My First Short Story - Janet Lane Walters

 

The short story here is the first one I’ve ever written and had published. I groaned when I re-typed it to put up on the blog and kept myself from making chnges. Showed many amateur mistakes and pointed out to me how far I’ve come. I can’t believe all the It was sentences. That’s a particular thing that bugs me.

 

A Small Smile by Janet Lane Walters

 

Mildred Long stood before the dresser in her bedroom and combed her brown hair. Her round face reflected pleasure in the change in her appearance. I almost look pretty, sue thought but then she looked down at the new white uniform that spanned her and knew she was over-weight and unattractive. She would really have to do something about it.

The changes she had made astonished her. She looked alive for the first time in years. A look of expectancy had replaced the usual dull expression in her brown eyes.

Mildred was returning to the hospital after two days off. She had missed talking to John Brent. He didn’t talk much. He usually listened but it gave her a warm feeling to know someone was interested in her. It had been almost seventeen years since she’d had a friend. John had completely filled the void.

Mildred picked up her coat and glanced around the apartment. It was dingy and she would have to brighten it up. She didn’t want any drabness since John had come into her life. New drapes and slipcovers would work wonders. It was funny that she had never noticed the drabness before. For seven years, she had only existed here. Now, she would have to learn to live.

 

* * *

 

As she walked toward the hospital, Mildred’s thoughts turned to her growing friendship with John Brent. He’d only been a patient for a month but her awareness of him was only two weeks old. A shrill blast of wind made her draw her coat closer.

Two weeks ago, she had been alone in the Nurses’ Station when the call board lit up. Mildred looked up to see who was bothering her. She liked to work nights because they were so quiet.

Mr. Brent. What does he want, she thought. Doesn’t he realize that I can’t give him anything for pain until after twelve thirty? It’s not even midnight.

Stolidly, she rose from her chair at the desk and strode down the hall. Her heavy footsteps echoed loudly. It was her duty to see what Mr. Brent wanted and Mildred always did her duty.

When she reached the door to Mr. Brent’s room, she hesitated. She hated death and he was dying.

Finally, she plunged into the room and spoke in a curt voice. “What do you want? I can’t get you anything for pain yet.” She stood at the foot of his bed, half turned toward the door as if poised for flight.

Mr. Brent smiled and Mildred wondered what he had to smile about. She was healthy and she found no joy in life. Why should a dying man smile like that?

His smile almost made her forget he was dying. It even took away some of the dark emaciating caused by the disease consuming him. His smile was full of youth and eagerness.

“I know I can’t have anything for pain, yet,” Mr. Brent said. His voice was low and friendly. I thought if you weren’t busy, we might talk. It makes the time pass faster when I talk to someone.”

Mildred didn’t want to talk. She wanted to run from the room but she couldn’t think of a good reason to go. “I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Tell me about yourself. I’m interested in people.”

Mildred felt him studying her closely and her hands tightened on the foot of the bed. What for, she thought, you’re dying. She glanced nervously around the room.

“Mrs. Thompson is due on rounds soon,” she said after a glance at her watch. “I’ll bring you something for pain as soon as she leaves.” She turned and fled from the room.

When she reached the Nurses’ Station, Mrs. Thompson was waiting. “How are things tonight?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“Quiet,” Mildred said. “except for Mr. Brent. He seems to behaving a lot of pain and is having difficulty sleeping.”

“I know,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I wish there was some way I could help him. I don’t know why but he helps me feel more useful than any other patient we have. He makes me feel like I’ve helped him just by visiting him.”

Mildred finished giving Mrs. Thompson a report and then, she moved to the medicine cupboard. As she prepared the hypodermic she could hear Mrs. Thompson’s footsteps fade.

A few minutes later, Mildred entered Mr. Brent’s room and saw that Mrs. Thompson was still there. With astonishment, she noticed the supervisor was holding Mr. Brent’s hand. How can she stand to touch him, Mildred thought. She shuddered. She waited until Mrs. Thompson left before she approached the bed and quickly give the injection. Then she stepped back from the bed like a startled rabbit.

