IN THE EVENINGS after she gets out of the shower, which she takes with the bathroom door ajar so that you and a nurse can call to her every two minutes and make sure she’s okay, you help your daughter thread her i.v. tubes and monitor wires through the wide sleeves of her hospital gown, so that the nurse can then plug everything back in for the night. She holds her wet hair up as you tie the white strings of the gown under her neck and then around her lower back, and you try not to stare at the bony points of her shoulder blades, the fuzzy dark hair that’s growing all over her back, the ribs you can count one by one by one. You take your place in your green vinyl chair by the side of her bed, recline it as best you can, settle in, wait for the alarms to start ringing as they do at regular intervals each night when her heart rate slows to a dangerous rate, wait for the nurses to come in and hit a reset button, wait for them to come back and do it again, and again, and again. Wait for the phlebotomists to arrive for the 5 a.m. draw, try to tap her paper thin veins, smiling at you both in a way that you know is meant to show upbeat friendliness to her and empathy to you. Day seven is your forty-eighth birthday. You are at the stage of life where birthdays are no longer a big deal, and given where you are now, the notion of celebrating anything having to do with yourself is unfathomable. But she’s remembered. Asked her dad, who is your ex-husband, to bring cupcakes with him during his visit, and while he may not be your favorite person, he is your partner in this. When you return from your run, the one, brief, daily escape you allow yourself, they surprise you—candles, singing and all. She hands you a card that makes you cry, the kind you usually save to look back on, but will you ever want to look back on this? You remember how you used to make cupcakes together when she was younger, her on a stool beside you at the counter, licking the beaters as you poured the mixture into the tins. There’s nothing she loves more than yellow cupcakes with vanilla frosting. She holds the plastic container out and you and her dad and you each take one. As you pull back the wrapper she replaces the lid over the remaining cupcakes, pressing it firmly shut, watching as you enjoy her favorite dessert.
— AMY ALLEN
Amy Allen‘s poetry and fiction is published in a variety of literary journals, and her chapbook, Mountain Offerings, was released in April. Born in Indiana, she now lives in Shelburne, Vermont, with her husband and children, as well as a fiercely independent husky and a perpetually starving chocolate lab. She owns All of the Write Words, a freelance writing/editing business and serves as her town’s Poet Laureate.