Free Lost by Gary; Devon Page A

Leona murmured. “That’s better, isn’t it? Go to sleep.”
    When visiting hours ended, at eight o’clock, two different nurses told her she would have to leave, but she ignored them as long as she could. On their third or fourth try, she interrupted them by holding up her hand and standing. “Could we discuss this in the hall?” she asked softly. “The child is asleep.” With grim faces, they followed her out and she closed the door.
    â€œI’ve been trying to decide what to do about this,” Leona said as she turned. “And I’ve decided to stay.”
    â€œBut that’s not possible,” said the nurse who had been doing most of the talking.
    â€œOf course it’s possible. What do you mean it’s not possible? Mothers and fathers sit up—someone sits up with someone all across this country every night. I’ve seen it many times.”
    â€œYes, but Mamie’s parents are—Are you related?”
    â€œNo, but that’s all the more reason why she needs someone.”
    The dispute went back and forth until Leona ended it. “You do what you have to do with your rules,” she said. “And I will do what I think is right. If you want to know the truth, I don’t think she’s getting very good care here. But I’d rather not make a case out of it,” and she turned and went back into the room. Ten minutes later, a third nurse brought in Mamie’s medication and woke her up to give it to her, but nothing else was said. Leona drew fresh water in the cup and rinsed the handkerchief and, bending down at intervals through the night, she dabbed what little comfort she could onto the beautiful, vacant face.
    Mamie was fast asleep and dawn had filled the room before Leona really paid much attention to the stack of dolls on the floor behind the door—gifts sent by sympathetic neighbors and family friends. Many of the dolls were still in their original cartons, and the others, without packaging, were heaped on top, legs and arms protruding every which way. Leona found the mere fact that they were there immeasurably sad, and couldn’t bear to look at them for long. Shivering in the cool morning air, she stretched, wiped her face, and moved toward the window. On the windowsill stood seven red roses in seven thin glass vases, the red buds regressing from fresh to faded. They struck her as excessive and even unwholesome; it seemed inappropriate for someone to be sending roses frequently to a little girl. She thought of roses as a woman’s flower and the frequency implied a lover’s gesture, yet … It all seemed so ridiculous. She glanced about for a card and found nothing but the florist’s tag. Then she heard the hasty steps of nurses in the hall. She put the tag in her purse, collected her sweater, and whispered, “So long, see you later” to Mamie.
    Going home that morning, as she walked through the dew-laden air still silky and fresh from the night, she was reminded of playing, years ago, among wet clothes hung out to dry, and how refreshing the wet flapping had been against her face. But this morning she was bone tired and the air did little to invigorate her. A cup of hot coffee gave off its bittersweet aroma at her place at the table. “Look what the cat dragged in,” Emma said, and Leona told her only what she thought could bear repeating.
    A few days later, in the afternoon, she drove across town to the Forget-Me-Not Florist and wandered among the claustrophobic profusion of flowers on display. When no one came to wait on her, Leona found a woman seated behind the cash register braiding a wreath from greenery. Leona explained who she was, giving the barest facts, and asked the woman if she could remember who sent the roses to Mamie Abbott. The woman knew immediately what she was talking about, smiled, and shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine,” she said. “The order came