Free The Vigil by Marian P. Merritt Page B

greeted me. I’d treated patients in comas before, but never one who’d been in a coma for so long. Her thin body lay tilted slightly toward the right where the nurses had turned her for pressure relief. Her thin arms seemed about the same size they were when we were teens. Annie’s skin glistened from a freshly applied layer of lotion. The lingering floral scent hung in the air next to her bed. As I gazed into her pale face and lips, I was surprised to see peace settled there. And relieved to see her small button nose, long elegant eyelashes, and high defined cheekbones remained. Her long, dark hair had been cut into a short, layered style perfectly framing her heart-shaped face.
    A well-worn recliner sat next to her bed. I lowered both my purse and the small bag I brought to the floor and sat next to her. Once her hand lay cradled in my own, I began, “Annie, hi, it’s Cheryl Broussard. Bet you never expected to hear from me.” I laughed, the nervous laugh of someone uncertain of what to say next because truth was I didn’t know what to say and, at that moment, wondered why I’d come.
    I cleared my throat. “Let’s try this again. I came to say hello and also to apologize for losing touch all those years ago. We had a lot of fun times as kids.” Thousands of memories flooded and as they came to mind, I shared them with her. If she heard me, I know she’d remember them, too, and was laughing inside. The thought made me smile.
    The words flowed along with the easy laughter that came with our childhood antics. I reached down and retrieved the bottle of nail polish I’d brought. It was her favorite shade of pink. We’d spent long summer afternoons during our pre-teen years painting each other’s nails—fingers and toes.
    The promise we’d made that hot August afternoon so many years ago came to me as though Annie herself had whispered the memory into the room. “No respectful Bijou Bayou woman will ever spend a summer in flip-flops unless her nails are painted,” she’d said. “Pinky promise.” She’d lifted her pinky, and I’d hooked mine with hers. “We’ll never wear flip-flops without nail polish. Ever.”
    As the memory washed over me, I longed for that kind of friendship again. I craved it more than I had realized. With a gentle touch, I slid the polish-filled brush along her nails, one after the other until each fingernail glistened pink and shiny.
    “Annie Melancon Battice, you sly girl. I never knew you were sweet on Beau. Of course, with all my ranting on about him and how I was going to marry him, I never really gave you a chance, did I?” I paused. “Annie, I’m glad you married Beau and that you were happy together. Honest.”
    Next, I moved to her toes all the while telling her this incredible love story about this couple from Bijou Bayou who were in love during the Korean War.
    Once each toe was as shiny as her fingers, I blew tenderly over her feet. After a while, I returned to the comfortable chair, leaned back, closed my eyes, and absorbed the silence. Somehow being with my childhood friend had made me feel better. And for a short while, I’d forgotten that she was Beau Battice’s wife.
     
    ****
     
    The minute I shifted my car into park, Mama appeared at my window. Strands of hair curled around her face and neck. Her skin lacked the usual even tone of perfectly applied makeup. When I rolled down the window she said, “Oh, Cheryl, it’s about time you got here. She’s packing her suitcase, and I can’t stop her.”
    “OK, I’ll talk to her.”
    I followed a scrambling Mama up the sidewalk. She kept turning around to list the things Mawmaw had done this morning. Once inside the house, Mama’s heels clicked on the hardwood floors as she scurried to the guestroom where Mawmaw stayed.
    I had little choice but to follow.
    The guest room sported lavender walls, ruffled comforter, and frilly curtains—so not my grandmother. She was the solid-color-no-frills kind of gal and must