New Life
Short stories: a collection of love
By
Don P. Bick
Electronic edition published by Don P. Bick at Smashwords.
Copyright 2011 by Don P. Bick, all rights reserved.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
* * *
I wish all of you love, laughter, and goodwill.
Give freely of your love.
Share a smile.
And promote goodwill.
For we are all One family.
* * *
Table of Contents
1. New Life
3. I Await
4. Coffee Break
6. Friends
11. About the author
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New Life
It was one of those exceptionally gorgeous spring days. The air was crystal clear yet surprisingly warm, considering how cool the night had been. A small amount of ground fog still clung to the lowest areas, quickly dissipating as the air continued to warm. Yet the sky was already deep blue and the golden orb of the sun shone brightly above the tree studded hillside in the distance, its fiery glow reflecting off the shiny surfaces of man's creations. Everywhere new life was emerging into the light of day.
A majestic tree awakened to the new year once again, as it had done each year for over two hundred years in the past. New shoots grew from the ends of tender new branches. A leaf here and there began to uncurl, spreading out to grasp the life giving rays of the sun, after a long and cold winter season. Young buds dotted new and old plants alike, while flowers slowly began to reveal their beauty to a cleansed and anticipating world. There was a feeling in the air, a feeling of life, a feeling of all things new. There was a stirring within, a restlessness of the spirit some might call it. A resurgence of desire, of worth, of expectation, and a release from the hold of all that tends to bind or restrict.
At least that was so from one perspective. Another perspective was just a thought away. But it was so ugly in contrast that most shied away from its viewing. And yet some couldn't. They were face to face with it. Day in and day out they were forced to watch, to see, and had no choice but to confront its ugliness. And confront it they did, which to those who looked on, who knew and understood, demonstrated perhaps the greatest beauty of all that gorgeous spring day.
The enormous tree rose regally from its place alongside the large parking lot. Too old and much too beautiful to cut down, the tree was left in a natural garden in the center of the relatively new sprawling complex, and the project designed around it.
The buildings in the complex were deep tan in color, two stories high, and surrounded by luscious green lawns, as well as various multicolored shrubbery. Each building was topped with a covering of blue metal, a surprisingly graceful color for roofing material. This morning the sun danced its light from rooftop to rooftop, causing the passersby to squint as they began to adjust and become accustomed to the new brightness that had again returned to the world; the darkness of winter having just barely slipped around the corner.
Directly across the nearly full parking lot, on the second floor of building C, sat a large picture window overlooking the small garden, wherein grew the old tree. The blinds were closed inside. Spring was outside. On the other side of those closed blinds it was dark. There, winter still lingered. And during that bright shiny spring morning there were perhaps no other people in the entire world that longed to see and experience the joys of new life more than Carl and Brenda Gettings. They were forced to sit and watch their daughter slowly waste away and die. And there was nothing they could do. They felt utterly and miserably hopeless and helpless.
In the corner of the parking lot, near the west entrance, a large wooden sign hung from an elaborate stone structure. On the sign, in two foot high lettering, were the words - May Valley Hospital. Although the complex resembled a college campus more than a hospital, it was considered one of the finest hospitals to be found anywhere in the country; the world for that matter. Here they primarily dealt with advanced stages of cancer.
Spring didn't exist inside that darkened room. An unearthly green glow from three active monitors enshrouded everything in the small intensive care unit. Carl and Brenda sat on one side of the bed each touching their daughter Trisha, hoping against hope that something would change and their precious daughter be given another chance at living a full normal life. But those days of hope and wishful thinking had long ago vanished in disappointment, and yet in the final hours there was a tendency and renewed desire to hold onto her, to Trisha, the center of their lives these past eight years. A resurgence of hope welled up in each of their hearts to have one last prayer granted, one last wish; a miracle performed. They knew it wouldn't happen, but they prayed for one anyway. Either one of them would have gladly given their own life in order to save hers from this undeserved fate.
It had been a trying and difficult time, to say the least. The strain on both of their faces told the story of many nights without sleep, as well as hours upon hours of worry. They were mere skeletons of their former selves, having each lost more weight than was healthy. Neither could accept, nor understand, why this was happening to their little girl, to Trisha, who had always been a kind, quiet, and gentle girl. She hadn’t even cried much when she was a tiny baby.
