The Last Date

Last Date
         
         
          I first saw her as she was walking 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 carrying a folded blanket as if it were a newborn cradled in her arms and rubbing it to soothe the child. She did not look down at her bundle; her eyes stared unfocused as she walked. What struck me as odd was that although it was mid-January, she only had a light pink nightdress, which reached just below her bare knees. She only wore a single slipper; she lost the slipper somewhere during her journey.

         I pulled over and stopped my car, got out, and opened the front passenger side door, gesturing for her to get in where it was warm. I reassured her I meant no harm and wanted to take her to safety. We smiled as I helped her in my car. Then, I noticed the blanket, a hand-made quilt, a collage of fabrics and material. The quilt had denim patches, soft blue and pink cotton prints, several flannel patches, some black wool strips, and many other crooked pieces I couldn't identify. Though the colors and shapes differed, they bonded as though the material was for a purpose.

         She held it tightly as if she were afraid I'd take it. Sensing her fear, I covered her with a spare blanket in the car. Her legs were freezing and had a tint of a blue-gray color. If she was in any pain, her face was not reflecting it. She had a distant, vacant look. I shut her door, went around to my door, got back in, and began to drive.

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

         While she spoke, she pointed to different areas on her colorful quilt. A special memory was attached, and each square had 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 woolen 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," followed by a single hand-stitched date.

         Even 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; the other square was still unfinished: one date and the name Sophia. My passenger now seemingly had a name.

         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."
         Once Sophia spoke, her hand traced each branch, following it to the end. She would pass her hand gently over each name and date. Her hand lingered on each branch of the quilted tree as though the fabric told an individual story.
         Throughout our ride, the streetlights allowed me glimpses of Sophia's face and expressions. Her preoccupied expression was interrupted with small smiles. She was unaware I was there as if she were with the people within the quilt. In contrast, her eyes were a sharp, light blue but also distant and vague.

         Just when we pulled up to the hospital, 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. Out of 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 apparent, and she gave me a look of gratitude.

         Even as I went to her door to help her out of the car, I knew she could not walk or stand. As I turned to get assistance, I was startled by the appearance of the hospital 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, then gently lifted her into the wheelchair. He reached for her quilt, but before he could remove it, she trembled,

embraced it into her chest protectively, and closed her eyes. I grabbed my blanket, covered her lap, legs, and feet, and tucked it under her arms. She caught and held onto my hand tightly as we walked through the sliding doors and into the bright corridor.

         We quickly walked past the admitting desk and into the corridor, where I walked past several closed doors. I passed many empty rooms until I arrived at 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.

         Since they began to prepare Sophia, they led me out of the room, down the hallway, and into a small room with a desk, 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, some doctors and nurses were 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. I paid more attention the second time and ensured the cup landed correctly and in line with the dispenser.

         After I returned, her door was closed. I pulled a chair 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. Recognizing the significance of the loved ones being there with each patient helped me decide to wait until I could see Sophia before leaving. Feeling isolated is something no one should experience.

         As soon as 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 closed curtain blocked my view. I was going to sit down again and wait, but then a nurse came out, handed me the quilt, 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 here 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 and removed from the room. I don't 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 returned to her desk. And I began giving whatever information I could to Stephanie. 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 for four years in a nursing home and was in the Alzheimer's Unit for two. 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 has had no visitors in the last three years and has no living family members. 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 the names of her children and grandchildren on the ride to the hospital. I noticed Sophia hanging onto the quilt as fiercely as she was hanging on to life. Without being in the room, I know that when she passed, the last thing she felt was the quilt's presence, the memories taking her home.

         I only had two thoughts immediately after I left the hospital, hours after I had entered. What was I going to do with the quilt? My friend, a curator for an Americana Museum, would display this with the dignity and honor it deserves. I should give it to the nursing home. Or I could keep it and tuck it away. Nonetheless, I would finish the quilt by placing the last date on the bottom square underneath Sophia's name.

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


Contest: Kit's Higher Ratings Contest
Word Count:1,771