on Sundays and the day he was buried. The last fifteen years ago, the piece had two dates sewn into it.
Another piece, a faded white silk square carefully embroidered in black, stated "Baby Ethel," followed by a single hand-stitched date.

The traffic was light; however, driving was slow due to the snow on the roads. I caught a glimpse of the quilt and the expressions. As I drove, she slowly began to open the quilt to expose more. The center of the quilt had a patchwork tree. The trunk of the tree had two names within squares at the bottom. One name was of the man who died fifteen years ago, and the other square was still unfinished: one date and the name Sophia. My passenger now seemingly had a name.

By the time we were halfway to the hospital, we had come to the railroad crossing with a long freight train slowly moving through. I worried that this delay would be detrimental to Sophia's health.

She continued to explore the quilt. The trunk of the patchwork tree went upwards and formed three branches. Two of the three branches had smaller pieces with sewn names and dates. From what I could see, the branches had only one or two names. Through the intermittent flashes of streetlights, it appeared all had two dates on each, but I could not be sure. The third branch ended in the one marked as "Baby Ethel."

Her story was interrupted by fits of coughing that would last for several minutes. When she was through coughing, she began her story as if nothing had happened. I knew I needed to get her to the hospital soon.

As Sophia spoke, she passed her hand gently over each name and date, lingering on each branch as if each person could be felt through the fabric.

After the train passed, I began to drive again. The streetlights allowed me more illumination to glimpses of Sophia's face and expressions as she spoke while keeping my eyes on the road. Her preoccupied expression was interrupted with small smiles. She was unaware I was with her as if she were with the people within the quilt. While her eye color was a sharp, light blue, they were distant and vague.

As we pulled up to the hospital emergency entrance, I noticed Sophia began to sense more of her surroundings, and she clutched the quilt again in a panic as if someone were going to take it away from her. In her eyes, there was a sudden look of anxiety and distress. On an impulse, I placed my hand on hers, gave it a gentle squeeze, and a reassuring smile. For the first time that evening, her eyes became clear, and she gave me a look of gratitude.

When I went to her door to help her out of the car, I knew she could not walk or stand due to her legs' condition when I picked her up. She would need assistance without the immediate medical care required and her increased lack of strength. As I turned to grab someone, I was startled by an orderly who stood behind me with a wheelchair waiting. I backed away so he could help her. When he removed my blanket, he stopped and called someone on his radio, and then he gently assisted her into the wheelchair. He reached for her quilt, but before he could remove it, she put it to her chest protectively and closed her eyes. I grabbed my blanket, covered her lap, legs, and feet, and tucked it under her arms. She grabbed and held on to my hand weakly as we walked through the sliding doors and into the bright corridor.

We quickly walked past the admitting desk and into the corridor to examine the room doors. We passed many empty rooms until we came to the last room at the end of the hall. The bright fluorescent light flickered on as we entered, as though it waited just for us. The cold, sterile room smelled of antiseptic cleanser and rubbing alcohol; however, there was a subdued tang of mustiness.
As they began to prepare Sophia, I was led out of the room, down the hallway, and into a small Admissions room with a computer and a telephone. A young woman chewing gum wearing a name tag, Stephanie, motioned for me to sit in front of her desk. I did so, not knowing what else to do. I imagine she was going to want information regarding the patient. I attempted several times to let Stephanie know I appreciated her willingness to assist me; however, we needed an interpreter. After several seconds of awkward smiles, she finally understood and made a phone call. She let me know it would be about ten minutes. I decided to walk around to release my nervous energy.

When I returned to the hallway, I could see into the room where Sophia was lying. By now, there were doctors and nurses by her bedside, walking into and out of view. I could see a nurse speaking with her, nodding and smiling, while others around her were not. On Sophia's stomach, still clutched, was the quilt.

I went to get a cup of coffee from the vending machine down the hall. My first attempt had the cup landing at an angle and the coffee going half in the cup and half on the floor. The second time, I paid more attention, ensured the cup landed correctly, and was in line for the dispenser.

When I returned, her door was closed. I pulled a chair up from the waiting room, sat across her door, and waited. I noticed people walking down the hallway toward her door. They were friends or family members. They would, however, enter other rooms to visit other patients. This helped me decide to wait until I could see Sophia before leaving. Feeling isolated is something no one should experience.

When the door opened abruptly, I stood up. Two young doctors came out, stopped in front of me, looked back at the room, looked back at me, and walked away. The door was left partially open. I tried looking into the room, but the curtain was drawn, blocking my view. I was going to sit down again and wait; however, a nurse came out, handed me the quilt, spoke solace, and walked away.

A person I never met before tonight died less than ten feet from me. I felt her death as heavily as I felt my own grandmother's.
I sat outside the room. I still needed to be there with Sophia. Sitting in the hall, I realized my hand was resting on Sophia's name on the quilt. About five minutes later, Sophia's body was removed from the room. I do not remember when I started to cry, only that I did.

I am uncertain how long I sat there, but Stephanie came with the interpreter, and we went back to her desk, and I began giving whatever information I could. While I spoke, the quilt sat in my lap, and when I listened, my hands rested on top. Stephanie was uncomfortable talking with me and overcompensated in our discussion.

Sophia had been a resident in a nursing home for six years and was in the Alzheimer's Unit for two of them. The people from the nursing home were uncertain how she wandered the three miles to where I found her. When they checked her bed, her lost slipper was under her pillow. Sophia had no visitors in the last three years and had no living family members. Sophia had been suffering from what turned out to be the onset of pneumonia, which her walk through the cold had severely worsened. I did not hear the wheezing in her voice to alert me. The remainder of the information, Stephanie said, was confidential.

I never discovered her last name that night. From Sophia's quilt, I learned her husband's name and her children's names on the ride to the hospital. I noticed how Sophia had hung onto the quilt as fiercely as she was hanging on to life. Without being in there, I know that when she passed, the last thing she felt was the quilt's presence, the memories taking her home.

I had to dig through storage boxes and knick-knack drawers when I arrived home, but I finally found what I wanted. It took me forty-five minutes, but I sewed the last date onto the quilt. After I finished, I placed the quilt in my walnut chest and closed and locked the lid.

I sat on the bed beside the chest and wondered for the first time that evening if Sophia had even realized I was deaf.