The Birth (The Black Wing Book 1)

by Yvette, Miriam

  “What are you doing here?” she wheezed.

  “I’m working.” I reply with a smile.

  “But you’re off today. Wait—don’t tell me, Bradley called you.”

  Something about her doesn’t feel right. The dark bags under her eyes, and the heavy lines on her face isn’t one of her normal grumpy days—she’s depressed. I hoped that my being here will bring back to her infamous nature, but she’s only silent. While I tried to think of a way to spark a conversation, my attention caught a small sparkle. A gold ring reflected a small diamond nestled on her wedding finger. Of all the days I saw her, I only just took notice of a generic ring belonging to Ms. Clarisse—a rich, and wealthy woman. If she’s married, then she must have children, but where are they? Finally, I looked around, seeing no flowers, no balloons, and no signs of any visitors. I gulped the hard truth. The rumors are real.

  “You can go home, I’m fine.”

  Startled, I remained in my post. She looked at me and nodded her head to the exit. I gripped the arm chair for support, and informed her that I wasn’t planning on leaving.

  “Excuse me?” she sparked.

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “You specifically chose me to be your attendant, you should at least let me fulfilling that task.”

  Her eyes mystified and a smile lurked on Ms. Clarisse’s face—a smile I have never seen.

  “Now I see.” she started. “There is a little someone under that weak, timid, personality of yours.”

  It sounds like a compliment, I think. She continued.

  “Even if I did pick you out of the crowd, I expected you’d be anything but fond of me.”

  “So far, you haven’t given me any reason not to.” I boldly reply.

  Ms. Clarisse suddenly asked for iced water. I took this as a good sign and immediately fetched for the nurse. After returning to her room, I took out my notepad from my bag.

  “Is there anything you want to me bring from Gilia? Your makeup perhaps—you wear it every day.”

  “How did you know I like to wear makeup? You pick up fast child.”

  I froze, trying to find an answer to my sudden comment. Ms. Clarisse dismissed it, and mentioned a list of things she wanted me to bring—her makeup included. Given the circumstance of her accident, it’s probably a good thing for Mr. Clarisse to be at a hospital. I can no longer trust the attendants who are randomly assigned to her. A doctor knocked on the side of the wall, he looks startled to see me. Ms. Clarisse didn’t invite him in, instead, she’s looking at me—waiting for me to make a move.

  “Come in.” I said.

  My fingers crossed, hoping Ms. Clarisse won’t throw a fit. Her expression changed when the doctor entered, her eyebrows started furrowing, and her teeth started to show. The only thing that’s left, is for her to start barking.

  “I thought Mr. Müller was here.” stuttered the frightened doctor.

  “I didn’t know he was coming.” I answered. “What can I help you with—”

  My voiced died, nurse rolled in a wheelchair. The pieces I ignored are starting to come together.

  “The electric wheelchair Mr. Müller ordered has arrived. A specialist will be visiting within the next few days for fall prevention, and mobility exercises. I talked with her family doctor, and we decided that your inter-trochanteric fracture is a regular fracture that must be treated with a compression hip screw. While that is pending for approval, we will be doing more examinations to prepare you for surgery—”

  “I don’t need to prepare for anything!” Ms. Clarisse suddenly shouted. “Get out—get out!”

  The doctor lowers his chart, and leads the stiff nurse out of the room. I have been too preoccupied on the cast on Ms. Clarisse’s arm that I completely forgot about her fractured hip. The nurse mentioned Ms. Clarisse fell, trying to get off her bed. She must have landed on her hip after using her falling arm to catch herself—thus breaking her wrist. The overnight attendants quickly returned to my mind, disappointment and anger is starting to build up in me.

  “What are you going to do about those attendants?” I inquired. “If you needed help with anything, they were supposed to be there to assist you. They’re not doing their job, and look where it led you.”

  “You’re upset?” she asked.

  “Yes!” I sparked “You need to report them to Bradley.”

  “I will do no such thing.”

  “But that’s what you’re known for doing.” I said.

