The Story Needs an Ending

Senior highly commended

Kate Ní Mhurchú
Gaelcholáiste an Chláir

SHE sits in her musty armchair by the window, looking out, as she always does, only moving when the nurses come to help her use the toilet, or to eat; only showing signs of life when they read to her.
It’s the only way she can remember the woman she used to be, through the stories she cherished. Minutes, days, weeks pass where she can’t even remember her name, but her soul, yes her soul, is what is important. She feels it with her stories, stories she loved, stories she wrote, stories she shared with friends. Yes, she may not know her family or where she is, but when she hears those familiar expressions, she knows she’s human.
She sits in her musty armchair by the window, looking out, as she always does. She doesn’t know how long she’s been there or how long it will be before the nurses come to bring her food, or take her to bed but she is used to not knowing the answers anymore. It rarely bothers her. At this stage, she knows how it works, not because she remembers but because she’s always told. At some point, she’ll remember something, whether it’s something as momentous as her children’s names, or as minute as her home town in Texas. But as suddenly as it comes, it leaves her again and she’s back to where she started.
“How you doin’ darlin’?” The soft southern accent startles her, she turns around to see a young coloured woman in a nursing uniform. She doesn’t recognise her, but that’s not unusual. “Do I know you?” she asks the question bluntly, her upper-class Southern accent very different to that of the nurse’s.
“You sho’ do.” The nurse has a kind nature to her. Not the least bit intimidating. “I done read to you yesterday. You remember?”
“No, I don’t.” She doesn’t.
“Sure you do,” the nurse says taking the seat next to her. “We was sittin’ right here where we is now and I was reading’ you one of yo’ stories.”
“…one of my stories?” She doesn’t remember ever writing any stories. Or ever having anyone read them to her. But there’s something trustworthy, familiar about this woman.
“Darn tootin’. One of your ones. And they is real good too! Some of the other patients do be reading them too. They make them happier then a tick on a fat dog!”
She is shocked that, not only has she written stories, but people read them and enjoy them. “Really?”
“Oh they’s love ‘em! Only thing is…see there’s a li’l’ problem with one of them. See, there’s this one that everybody loves. It’s real’ beautiful. It’s about a li’l’ girl growin’ up in the South. But, see, the problem is, you ain’t never finished it. An’ everyone would sure love to know what happens to the li’l’ girl.”
She looks at the nurse, bewildered. She can’t possibly expect her to write an end to a story she can’t even remember writing. She didn’t even know she could write until a few minutes ago. No, this nurse is ridiculous. She must be new. A trainee, maybe. She’s never even seen her before! She begins to panic. “No, no, you can’t, I couldn’t possibly..I…”
“Alright, relax darlin’. I ain’t gunna make you do nothing. All I’m gunna do is leave this piece of paper an’ this pen an’ I gunna leave you be, okay?”
The nurse smiles kindly. It relaxes her. She nods, still slighty alarmed. The nurse seems pleased. “Alright, I’m gunna leave you be. I’ll be back in a hour. You just shout if you do need me.” With another smile she leaves the room, leaving her sitting in the chair by the window with a blank piece of paper.
“Ridiculous,” she mutters to herself and turns back to the window.
She doesn’t know how many times she’s admired it, how many times she’s spent sitting, staring out the window but she never appreciates the beauty of the garden. With clear blue sky it looks particularly spectacular. Acres of green grass with old white furniture dotted about. In the distance, a dazzling lake with an old rowing boat bobbing by the water’s edge. A truly beautiful place to move to, to live in, to die in.
And suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, she remembers. A young girl, with blonde ringlets and blue satin bows in her hair and a dress to match. She’s running and her father’s chasing her but then he isn’t there anymore and the girl stands there crying with her mother. Her mother has a yellow telegraph in her hand, the father killed at war. The story. That’s the story. That’s the reason she’s been clutching to life. That story needs an ending and she won’t rest until she gives it one. Before she knows what she’s doing, she has the pen in her hand and she’s writing.
Allie. That’s the little girl’s name. She doesn’t know how she knows that, but she does. Allie and her mother had no money, that’s where the story left off; she has to resolve it. Her pen is moving faster than ever and she writes about how Allie has to leave school and her mother has to find work and…a soldier… she meets a soldier and they fall in love and it’s the happily ever after she wants! She drops her pen on the floor. She has finished her final story. A weight has been lifted off her. There is a freedom within her that she has never felt before. Happiness. She feels elated.
She takes one last look out into the beautiful view and closes her eyes. She can finally let go.
The nurse returns to the room. “Now darlin’, it’s time for your medicine.” She walks over to the chair and sees that page full of writing. “Aw darlin’ you done and finished it!”
She looks down at her, sleeping peacefully. She shakes her lightly. “Come on now, it’s time for your pills.” No reaction. She shakes her harder. “Come on now, wake up.” Nothing. The nurse runs to get a doctor.
She sits on the musty armchair by the window, looking out, with tears rolling down her cheeks, clutching the piece of paper with scribbled writing. She looks up at the sky. “You done and finished it darlin’. You done and finished it.”