Cancer, it is such a terrible and nasty word. A tumor had been detected. Surgery followed almost immediately but it was already too late. The malignancy had spread and in a few weeks time had resurfaced in other parts of young Trisha's body. Only four months had passed since the original diagnosis. Four months, an eternity for the three of them. And yet the time had sped by. Their time was now at the end, the time they had for the three of them to be together had run out. A decision needed to be made that day. And both knew there was no use prolonging it.
Carl looked long and hard at Brenda, his wife of ten years, who simply nodded her head in affirmation. A single tear dropped from her right eye. He got up and left the room.
A short while later Carl returned, followed by a nurse and Trisha's doctor. There was very little said, they had spent hours going over the details and ramifications of their decision. The doctor simply asked, "Are you both sure?" When Carl and Brenda nodded their heads, the doctor had them both sign a pre-completed release of liability form. Then he and the nurse stepped to either side of Trisha’s bed and began to disconnect the machinery and remove the IV needles, tubing and bottles. In minutes Trisha was off of all life support treatment and equipment. Carl and Brenda reached for each other's hand, tears streamed down each of their faces. The doctor paused momentarily beside the couple and touched them on the shoulder in a futile gesture of consolation. Then he and the nurse left the room.
It was hard to say what thoughts passed through each of Trisha's parent's minds in those long afternoon hours. Perhaps there were thoughts of better times from the past when Trisha was younger, before this nightmare had begun. Or perhaps there were thoughts of her kissing them goodnight; maybe a remembrance of laughter during an especially happy occasion. Whatever Carl or Brenda thought, they kept it to themselves. For a long, long, time they stood beside the bed and just stared vacantly down at Trisha. Earlier, they had been briefed that it would probably take a number of hours for the end to come. Still, they weren't prepared for the hours of waiting, or the agony of watching and knowing their eight year old daughter was about to die.
Lying in the bed, Trisha, a ghost of her former self, remained immobile. Not a muscle had twitched, nor had any other sign of life stirred beneath her pale complexion, before or after being disconnected from the life support equipment. Had there been any movement or sign of life at all, Carl was sure neither he nor Brenda would have been able to go through with their decision. But there hadn't been any sign of life. And now the final hours were upon them.
During the preceding weeks they had each thought how they would react and feel when this inevitable time came. Now, staring it in the face, they were somewhat surprised there was very little emotion left. What tears remained within them flowed freely down their cheeks. But other than that, they were drained. They had already reached the depths of utter despair. Their hearts had cried out for too many long and difficult nights.
No matter how much they had prayed or wished for a miracle the time had come for letting go. And so, as they each stood beside the bed they did the best they were able to emotionally. There wasn’t much left to give in that department. In their own way they used those final hours to make amends for past feelings of guilt, to say their goodbyes and offer their prayers. Late that evening, heads resting on the side of Trisha's bed, they fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion.
Sometime later a nurse walked in and checked on Trisha. Her pulse, although very weak and faint, was steady. She was still alive. The nurse left without disturbing the sleeping parents.
Minutes after the door closed a strange bluish light began to form in the room. It appeared to come out of nowhere and feed upon itself. It grew denser and brighter until the entire room was bathed in a brilliant soft blue light. An outline of the figure of a man stood out clearly from within the mystical brightness. He approached the bed and placed his hand over little Trisha's head.
The sun rose over the distant hilltop, bathing the valley in the warmth of its golden rays. The majestic old tree glistened in the early morning light, covered with sparkling dewdrops. The new buds and tender shoots seemed exceptionally beautiful this morning. And looking across the almost empty parking lot stood Building C of the hospital. On the second floor there was a large picture window. The blinds were fully opened this morning and right in the middle of the window sat a smiling little girl.
"Mommy! Daddy! Come look! Everything is so new and pretty! It's like God touched it and made it new all over again. Do you think he did? Wouldn't it be wonderful if He did? Would that be called a miracle? Mommy? Daddy?"
Twenty-three years later, at the age of thirty-one, Trisha was quoted by a news reporter, after having received the Noble Peace Prize for her work through the United Nations: "One must experience the highest pinnacle of joy and the deepest depths of utter despair in order to stand in the center and view both dispassionately, yet with a burning fire that is the pure essence of love - of life itself."
Beneath The Tarp
It was only a whisper of movement at first. And darkness hid everything from sight, allowing the slight motion of the tarp to go undetected. Not a sound could be heard. Nothing pierced the dark wall of night, neither light nor an annoying whine of a mosquito. An eerie quiet had settled over the entire area.
The tarp itself was black, old and moss covered, blending its darkness with the surrounding night, the tiny movement lost to varying shades of blackness. But the movement was there and it steadily increased with each passing moment.
