Last Words: A Diary of Survival

by Shari J. Ryan

  “Emma,” he says with a flustered sigh as if I'm the one being unreasonable. “I don't have the desire to do that again, I swear to you. I was thinking about popping the question and all that jazz. Then I realized how scary forever sounded, and I just got this bug in my head. As soon as it was over, I realized how stupid I was for thinking I needed something more.”

  The only emotion stirring inside of me at the moment is happiness, and I'm not sure why. “Do you know how long I've waited to hear you say that?” I ask him.

  “Say which part?”

  “That you were thinking about popping the question.” I can’t stop the cyclical laughter from oozing out of me. “I'm thirty-one, and we've been together for six years. I've been sitting around waiting for you to mature into the type of man who wants to settle down, all the while, being afraid of moving on from you because I've already missed out on my prime years. I feared starting over and hoping to find someone who would want to be with me and eventually settle down, but in the last five minutes, you've made me realize how much better my odds are of starting over versus what my life would be like if I were to stay with you.”

  He looks at me with confusion. Clearly, I'm not making sense to him, but how could he think I'd be okay with the fact that he decided to test the boundaries by sleeping with another woman? Maybe I held onto this relationship too long, but I'm not that weak. “So, what are you saying?” he asks, nervously.

  Is he seriously that dumb? I suppose I don’t need to ask him that part. “I'm saying we’re done. I waited long enough for you to love me the way I forced myself to love you, and it’s never going to happen.”

  He huffs a sarcastic chuckle. “I knew you wouldn't understand. How could I be with someone who has no acceptance or the capability of forgiveness? Maybe I was wrong, but the coldness in your heart is eventually going to catch up to you. I'm surprised you didn't remind me of your favorite saying—you know, how people don't change and blah blah blah.”

  I lift my laptop from the table and slide it back into my bag. “If you need someone to blame, go ahead and tell me this is my fault. Maybe I'm cold. Maybe I wholeheartedly believe people can’t change who they are, yet I still waited for you to become a better person. That makes me the stupid one.”

  “You can say that again,” he says. Mike always needs to have the last word, and I’ve let him have it through every fight we’ve endured, never caring what words lingered as I walked away.

  I walk away, finally feeling free of the restraints that were holding me back—the ones I couldn't manage to untangle myself from before today. “I didn't just cheat on you once,” he shouts. “It was so many times that I lost count.” His fit of laughter floats through the air, making him sound like a lunatic.

  Tears prick my eyes after his last comment, which makes me angry because I don’t want his words or actions to hurt me anymore. Plus, what right do I have to pretend I know what pain feels like after reading Grams’s diary entries? I'm lucky to have a choice—to be able to walk away.

  As I’m heading back toward the hospital entrance after an unsuccessful attempt to catch up on my emails, I hear the engine of Mike's truck rev, followed by the sound of tires squealing against the pavement.

  “How could I have been so stupid? Six years. For what?”

  “It happens to the best of us,” a familiar voice pipes up behind. Jackson pulls my attention away from the anger and rage I’m fighting against. “I wasn't eavesdropping.”

  I don't know how much Jackson heard between Mike and me, but I hope he only heard me talking to myself. “It’s okay,” I tell him.

  “See this?” he says, pointing to his ring finger. There's an indent and band of lighter colored flesh compared to the rest of his finger.

  I study it for a moment, trying to figure out what I'm looking at, but then it dawns on me that it's his ring finger. “Did you lose your ring?”

  He laughs with obvious discomfort. “Definitely didn’t lose it.”

  “Oh?” I question, waiting for a more detailed explanation.

  “I was married for eight years, I’ve been divorced for eleven months, and this stupid spot won't fill in. She's still torturing me.”

  “Geez, I didn't realize that could happen,” I tell him. Seriously, I didn't know skin could shrink like that.

  “It can, it did, and she’d probably love to know.”

  “I guess I can assume you didn’t have the best marriage?” Now that I’m evidently going on a date with this man tonight, I suppose I should know a little more about him than just his name.

  “That’s putting it mildly, but no, I didn't have a great marriage.”

  I fidget with the straps of my bag, keeping them upright on my shoulder. “So, what happened?” Maybe she cheated on him too. That would just make for a cute coincidence, wouldn't it?

  “She was selfish, lazy, mean, and bored. She didn't like the fact that I had to work long hours, but she would continuously complain that we never had enough money. She told me she was too tired to make meals but insisted on being a housewife, and to add insult to injury, she stayed up most nights texting and talking to her friends while I sat beside her, waiting for a moment of her attention after working a twelve-hour shift. If I tried to get near her, she’d push me away. I lost track of how many times she asked me to sleep in the guest room.”

  “Oh my gosh, that’s terrible,” I tell him. “I may have the perfect match for her if she's still single.” I laugh because I suspect she's going to have a hard time finding a man that's going to please her if Jackson wasn't good enough. On the other hand, he could just be saying all of this. I certainly don't know him very well, considering we just met, but it sort of sounds like my life with Mike, minus the marriage. “She’ll eventually realize what she had. I'm not sure what man would cave to those requirements and demands.”

