Mum, Ill be quick. Twenty minutes, no more, Ian stood in the doorway of the ward, trying to smile, though his lips quivered.
Just dont be long, Eleanor lay on her side, clutching the blanket, the doctor said the drip would be set up by evening.
He nodded, slung his coat over his shoulder and stepped out. Outside it was damp and blustery. October in York never spared its pedestrians rain, wind, puddles that seemed to mirror the whole melancholy of an English autumn: low sky, silent people, everything waiting for an end.
Ian hurried toward the bus stop, feeling the pressure of missing something larger than a timetable. Not the bus life itself. Every thing that rolled by.
Three weeks earlier the doctors had said his mother was in the final stage. He hadnt wept then. He simply sat on a bench outside the mortuary for some reason his feet had carried him there and stayed until darkness fell.
So, youre thinking of going away? asked the neighbour in the next bed, a frail old man with a thin neck and eyes that held an endless waiting.
Im waiting for my son, Eleanor said with a faint smile, he promised to come this evening.
Does he come often? the old man asked.
Every day. I keep wondering perhaps Im holding him back? He has a life of his own.
The man cleared his throat and whispered,
It isnt you who holds him, its he who wont let go. Until he does, you wont leave.
Eleanor turned toward the window. Beyond the glass the rain fell. Strangely, she remembered loving rain once. In her youth it had seemed romantic: sitting in the kitchen with a hot tea, listening to the taptap of droplets on the sill. Now it merely blurred her sight.
Ian slipped into the ancient park where, as a child, he and his mother had sledded down the hill. By the third birch from the gate she had once told him,
You know, son, it doesnt matter what you do. What matters is that someone smiles because of you. Even just one person.
He hadnt understood then; now the words sat heavy in his chest.
His phone buzzed: Mum: No rush, Im fine. He gave a mechanical grin lately shed been sending no rush messages, probably to keep him from worrying.
The ward fell silent. The old man slept, the nurse had slipped out the door. Eleanor stared at the ceiling and suddenly heard music, faint as if from a distant corridor, an old folk tune, Autumn Rain. She smiled. Lord, really? Here too she thought, closing her eyes.
And then someone sat beside her, as quiet as a sigh of wind.
Do not be afraid, the voice said, its already over.
She kept her eyes shut, exhaled, and whispered,
Just dont let him cry.
Ian came back after forty minutes. The doctors had already left the room; the nurse stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed. He understood without words.
May I? he asked softly.
Yes, the nurse nodded, just a moment.
He sat beside her. His mother lay peacefully, a faint smile playing on her lips. On the bedside table the phone screen glowed with an unsent text:
Ian, dont wait for a miracle. Be the miracle yourself.
He stared at the screen until his eyes ached. Then he noticed something on the window where rain traced delicate lines: a tiny heart, as if someone had drawn it from within with a fingertip. He smiled the first genuine one in many days.
A year slipped by.
Ian stood at the entrance of the childrens oncology unit, a thermos of coffee in one hand and a basket of fruit in the other.
Are you a volunteer? asked the security guard.
Yes, Ian replied, smiling, I just want someone to smile.
A balding boy darted down the corridor and shouted, Uncle, look, Im getting better! Ian felt a warm surge. Miracles, he realised, do happen sometimes they arrive on our shoulders.