Mr. Brent smiled and asked quietly, “What’s wrong, Miss Long? Are you afraid of me because I’m dying? You picked a strange profession if you are.”

Mildred was startled by his perception. “I didn’t pick nursing,” she blurted. “It was my only choice. I do my job.”

“Yes, you do,” John Brent said. “And very efficiently. But you don’t do anything else… You must be a very lonely person. I’d like to be your friend.”

Mildred looked at him closely. “I don’t know how,” she said and realized how true this was. Something had always held her back from people.

“It’s easy,” said Mr. Brent. “Just call me John and try a small smile.”

A puzzled look crossed Mildred’s plain face. What did he mean by that, she wondered.

John Brent smiled attain. “A smile means almost as much as medicine when you’re ill. It makes you feel as though the person behind the smile cares what happens to you.”

Mildred tried to smile but she found the effort was too much. “I have to go now, Mr. Brent.”

“John,” he said.

“John,” Mildred repeated and she smiled, a small, thin smile.

 

* * *

 

During the next few weeks, Mildred began to respond to John’s interest. She found herself telling him about the seven long years she had cared for her father and the plans she had sacrificed to be a dutiful daughter.

After her father’s death, nursing had seemed like the logical thing to do. She had always wanted to be a teacher but there wasn’t enough money left for a college education. Instead she had become a nurse.

With John’s encouragement, Mildred had begun to try and make friends. She talked to the other nurses and tried to seem interested in them. Their responses pleased her.

Mildred wasn’t sure of her feelings for John. They were stronger than friendship. Although she knew it was foolish, for the first time in years, she began to dream.

 

* * *

 

Another blast of cold air tore Mildred’s coat from her grasp. As she grabbed it and pulled it close, she realized she had reached the hospital. She entered and hurried to Men’s Surgical.

The hall lights were dimmed and Mildred could hear the patients breathing and an occasional snore. The brighter lights from the Nurses’ Station beckoned to her and she resisted the temptation to stop in John’s room. She was almost late.

When she reached the Nurses’ Station, the evening nurse looked up. “Am I ever glad to see you. This has been an evening. Mr. Brent got worse at ten and he’s been on vital signs every fifteen minutes since then. Mrs. Thompson’s sending Bailor up. One of you can special him. He’s unconscious now.”

Mildred grasped the edge of the desk and took a deep breath. She had known this would happen but it was a shock. Oh, John, she thought. What am I going to do now? I’ll be alone again.

Miss Bailor arrived and after report, the evening nurse left.

Mildred turned to Miss Bailor and said, “I’ll stay with Mr. Brent unless you want to.”

Miss Bailor shrugged her thin shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll be glad to stay here.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t like to sit in a room with a patient who’s going out. It’s so depressing.”

Mildred sat up and started slowly down the hall. Never before had the hall seemed so long and so dark. At the door to Mr. Brent’s room, she paused and swallowed back the tears she felt forming.

The sight of him lying so still, propped by pillows and in an oxygen tent brought back the tears. She let them fall. With shaking hands she opened the oxygen tent and took John’s pulse and blood pressure. Then she turned around to write them on the chart.

“Dear friend.”

Mildred wheeled and stared at John. Had she really heard him speak, or had she wished for this so much she had imagined it.

John’s eyelids fluttered open and a smile crossed his pain-lined face. Mildred took his hand and leaned closer to hear what he was saying.

John smiled again and said in a low whisper, “I waited for you. No tears, dear friend.” He closed his eyes.

Mildred felt a slight pressure on her hand and then nothing. The room was quiet except for the rasp of John’s breathing.

“Goodbye, John,” she said and her voice broke. Tears flowed down her face in a steady stream. She managed to smile through them as she pulled a straight chair to the bedside and sat down to begin her sorrowful vigil.