  “When have I fired anyone?” she defended. “Sure, I’m the reason they quit, but Bradley does the firing. He doesn’t have to, but he does—thinks it will make me like him more.”

  “What they’re doing is wrong.” I commented. “And you’re still going to pretend it never happened and do nothing about it?”

  Admittedly, I don’t know if my rash comments was the correct thing say. As her attendant, I should know my limits to express my opinions. Ms. Clarisse should be telling me to mind my own business, but she’s saying nothing. The room kept silent, her eyes looked away. She must be somewhere else in her mind, roaming through the memories of her past.

  “Getting those fools fired won’t alleviate my pain.” she whispered. “It’s because I’m old, and when you’re old, nobody cares about you anymore. I was never raised to prepare for my current age, and to make matters worse, the government robs us of our natural born rights by caging us in profit-driven senior homes. My entire life changed when I got old, it’s supposed to shift not change like it has. Take this accident for example, even in this mess, my own family doctor can’t visit me because he’s afraid of my children.”

  She raises the arm with the broken wrist, the white cast, now in front of her. Her fingers tried to wiggle, instead, it caused her whole arm to shake. Her eyes then fixated on her wedding ring, the sight, relaxed her wrinkled face. That one ring, swept away the stress in her eyes.

  “You know, my husband took my last name.” she said, changing the subject. “My family made him because he was poor. They felt his last name would burden me. Regardless of what my family and peers thought, I loved him. He was a passionate man, driven to prove the whole world that I was destined to marry him. He swore to my family that he would become as successful as they are. It took him 20 years to finally be regarded as what society likes to call a ‘respectable man’. He loved me, and I still love him.”

  Ms. Clarisse’s arms lingered in the air. Now I understand why the inexpensive ring remains faithfully in her finger. Suddenly her arms rested, and she looks at me. She comments that because I am a woman, I am destined to understand the struggles of womanhood. When I asked her what she meant by that, she stopped me, and told me to listen.

  “The most miraculous thing that can happen to a woman is to give birth. In every labor a mother is reborn. Like a cocoon, we shed all we thought life was about, and become anew. Our eyes, and the way we perceive life is altered.

  That’s how I felt when I had Troy, my first child. I swore to myself that I would do anything to protect him. I was willing to give my life for him. I wanted to be a guardian, and that was my mistake.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to do that to your kids?” I said. Ms. Clarisse didn’t answer my question. She was in a trance and continued.

  “After Troy, I had Ana and Ben. My husband—rest his soul, was an outstanding father figure. Yes, we spoiled them rotten—but we didn’t care. I thought our love was worth more than any of our possessions. When I realized I was getting older, and my children had become adults, these frail hands of mine, began wrinkle year after year. Look at me, I am no longer fit enough to be anything, much less their guardian.”

  Ms. Clarisse shut her eyes and slowly shook her head. Her lips tightened and frowned.

  “In our old age, my husband and I hardly saw them, Troy was busy running the company, Ana got married, and Ben was nowhere to be found. Parkinson’s disease wasn’t enough, before he passed away, my husband became gra
vely ill. Instead of preserving their last moments with their father, our children argued among each other over the inheritance and the company. On his death bed, our children didn’t show up. They were somehow disgusted by a dying old man, and refused to pay their respects. Their absence hurt my husband tremendously—he swore they were just waiting for him to die, just so they could receive his inheritance. In my denial, I attacked his accusations. I assured him our children loved him more than they reveal. Without him knowing, I contacted and tried to persuade our children to visit him. Each passing day, my husband sincerely waited, hopeful for that matter. Then one night, he passed away. Not having him around made me very depressed. I couldn’t hold it together—it’s hard to enjoy life without seeing the man who spent it with you. After his death, I didn’t want to be alone. I thought I was going to live with Troy, the one that made me feel so alive when I first held him in my arms.”

  Ms. Clarisse’s voice went dark, disappointment followed her tone.

