The Stained Glass Window

Jannette Edwards

338 LaSalle Ave

Hampton, Virginia 23661

Jan2webb@verizon.net

757-771-1455

1490 words

The Stained-Glass Window

            On her thirty-ninth birthday, Christine Jordan crashed face-first into the chocolate cake with spun-sugar icing.

            In the frigid recesses of her fogged brain, she sensed the stained-glass window as she lay trapped like a cocooned moth in cotton-scented hospital sheets.

            She knew the window as well as the blue veins on the backs of her hands.

            Jesus holding a rescued lamb.

            They didn’t know, and didn’t care that in spring, she inhaled the aroma of newly mown grass; autumn brought the comforting scent of burning leaves but a sense of dread as the window was closed with winter’s approach.  The echoes of rubber-soled shoes and detached laughter remained after her lifeless body was sponged and rearranged as if she were a carnival doll.

            Instead of the sour-sweet fragrance of her children’s summer sweat, they sprayed chemical disinfectants that dangled at the back of her throat.  

            A gossamer existence monitored by computer chatter, tubes, and mechanical blinking lights.

            They taped her eyes shut as she waited.

            His presence sprinkled glimmers of hope; it rested in her center like a hibernating mustard seed.

            Chris felt her pulse quicken as he slapped his hands together.

            “I don’t give a damn what those doctors say—life support will not be disconnected.  Not a snowball’s chance in hell…”

            She sensed his morning-sky blue eyes and,  remembered how he listed to the left when he walked—like a shore-bound sailor.  He told the nuns that he limped because of a wife that keep him upright and, while she was sick, he had no anchor.

            Paul.

            Chris gave her mind permission to drift like a balloon on a thin chain and rest on the stained-glass window.  She begged absolution as her husband screamed against the heavens until his voice cracked.  He didn’t know that if she could, she’d brush tears from his cheeks, kiss him, and hold him tight, just as she had done since they were children.

            She counted his snores when he slept and listened to the rustle of starched uniforms making their incessant rounds.  Some nurses murmured the rosary while others snapped gum and discussed football, sex and vending machine snacks. 

            At first, she was frightened by the shapeless black silhouettes that sat on the edge of her bed and sighed.  Some promised peace while others bared flashing green eyes and pointed teeth.

            They disappeared when Paul surrendered.

            No longer did he rail against God but prayed like a child with blind faith.

            As he lathered her blue-black hair with vanilla-scented shampoo, he talked.

            “Hey, I can now fry eggs without making the kitchen smell like singed chicken feathers.  You’d be so proud of me as you believed I couldn’t boil water and if I ever tried to cook, I’d burn down the house.”

**

            Fire! Call 911!

            Chris wrapped a dishtowel around her hand, picked up the smoking skillet and threw it into a snowdrift where it sank with a black-smoke sizzle.

            Paul opened the windows as she fanned the air in a futile effort to dissipate smoke and stench outside.  Her eyes streamed tears as she poked him in the ribs and giggled.

            “You?  Trying to cook? A disaster…”

            Sirens wailed as neighbors gathered in clots, crossed their arms and shook their heads.

            The chief scowled as he handed them a flyer on fire safety.

            Paul shuffled his foot in circles like a chastened child.

            “Caught me red-handed,” he laughed, “pardon the pun, but was making you a birthday breakfast in bed.”

            Chris snickered, “my thirty-ninth will absolutely be one to remember,” she shivered, “it’s freezing, all these windows open makes me believe we’re living in an igloo.”

            He had twirled an imaginary mustache and grinned as he wrapped her in his arms as if she were a porcelain doll.

            “I have the perfect solution.  Bed.”

            Chris laughed as she broke free, flipped him with the tip of the towel and backed out of the kitchen beckoning him with her come-hither index finger.

            “Sloth is a sin, Mr. Jordan.  The height of laziness to sleep this late.”

            Paul laid her gently on their bed then tenderly wiped the smoke-tears from her cheeks.

            “Sleep?  Who said anything about sleep?”

**

            “Sleep.  I’ll be here.” Paul whispered, “remember that class you taught?  Psalms? God’s promise that guardian angels watch over and keep pace with our journeys.  They know their job and so do I.”