  We reach the side doors of the hospital and Jackson opens the door, holding it out so I can walk in. “Surprisingly enough, she's already remarried, which is fine by me. I wished the guy good luck when we awkwardly ran into each other in Target a couple months ago.”

  “Wow. I guess it's a good thing you were smart enough to get out when you did,” I tell him.

  Jackson scuffles his shoe against the thin carpet while peering down to his feet as he inhales loudly before spilling out, “Yes, except she’s the one who left me. I'm not a quitter, so I kept making excuses to myself and tried to make it work.”

  I'm not sure what to say in response, but I suppose it’s good I finally grew the courage to do what I was afraid I’d never be able to do. I'm sure Mike isn't through with me yet, though. I imagine I'll have dozens of texts and a bunch of missed calls on my phone tomorrow after I sleep at Mom's again tonight, but I can't go back to him this time. I don't want to have to tell someone someday that my ex left me because I wasn't strong enough to leave him.

  “Well, I guess we have something in common,” I tell Jackson.

  A hint of a smile pokes at his left cheek. “Hey, again, I know this probably sounds like I've been eavesdropping, which I swear, I haven't been doing, but I overheard some of what you were reading to your grandmother earlier.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to imagine which part he may have heard. “Yeah, it's pretty heavy. I'm having a hard time digesting some of it. It’s why I went outside to clear my head for a few minutes, but evidently, exes always know the right time to make life just a little more sour.”

  “That's for sure,” he agrees. “I can imagine it might be hard reading her words out loud like that.”

  “She’s very detailed with her descriptions, and it’s hard not to envision what she went through, you know? I mean, she’s my grandmother, and it’s just so hard to comprehend her enduring that kind of abuse. On top of that, I never knew any of her concentration camp stories before now. It seems surreal.”

  “She’s lived quite a life,” he says. “Thankfully, you’re saving it by going out with me tonight.” He puffs his chest out, and his f
ace brightens with a silly grin. “It's all in a day's job—saving lives and going out with pretty granddaughters of my patients. What a way to make a living, huh?”

  “How many granddaughters have you been bribed into taking out?” I ask—partially joking, maybe a little serious. I'm sure he's kidding. I can't imagine too many grandmothers use their lives as bait for their unmarried grandchildren.

  “Oh, you're only the second, don't worry,” he says with an accompanied wink. “I have to get going, but if I don't mysteriously run into you again before tonight, have a great afternoon.”

  “You too.” He is like a breath of fresh air, and I can’t help the curiosity I feel while watching him walk away. I want to know more about this man who seems too good to be true.

  “Code Blue on floor eight. Dr. Beck, paging Dr. Beck.” My moment of light-hearted ease is gone as I hear the alert on the loudspeaker. Dr. Beck’s name and the eighth floor is immediate cause for panic since that’s the floor Grams is on, and I know what code blue means. However, I don’t know how many patients he has on the eighth floor.

  I circle around for a moment, looking for the nearest elevator, then break into a run when I spot one. I desperately slap my palms against the elevator buttons until the doors open, and I do the same with the “close door” and “eighth floor” buttons on the inside. Hurry. Please. It feels like forever before the elevator reaches the eighth floor, but as soon as the doors open, I hear alarms and beeping noises blaring from different directions. I can’t help feeling terrified of the unknown, and the fear has made me forget which room number Grams is in, so I start running in what I hope is the right direction. I must have circled the entire floor before I see nurses coming and going from a room near the end. That's her room. Eight-eleven. No, no, no. Please, be okay, Grams.

  Though I'm running, I feel like I’m on a treadmill, or like the hallway is growing longer by the second. I can't seem to reach her room fast enough, and my chest tightens with guilt for leaving Grams’s side. I shouldn't have been so worried about answering emails. When I finally reach her room, I see doctors and nurses working on her. It confirms that the alarm sounds are coming from her room, and her heart looks like it's flatlined according to the flashing monitor. I just pray they just took the wires off to work on her, not because they’re giving up.

  Jackson looks over at me for a split second. His face is white, and his forehead is glowing with beads of sweat under the bright light. “Emma, you need to go into the waiting room. Now.”

  “Is she going to be okay?” I cry out.

  “Emma, please, go,” he says forcefully.

  I clutch my chest as tears barrel down my cheeks. Please, God, don't take her from me. I need her. I just want to be selfish a little longer and keep her here. I slowly make my way to the small waiting room that we were in yesterday before we found out what had happened. This time I’m alone, though, and I’m debating whether I should call Mom and Annie now or wait until I find out what's happening before I scare them. I should wait a few minutes. I think this is the right thing to do. I hope it is.

  I fold over as I drop down into a chair, pressing my fingertips into the sides of my head while trying to breathe in and out slowly. Please, let her be okay.

  Minutes go by, and I still don't know what’s going on. I feel completely helpless and alone sitting here, so I take the leather diary out of my bag and hug it to my chest. Did I do this? Was reading the diary to her too much for her heart to handle? I don't understand why she wanted me to read this to her so badly.

  Charlie. He was the initial reason for me finding the book. So far, I haven’t read anything about a Charlie, though.