A high pitched giggle broke the nighttime silence. Still, it was as soft as a butterfly's wings. And barely carried more than a few inches from its origin, which was under the corner of the old tarp.
The sound was childlike and filled with all the wonder of a joyous Christmas morning. The voice sort of tinkled, not unlike a fine crystal bell, calling, beckoning. Soon it was answered by one tiny voice and then another. Finally several dozen joined in, all chattering in their high giggly voices at the same time.
So much movement began to take place beneath the tarp it seemed to come alive. It rose and fell in hurried rhythm; moved side to side in a look of utter confusion. Then it began to rise. Slowly at first, and then with increased momentum it rose one inch, three inches, ten inches, then twenty. Finally thirty inches, and just as abruptly as it had started the tarp stopped rising.
One by one they began to appear. Easels! Nearly fifty of them in all emerged from under the tarp. If one didn't know better they would have mistaken these small creatures for Elves. But that is hardly the case. Everyone knows that Elves are much taller; at least another six inches more than the thirty or so inches of the tallest Easel, and that is when they are standing on tiptoe up to the highest point of their velvety hats.
Elves also wear green, which differs immensely from an Easel. Easels wear all colors. In fact, the one thing that distinguishes an Easel from another is the color he or she wears. Otherwise, they pretty much look alike. It's hard for humans to tell them apart anyway, especially since it always seems like their long noses and droopy ears draw the focus of attention.
The Easels began to organize themselves in groups of seven. Each night in the deepest darkest hour they band together in the same manner. They choose different groups to work with from night to night. And no two Easels of the same color ever occupied the same group. That was definitely not permitted.
Each Easel carried a heavily laden sack over his right shoulder. And these sacks were filled with pebbles and rocks - colored pebbles and rocks. A couple of the most honored Easels carried gold nuggets. They were very special and were allowed to choose their own group to join each night.
The color of the pebbles and rocks within each sack matched the clothes the Easel wore. It was unheard of for an Easel to carry a color of material different than that of his garments, for his color was his distinguishing characteristic. And his sack was his work, his very life. Every night they would set out in their small groups and sprinkle seven different colored pebbles and rocks throughout the world. They would fill stream beds, creeks, river bottoms and all manner of things that require pebbles and rocks, not to mention gold. If you look closely wherever you find stones of any shape or size there will always be seven different colors present.
The Easel's work is very important because without pebbles and rocks in the stream and river beds, whenever it rained hard, there would be nothing to slow down and stop the fast flow of water. And it would then flood, causing great damage and difficulty to any and all life in the area. Besides, the multicolored stones are also very beautiful to look at, especially lying below crystal clear moving water. And creating a more beautiful world is another major part of their work.
All of a sudden there was a stirring of the wind. Music filled the air. A heavenly tune composed in magic and sprinkled with the golden memories of saintly dreams. Tiny magical stars appeared from out of nowhere and enveloped each individual group of Easels. The stars seemed to match the twinkle in their bright blue eyes. The music was enchanting; the stars mesmerizing.
And then they disappeared, simply disappeared into thin air. Not a single trace was left behind, except for some tiny boot prints in the backyard soil. And even these were hard to see. The moisture of the morning dew would wash them away come first light.
"Dad! Come see what I found!" cried Michael, grabbing and tugging at his father's hand.
"Hold on a minute," laughed Michael's dad. "What's all the excitement about?"
"Come and see! Hurry!" exclaimed Michael, running around the side of the house, only to return, take his father's hand once more, and tug all the harder to get him to follow.
Soon, both were rounding the side of the house and into the back yard, where Michael dropped his father's hand and ran ahead.
"Here! See!" yelled Michael, pointing down at the disturbed corner of the aged tarp. As his dad walked up Michael reached down and pulled back the corner of the moss coated cover.
"Look!"
"Where?" replied his father, unable to see whatever it was Michael was pointing at.
"Right here!" shouted Michael, bending down and pointing closer, his excitement getting the better of him. "These! What are they dad?"
"Gee, looks like some kind of eggs son."
"What kind of eggs? Rat eggs?"
"No. Rats don't lay eggs, Michael. Besides they're kind of small. Look almost the size of BB’s, don't they? Tell you what, let's put them in a jar and see what hatches out of them, okay?"
"Can we dad? Do you think they will hatch right away? That'd be neat, huh dad? What if they're snakes or alligators or something like that - wouldn't that be great!"