  “Then Troy brought me to Gilia, and promised he would visit me, celebrate family birthdays, and bring my grandchildren. Ana and Ben agreed on the idea, and it sounded alright. It was the first time the family agreed on one thing, and I couldn’t stand living in my home without my husband. As long as my family visits, I could cope living here. But no one ever came, not even my daughter Ana, whom I felt closest to. Her marriage grew dysfunctional, and I stopped hearing from her. My youngest son Ben didn’t even know where Gilia was. When I called him, and asked him to visit me, he stopped answering my calls. For three years I have waited. On family birthdays, I call them, hoping they would remember me.”

  Ms. Clarisse grew silent. I think it’s my turn to speak, but I’m unsure of what words to say to something so personal, and hurtful.

  “No one visits me!” she yelled.

  Ms. Clarisse’s voice echoed into the hall, I jumped at her escalating voice.

  “I’m no different than an abandoned dog in a pound, hopelessly waiting for the owner return! They don’t even try to visit me. Did I spoil them that bad? Would there be a difference if I disciplined them? It makes me angry—it makes me hate my own children! Like the stupid woman that I am, every year I call them on their birthdays, in hopes they will let me see them. Despite the anger, and the grudge I have on my heart, it’s hard for me to believe that I still love them.”

  “Ms. Clarisse, you’re not alone.” I whispered.

  My own throat is starting to tighten. Just hearing her pour all of these hurtful feelings is pushing me to the brink of tears. Unaware, of my sensitive state, Ms. Clarisse laughed.

  “Oh I know most of the folks in Gilia have the same history as me. But they do something differently that I cannot! They are willing to smile and befriend each other, and move on—but I can’t. No, I refuse to move on! I can’t forget and forgive for what they did to me, and to their father!”

  Like a boxer ready for a match, Ms. Clarisse gripped her good fist, and started beating on her own chest. It hurt me to see that, I told her to stop but she didn’t listen.

  “No matter how much I try, I’m still weak.” she cried “There’s nothing I can do to let them know how much I love them.”

  I took her hand to stop her from hurting herself, she forced her hand away from me, but I clenched it. When my tears started to fall, she relaxed. I smudged my tears from my cheek and laughed at myself for crying. Ms. Clarisse asked me why I’m crying, but I can’t tell her. I shouldn’t.

  “Child.” she started. “You shouldn’t cry on me like that. I’m not the first person on earth who has gone through this. If my words upset you—”

  “It’s my mom.” I chirped.

  What Ms. Clarisse said, tugs at everything I thought my position in my family was. Her words eroded my definition of a mother. Embarrassed, I finally decided to explain myself.

  “You are so patient, and kind. Even with the neglect, you still try to reach out to them. Against all odds, you still hope for them. My mother—my mother was not that kind of person. She is the opposite.”

  “Opposite? Stop crying child and explain yourself!” stammered Ms. Clarisse.

  “There’s isn’t much to explain.” I smiled. “Your words alone confirm it. Now that I know the truth, I can’t help but cry.”

  “Truth?” she asked. “What truth?”

  “My mother.” I released. “My mother has never loved me.”

  Chapter Six

  The Old Sayin’

  “The old saying is that it happens to all of us.”

  My time at the hospital was bitter-sweet. It was awkward for me to receive the kindness of the infamous Mr. Clarisse of the Gilia. It didn’t happen miraculously, but through the post-surgery and after, we became good friends. When she returned to Gilia, Ms. Clarisse continues to be the scary resident my co-workers have nightmares about. When I asked her about making friendships with her neighbors, she told me she couldn’t share her story to anyone. Telling a resident in her circle about her life would be scandalous, and the media will make haste to gobble it up. According to Ms. Clarisse, she had a long desire to find a genuine person she could trust and share her story with.

  “You’re that person.” she confessed.