  With each silent passing minute, I grow more impatient, and my hands move on their own accord as I pry open Grams’s diary again. I need to feel close to her voice—her words.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Amelia

  Day 5 - January 1942

  I hadn't moved from the mattress in three days except to squat in the corner of the room to relieve myself. Obviously, the Nazis didn’t think we were worthy of a toilet or shower. They could at least allow us to relieve ourselves outside, but we were under strict rules and weren’t permitted to leave the barracks aside from their commands. In those first few days, there were no invitations to leave our quarters. It felt like they were desensitizing us from any type of humanity.

  I sat on the floor in front of my bed with my aching back arched forward, while I stared at cracks in the cement wall in front of me. I would ponder my bleak existence, wondering when they would let us know what would come next. I had heard a rumor that we would be assigned jobs to earn our keep, but no one had come in to inform us of that yet, so we waited. All we did was wait.

  The only time the doors in front of us had opened or closed was when a Nazi delivered each of us a small loaf of stale bread and a teacup-size portion of cabbage soup.

  I was hungry by the end of the first day, feeling the discomfort grow from the bottom of my stomach into an ache I couldn’t ignore. The second day, the ache turned into agony. Then, the third day, it felt as if my insides were feeding off my fat and bones. The pains came and went, but the weakness was the fiercest. I could hardly stand, and I wasn't sure I would have the strength to work when the time came.

  The woman on the bunk beside me stared at me all day, each day since I had arrived. She was constantly reaching for me, almost as if she were pleading with me to save her. It was what the expression on her face said to me, anyway. She spoke French, and I was never very good with that language, so I had a hard time understanding her. Besides Czech, English was the only other language I focused on learning because I had planned on moving to America someday. Though, someday seemed unlikely by that point. I wondered how old the woman was because I noticed that after days and days without eating much or bathing, age was merely a number. The living conditions made everyone look and feel much older than they were, and for those whose bodies weren't strong enough, death was likely. I was determined to fight, but most of the women living in the block I was in probably felt the same way when they first arrived too.

  Our rations were brought in to us early that day, and I devoured the bread and guzzled the soup, silently pleading for more. My stomach craved more food after I finished eating than it did before I took my first bite. However, food had become a necessity that needed to be consumed rather than savored, and it was never enough eliminate the hunger pains.

  “They—are—they nous tuer.” It was the only time the woman beside me spoke out loud rather than muttering to herself.

  “Non, je ne parle pas Français,” I told her, wishing I understood what she was saying, but she made it clear a moment later as she sliced her finger across her throat and dropped her head to the side. For a moment, I was confused, but as she pointed to the door, I put her pantomime together, confirming my fear of what was happening. They were slowly, but deliberately, trying to kill us.

  I'm not sure how much time passed between when we finished eating and the moment everyone very suddenly became ill. I also don’t know if we were poisoned or if some or all the food had gone bad, but I don't believe much can go wrong with bread and cabbage soup. Almost every woman in our block began to vomit. Soon, the last meal was coming out of everyone one way or another, and the smell that followed could make anyone who wasn't already ill, sick to their stomach. For me it was vomit. I barely made it off the side of the bed before the heaving started. It was pure luck that I made it off in time, or I would have had to sleep in it that night.

  When everyone was at the peak of their sickness, a few of Nazis came to the doorway to watch, as if it were their entertainment for the night. A few of them laughed at us as we curled up on our mattresses, miserable, shaking from the cold, but also sweating at the same time. Over the next several hours, most of the other women fell asleep, and all but one of the Nazis left since the show was apparently over.

  I rested listlessly on the side of my mattress, staring at that one
Nazi, wondering how anyone could find enjoyment in watching people fall so ill.

  That particular Nazi didn't appear to have the same type of enthrallment like the others, though, so I had found it odd that he remained in the doorway. When he caught me looking at him, he lowered his hands behind his back, straightened his shoulders, and walked toward me with no expression on his face. It wasn't until he was a few feet away that I recognized him. He was the Nazi who brought me into the barrack three days prior.

  He stood in front of me for a long minute, staring down at me as if I were an unrecognizable type of species that he had never seen before.

  “Did you need something?” I asked, meekly, using every ounce of energy I had left to force sound into my words. Not only was my stomach folding in on itself again, but my throat was on fire from the acidic vomit I expelled just a few inches away.

  The Nazi lifted his hand with a handkerchief balled up inside of his fist, then pressed it to his nose. It made me jealous that he had a way to block out the smell. He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. Whatever it was, it was small enough to be concealed within his hand, and my curiosity was piqued. He knelt in front of me and timidly dropped the object down on the empty space beside me. “Is that poison?” I grunted through a hoarse whisper, studying the piece of bread.

  “No,” he replied just as softly.

  “Tomorrow, they recruit for jobs. You must be well enough to avoid transit.” There was a certain kindness in his eyes that confused me. Still, I would have been foolish not to consider that the bread may be poisonous, despite what he said. After all, I had spoken out of turn one too many times with that soldier, so I thought he might want to torture me slowly. “Eat it.”