Cherries in the snow

an excerpt from "Cherries in the Snow," 2007 NC State Short Story Contest Finalist

My dead Mama talks to me sometimes. Well, I guess she really only said four little words, but I pondered over them all the time. Until one day when I finally figured it all out.

It was high summer, and most things were moving slowly; pretty much sitting still. The air, my life… even the mosquitoes just kind of hung there—like blood-sucking was beyond them in this heat.

I gave my hair a little hand-fluff and leaned down to check my reflection in the mirror over Mama’s prized vanity. Her makeup was still lined up, untouched since she passed on. I don’t wear makeup, haven’t worn it for a few years now, ever since Mama got sick and I realized it wasn’t necessary for my straightforward job as a registrar at Brunswick Regional Hospital. People like it when you look natural, approachable, like someone they can talk to as they contemplate their upcoming surgery and possible demise.

Two steps, and I grabbed my purse, ducking to avoid hitting Mama’s dream catcher she had hung from the kitchen’s pass-through.

As I left for work, I pressed my fingers to my lips and touched a picture of Mama, hair wind-tousled, a rare glimpse of her with minimal makeup, face relaxed and happy. Every day I miss her and feel every bit an orphan.

Maybe I’m being dramatic. I’m 35, and having a mother and father isn’t critical for my survival. My daddy hadn’t been around since I was three--he eventually died from sheer meanness. But after Mama died in January, I was truly adrift.

I inherited her trailer by default. I had moved in after she got sick, to help till she got better, and when she didn’t, I just never left. I had been living on my own after getting a degree in English from Brunswick Community College, but before that, I had grown up here—it’s a nice patch of land off I-74 underneath the Cracker Barrel billboard (up ahead at exit 23). You can see the billboard complete with 3D biscuit out the kitchen window, so I study it while I’m washing dishes. Comfort Food, it says.

When I was younger, the ad had a big alligator and said Eat at Dave’s. The alligator always scared me. It was oversized and angry and I lived in fear of the day the whole thing might come tumbling down and gobble me up. I’m thankful for the biscuit, which is a little more inviting than a man-eating reptile.

I locked up and climbed into my Ford Escort, rolling down the windows for maximum exposure to any breath of wind. Even at 6:15 in the morning, sweat had started to break through my brave attempt to start the day clean and shower-fresh. I swiped at upper-lip sweat as I nodded at the big biscuit. It was now on duty to keep watch over Mama’s little trailer.

My commute is exactly six minutes, and then it takes four minutes to walk from the hospital’s parking lot practically in the next county. In this heat, we’ve had exactly five instances of a Code Blue called on an employee walking up from the remote lot. Four of them died. I think three of them were chain-smoking nurses from the Cardiac Lab, and one was a popular security guard, Ed Moneypenny, who carried clear blue mints in his pocket and called each woman he saw “beautiful” as he passed her a warm candy.

By the time I got there, Jean was already setting up her station, and Sandy had some coffee brewing in the break room.

“Lot of boob jobs and EKGs today,” Jean greeted me.

“It’s bikini season,” I said. “The women are feeling insecure, and the men are having palpitations at all the extra skin.”

“You should have seen what Mamie Litchfield’s little ho-bag was wearing at the Food Lion the other day,” Sherrie said, breezing by with more paper for the printers. “I saw so much skin, I feel like I’ve slept with her myself.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Jean, laughing and twisting her chair back and forth. I think that is the extent of Jean’s exercise regimen.

By the time I sat down, the early procedures were already drifting in.

“Cancer,” I said, under my breath, as a thin new patient presented herself through the sliding glass doors.

“But what kind?” Jean asked, as she swiveled.

“Hmmm. Bone,” I said, a rare choice, a gamble.

The patient walked up to Jean’s cubicle and started her paperwork. Jean’s plush body and motherly tone make her a patient favorite. I guess I was wrong about the bone cancer—the penny antes we keep in our side drawers go back and forth throughout the day. I’m right more often than not—I have about 70 pennies spilling onto my paper clips.

My first of the day—heart. A heavy, florid middle-aged man sat down in front of me to process him for a stress test. Glad Jean didn’t guess on that one—he was a gimme.

It’s like I told Jean a few years ago. People are either Heart or Cancer. Heart types are easy to anger, eager to express their emotions and get anything negative off their chests immediately. They are the stress tests, EKG and bypass patients. They blow through our front doors, ready to curse the doctors, God and their families for the state they’re in.

Then there are the Cancers. You can sense their reserve as soon as the glass doors slide open. Hesitation, pursed lips, drawn cheeks, a shy smile.

Mama was a Cancer. If only I had come up with my heart/cancer theory earlier, maybe I could have saved her from the drawn-out treatment and pain. But maybe not. I don’t have much experience with trying to divert someone from her destiny.