  14th of March

  It has been well over a year since the day I was involuntary pushed to become Ms. Clarisse attendant. Within that year, everyone wanted to know the secret that tamed the wild Ms. Clarisse. A few attendants started admitting their residents were troublesome, but of course, none have been capable to top Ms. Clarisse. When I advised them to grow a friendly relationship with them, they saw it more as work. Those who care for Ms. Clarisse on my days off, tried to convince me to tell her to treat them nicely. They couldn’t understand that Ms. Clarisse was kind to me because I sincerely wanted to care for her. These attendants were only out to look for themselves. Ms. Clarisse did not give me any special treatment because I have won her trust. I have no control of her destructive behavior against others. To my surprise, I learned that her sour attitude is not out of spite with the staff of Gilia. Her problem, is a family problem.

  Over the months, I’ve learned to mentally record two types of eyes on Ms. Clarisse’s face. She has her gloomy eyes, worn when she was by herself, tired, and rolling to the past. Then, there’s the frightening eyes of a hawk—beaming at the staff for cooking the wrong meal. Sad or hawk eyed, they are influenced by her children, who are everything to her.

  On the contrary, I was raised in a way that makes my resentment towards my mother easy. If Ms. Clarisse is like my mother, then I can understand why Troy and the rest neglect her. I want to believe that possibility, but the more time I spend with Ms. Clarisse, the more I’m proven just how wrong I am.

  On a good mood, Ms. Clarisse makes me pull the family album from her book case. Together, we will sit in the living room sofa, drinking tea, and going through the photos Ms. Clarisse faithfully collected. Her eyes always sparkle whenever she shared her intimate memories as a child, and later—a mother. Thirty albums packed with pictures of her children in every occasion imaginable. I have felt embarrassed to watch a corporate leader’s first potty-train attempt, and another lose their baby tooth. It made Ms. Clarisse happy to relive those memories with someone. That was when I saw the picture of her cabin.

  “That looks just like your portrait.” I said, glancing at the one in her living room wall.

  “That’s because it is.” she replied. “It’s been my mother’s mother and so on. This cabin is my most prized possession. I spent my summers there as a child, all the way up to my teens. I often brought my very own children, we spent our Christmas there, cozying up by the fireplace. This cabin is in Washington State, it’s mighty far for an old lady like me to visit. If I could, I would be there right now. That place is my safe haven, it survived many forest fires—the only problems are those mischievous raccoons.”

  In the photo, the cabin’s yard is decorated with a swing set, sand box, and rows of flower beds.

  In one o
f the photos, Ms. Clarisse is young and beautiful, her gray hair is a dark blonde, her wrinkles are gone, and her love for makeup, hasn’t changed. Her blue eyes are kind, youthful, not sad or angry like she wears them now. Each photo has a serene smile, a smile I have never seen in person. In those photos, I can see why she is the way she is now, the family she used to know is no longer what it used to be.

  Whenever Ms. Clarisse shared her adventures in the cabin on Washington State, it sounds like that place is the source of happiness. Never in my wildest dreams would I believe she would put aside her tradition and pass it to me.

  Ms. Clarisse’s 70th birthday is a week away. In secret, I asked Bradley about her children’s home address. I wanted to surprise Ms. Clarisse by persuading her children to visit her. I didn’t care if I had to leave California, and travel state to state.

  Bradley looked at me with sad eyes, and told me her children live in this city—our city. Hearing him say that made my guts twist and churn. I assumed they couldn’t visit her because they live far away, but it only made me realize that I’m coming up with excuses for them. I’m starting to feel guilty and pathetic for thinking in their defense. I’m naïve to think that if her children see how miserable and frail Ms. Clarisse has become, they will feel a shock of sympathy in their hearts. Now I’m confident they have no soul.

  On the day of her birthday, Ms. Clarisse had neither joy nor sadness, rather, a lot of anxiety. She asked me if could keep her company while she made a phone call to her children. Despite her years of rejection, Ms. Clarisse hasn’t given up on them. For her birthday, she wanted to invite them for dinner. Deep inside, I want her to give up, they don’t deserve it—but I dialed the contact number anyway. After a few rings, none of their personal mobile phones answered. All of them went straight to voicemail. After two days of trying to reach them, Ms. Clarisse feared they have changed their cell phone number. As an alternative, we decided to dial the permanent house they live in.