            Chris heard his footsteps as he tiptoed across the tiled floor, “even though the air is cool, I’ll open the window.  You always loved fresh air and morning sunlight—if you can, listen to the mourning doves call to each other.”

            Paul thought he saw a smile’s shadow play with the corners of her mouth.

            The redheaded nurse with freckles sprinkled across her nose like brown-sugar crumbs looked up as Sister Mary Kate floated down the shadowy hospital hall.  The nun hesitated at the nurses’ station and looked up at the carved crucifix. “God works in mysterious ways, young lady, we must beseech a miracle, therefore, pray the rosary on your break.”

            Black robes swirled around her feet as she bowed her head, signed a doctor’s order then glided to the chapel.

            The nurse punched her cell phone and muttered.

            “I can pray the rosary until the cows come home and it’s not going to help that poor soul back to the land of the living.”

            She leaned closer to the blinking terminal screen, “just between us, he may be Prince Charming, but his princess is a carrot, not sleeping beauty.”

            The computer’s screen flickered then faded to black.

            Sunday morning sunbeams were brilliant as Paul dried his wife’s long hair with a fuzzed towel.  He ran his fingers through her hair as it rested on the sides of her face. A honeysuckle-scented breeze floated through the window as he whistled.

            The nun was ancient with wrinkles on her face like soft parchment.  Her white habit ruffled as she placed folded sheets and towels at the foot of the bed. 

He stopped mid-whistle, stood up and removed his baseball cap.

            “I didn’t hear you come in, Ma’am, you must be new.”

            “Oh,” she answered, “I’ve been around for ages.” Her words were musical as she touched Chris’ forehead, “you whistling for the devil? Challenging him to a fight?” She stroked the stained-glass lamb, “he’s strong and not a gracious loser.  The fever has broken…”

            Paul noticed her soft brown eyes with lashes thick as a child’s.  Her words were laced with a Caribbean accent that recalled deployments to Cuba; birds with dazzling plumage as well as brown-skinned women dancing with red parasols.  His imagination was a runaway carousel as this translucent woman, who smelled like fresh-baked bread, scattered chips of sunlight around the room.

            “You can leave those linens, Sister…?”

            “Agnes, Paul, I’m Sister Agnes.”

            “No need for you to take care of my wife—I manage…”

            “I know my job, been at it a very long time, so now, time for you to rest.”

            Chris sensed the nun and saw her as if looking through the wrong end of a telescope.  She gave permission for her soul to be free and observe from the top of the stained-glass window.

             Paul’s tongue grew thick as his body deflated. Sister Agnes guided him to the green couch and placed a pillow under his head then reached for the pearled rosary fastened around her waist. 

            “Saint Jude is my patron,” she said softly, “we’ve known each other for centuries,” a slow smile lit her face, “he’s my best friend so…” she bowed her head, “we humbly plead for  intercession.”

            Chris felt a feathery touch on her cheek; white noise filled her head.

            She no longer wandered in an empty void but was surrounded with warmth, comfort and light. As if  hearing lullabies that banished night; she smelled lemon blossoms and summer grass. In her mind, she put her hand to the window, feeling the cool glass.

            Rainbow shadows floated in through the opened window and rested like shy children.

            Paul woke with a leg cramp that brought tears.  He hopped around the room, fell with a crash then crawled to the bed hoping for a miracle.

            There was none.

            “God has a sense of humor, Sister Agnes?” he shrugged, “Sunday morning hallucinations…”

            He tenderly kissed his wife and noticed the faint blush on her lips.  It had to be his imagination that she responded.  Perhaps she was able to hear the children’s choir standing under the stained-glass window singing He’s got the whole world in His hands…

            “I’ll close this window; you’ll catch a chill…”

            Chris drew dew-scented air as the cotton candy clouds swirled inside her head.  Her blood churned in anticipation; she felt a rush like clear mountain streams racing over rocks.

            “Sloth is a sin, Mr. Jordan. The height of laziness is to sleep this late…”

            Paul words were strangled whispers…

            “Who said anything about sleep?”