Milwaukee suburb of
Waukesha to their waiting relatives: Uncle Walt, Emma, and Levi.
The soft glow of the TV inside showed movement in the house as they
had pulled into the driveway. Soon all three stood on the porch,
watching as Ann turned off the key and stopped the hum of the
engine. They had been waiting, after all, for two days. Delaney had
learned much later that it had taken her mother that long to leave
Amberg.
Uncle Walt had cradled a sleeping Delaney
into his arms while Emma ushered Ann into the house to unpack -
although Emma hadn’t realized how little packing Ann had
done - and showed her the birthday cake decorated with a single
purple flower waiting for Delaney on the dining room table. All
four had huddled around her in an enclosed cocoon and sang quietly
to the three-year-old, half sleeping in the chair, lulling her to
sleep. The hues of the three spiraled, pink candles had flickered
against the darkness of the room.
Delaney’s small head, with the same thick
waves as her mother, only shorter, had rested on the massive table
as they finished the last notes of the song. She had lifted her
head as the singing stopped and looked up at her mother who had a
single tear sliding down her face. It had been the first time
Delaney had seen her mother cry. She hadn’t known it would be the
only time she would see her mother cry.
***
The memory washed over Delaney as her feet
moved beneath her, carrying her to the end of the hallway. She
stopped, her eyes a foot away from a Van Gogh print of a wheat
field. Black crows scattered against a blue, looming sky in a
large, ornamental gold frame. The print intricately detailed the
strands of wheat sweeping through the vast field. The golden yellow
contrasted beside the dark blue sky. The placement of the print,
among the sick and dying at a hospital, seemed a distasteful choice
as she looked closer at the crows circling through the field. A
tear rolled down her face. Ann Jones had never looked so
vulnerable.
Delaney wiped the tear with the back of her
sleeve and turned her back to the print on the wall. She slid down
the wall and pulled her knees into her chest, cradling them as she
breathed in deep, closing her eyes to Thanksgiving four years ago
on 7th Street.
The Jones family, along with Uncle Walt and
Emma - Levi was living in New York at the time - had congregated,
as usual, to enjoy their annual turkey feast created meticulously
by Ann Jones. The aromas of fall filled the air; the warm smell of
pumpkin pie and turkey had occupied the Jones’ kitchen and
adjoining dining room. They had all gorged themselves, just
finishing their choice of two desserts that Ann had crafted the
night before when she said in passing as she cleared up dishes, “I
have cancer. I thought I would let you all know. Stage Three.” Ann
had said it so matter-of-fact, as if she had been commenting on the
weather. She hadn’t missed a step, continuing to move dishes
further into her arm, stacking them as she gathered more. Ben had
dropped his glass on the wooden floor, shattering it on contact.
The rest of her family still seated at the table stared at her, not
moving or saying a word. The doctors had given her three hundred
sixty-five days, give or take a few.
Ann Jones had spent the last four years,
trying various experimental treatments and aggressive chemotherapy.
She had been close to remission, a treatment almost eradicating the
cancer cells, only to experience another severe spread of the
cancer. Her health moved in waves, on sliding scales from better to
worse and back again. But never had Delaney seen her mother so weak
and vulnerable. Her eyes, for the first time, had lost the vibrancy
and sheer determinedness that had brought her mom this far. Ann
Jones had begun to let go.
Delaney opened her eyes to the sound of a
door shutting down the hallway. Her eyes adjusted and focused in on
the door and the man across from Room 547. His fleeting eyes made
contact with hers for a
Waukesha to their waiting relatives: Uncle Walt, Emma, and Levi.
The soft glow of the TV inside showed movement in the house as they
had pulled into the driveway. Soon all three stood on the porch,
watching as Ann turned off the key and stopped the hum of the
engine. They had been waiting, after all, for two days. Delaney had
learned much later that it had taken her mother that long to leave
Amberg.
Uncle Walt had cradled a sleeping Delaney
into his arms while Emma ushered Ann into the house to unpack -
although Emma hadn’t realized how little packing Ann had
done - and showed her the birthday cake decorated with a single
purple flower waiting for Delaney on the dining room table. All
four had huddled around her in an enclosed cocoon and sang quietly
to the three-year-old, half sleeping in the chair, lulling her to
sleep. The hues of the three spiraled, pink candles had flickered
against the darkness of the room.
Delaney’s small head, with the same thick
waves as her mother, only shorter, had rested on the massive table
as they finished the last notes of the song. She had lifted her
head as the singing stopped and looked up at her mother who had a
single tear sliding down her face. It had been the first time
Delaney had seen her mother cry. She hadn’t known it would be the
only time she would see her mother cry.
***
The memory washed over Delaney as her feet
moved beneath her, carrying her to the end of the hallway. She
stopped, her eyes a foot away from a Van Gogh print of a wheat
field. Black crows scattered against a blue, looming sky in a
large, ornamental gold frame. The print intricately detailed the
strands of wheat sweeping through the vast field. The golden yellow
contrasted beside the dark blue sky. The placement of the print,
among the sick and dying at a hospital, seemed a distasteful choice
as she looked closer at the crows circling through the field. A
tear rolled down her face. Ann Jones had never looked so
vulnerable.
Delaney wiped the tear with the back of her
sleeve and turned her back to the print on the wall. She slid down
the wall and pulled her knees into her chest, cradling them as she
breathed in deep, closing her eyes to Thanksgiving four years ago
on 7th Street.
The Jones family, along with Uncle Walt and
Emma - Levi was living in New York at the time - had congregated,
as usual, to enjoy their annual turkey feast created meticulously
by Ann Jones. The aromas of fall filled the air; the warm smell of
pumpkin pie and turkey had occupied the Jones’ kitchen and
adjoining dining room. They had all gorged themselves, just
finishing their choice of two desserts that Ann had crafted the
night before when she said in passing as she cleared up dishes, “I
have cancer. I thought I would let you all know. Stage Three.” Ann
had said it so matter-of-fact, as if she had been commenting on the
weather. She hadn’t missed a step, continuing to move dishes
further into her arm, stacking them as she gathered more. Ben had
dropped his glass on the wooden floor, shattering it on contact.
The rest of her family still seated at the table stared at her, not
moving or saying a word. The doctors had given her three hundred
sixty-five days, give or take a few.
Ann Jones had spent the last four years,
trying various experimental treatments and aggressive chemotherapy.
She had been close to remission, a treatment almost eradicating the
cancer cells, only to experience another severe spread of the
cancer. Her health moved in waves, on sliding scales from better to
worse and back again. But never had Delaney seen her mother so weak
and vulnerable. Her eyes, for the first time, had lost the vibrancy
and sheer determinedness that had brought her mom this far. Ann
Jones had begun to let go.
Delaney opened her eyes to the sound of a
door shutting down the hallway. Her eyes adjusted and focused in on
the door and the man across from Room 547. His fleeting eyes made
contact with hers for a
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