SLEEP BEFORE EVENING  
by Magdalena Ball

 “We play every Friday.” Her voice squeaked as it moved up the soprano scale. “It was his move. I was sure he’d counter my check, but he sat there doing nothing, his hands were hanging. I thought he was teasing.”

     “Breathe, damn it!” Marianne’s own breath was fast and heavy, the fingers on her left hand squeezing Eric’s in time to the ambulance’s flashing light. “Come on Grandpa, please.”

     He lifted his head slightly, blue eyes watering and bulging with the effort. “I’m sorry, poppet.” 

     “Oh, Grandpa, I’m the one who’s sorry. But you’ll be okay.” She turned to the paramedic behind her. “He’s talking. That’s a good sign, isn’t it? Do you have water? He’s thirsty.”

     Eric’s hand stopped twitching. His face was suddenly still, his eyes closed. 

     “We were just playing chess.”

     “Chess?” 

     “We play every Friday.” Her voice squeaked as it moved up the soprano scale. “It was his move. I was sure he’d counter my check, but he sat there doing nothing, his hands were hanging. I thought he was teasing.”

     “Mr. Cotton,” said the paramedic loudly, holding Eric’s shoulders. “Can you smile for me, Mr. Cotton?” 

     Marianne leaned over. “It’s Doctor Cotton.” 

     “Can you squeeze my hand, Doctor Cotton?” 

     Eric’s hand lay still against the stretcher, the pauses between his breathing increasing. 

     The paramedic tapped Marianne on the shoulder as they began to prepare Eric for movement, tucking his sheets and lifting the bed. “It’s okay. You did the right thing. It was good you called us so quickly. How old are you, Marianne?” 

     “Seventeen. It wasn’t checkmate. I’m sure he would have countered my move. He never loses.” 

     The ambulance slowed to a stop. 

     Marianne followed the paramedics and Eric out and through the glass doors of the hospital. Before she could continue down the hall with them, they motioned her over to the waiting room, ignoring her outstretched hands. “Wait!” she called, but they were already gone.

     Sitting in the waiting room, Marianne rubbed her hands, blowing into them for warmth. She looked around, but everything was unfamiliar. Busy strangers with their own tragedies knocked into her as she sucked on the end of her sleeve, a habit she’d kept from childhood. She caught herself, and looked up to find Lily walking through the entrance. The sunlight coming in through the glass temporarily blocked Lily’s face so that all Marianne saw initially was the flap of her mother’s floral scarf, which mirrored the violet of her perfume. 

     “Oh, god, honey, where’s Grandpa? Are you okay?” Lily’s voice was louder than the general hum of the waiting room and she moved about manically and without purpose, blowing her nose and asking random questions of any staff members she could find, her voice pitched on the edge of hysteria.

     Marianne didn’t know whether she was relieved to see Lily, or embarrassed at her mother’s usual overt energy. Her stepfather Russell arrived a few minutes later, kissed her gently on the cheek, and tried to corral Lily, who was undoing and redoing her hair while continuing to grill her.

     “Was he breathing? Did he hit his head when he fell? Was he still conscious? What did he say to you?” 

© 2007 Magdalena Ball

Magdalena's short stories, editorials, poetry, reviews and articles have appeared in a wide number of printed anthologies and journals. She is the author of The Art of Assessment and a poetry chapbook Quark Soup. Her novel Sleep Before Evening is due for publication in 2007.