Hobbies
I pick up her arm. It's cold and dry, thin as a Popsicle stick. I feel for a pulse and take a blood pressure reading. Both of them are low.
I look back at her chart. One line catches my attention： hobbies. I read on. Melba's are sewing and gospel singing. I cannot sew, but I love gospel music. I think of my travels through the South with Michael, how we collected CDs of groups like the Mighty Clouds of Joy and the Dixie Hummingbirds. Years ago in L.A., he and I saw the movie Gospel, a concert film like Woodstock but with black sacred church music instead of stoned white hippies.
“Melba, it says here that you like gospel music,” I tell her. I expect another curse, but it doesn't come； maybe I can't hear it over the swish of the oxygen mask. “I really like Shirley Caesar,” I forge on, thinking of the singer's performance in Gospel. Short and powerful, Shirley pantomimes the moment Jesus was crucified. She sings “No Charge,” a heartbreaking song about a mother's love for her ungrateful son, pouring her soul into every word.
Suddenly Melba's eyes move back and forth. “I like her too,” she says weakly. I'm stunned she can speak.
I think of other gospel singers that Michael and I like, and I start naming them. With each one, Melba nods back, and I see her try to smile.
I'm not a singer, but I decide to pretend that I am. I have a captive audience of one. It's not unthinkable that Melba might die during this ride to the hospital, that I will be the last face she ever sees, the last voice she hears. I want to say something meaningful to her, something other than “Where does it hurt？” So I start singing lullabies, parts of songs, and I hold Melba's hand as I sing.
We reach the hospital. I help take Melba in, and she's wheeled to one of the ER rooms. She is alone there, until a nurse arrives to ask her a question. Through her oxygen mask, I can see Melba mouth the same strong curse she'd first said to me.
I walk over, touch the thin shoulder that juts out from her nightgown. “Melba,” I say. She fixes her eyes on me. “Take care of yourself.” She gives me one long last look. Then she turns her face to the wall.
When I climb back into the ambulance, there is no more trace of Melba. The driver has cleaned and sanitized everything, put away all the supplies. “Let's go,” I tell him. As the ambulance pulls out, I feel like crying. But my eyes remain dry, like Melba's. Hobbies： sewing and gospel music, I think as we glide in the darkness of the night toward home.
I pick up her arm. It's cold and dry, thin as a Popsicle stick. I feel for a pulse and take a blood pressure reading. Both of them are low.
I look back at her chart. One line catches my attention： hobbies. I read on. Melba's are sewing and gospel singing. I cannot sew, but I love gospel music. I think of my travels through the South with Michael, how we collected CDs of groups like the Mighty Clouds of Joy and the Dixie Hummingbirds. Years ago in L.A., he and I saw the movie Gospel, a concert film like Woodstock but with black sacred church music instead of stoned white hippies.
“Melba, it says here that you like gospel music,” I tell her. I expect another curse, but it doesn't come； maybe I can't hear it over the swish of the oxygen mask. “I really like Shirley Caesar,” I forge on, thinking of the singer's performance in Gospel. Short and powerful, Shirley pantomimes the moment Jesus was crucified. She sings “No Charge,” a heartbreaking song about a mother's love for her ungrateful son, pouring her soul into every word.
Suddenly Melba's eyes move back and forth. “I like her too,” she says weakly. I'm stunned she can speak.
I think of other gospel singers that Michael and I like, and I start naming them. With each one, Melba nods back, and I see her try to smile.
I'm not a singer, but I decide to pretend that I am. I have a captive audience of one. It's not unthinkable that Melba might die during this ride to the hospital, that I will be the last face she ever sees, the last voice she hears. I want to say something meaningful to her, something other than “Where does it hurt？” So I start singing lullabies, parts of songs, and I hold Melba's hand as I sing.
We reach the hospital. I help take Melba in, and she's wheeled to one of the ER rooms. She is alone there, until a nurse arrives to ask her a question. Through her oxygen mask, I can see Melba mouth the same strong curse she'd first said to me.
I walk over, touch the thin shoulder that juts out from her nightgown. “Melba,” I say. She fixes her eyes on me. “Take care of yourself.” She gives me one long last look. Then she turns her face to the wall.
When I climb back into the ambulance, there is no more trace of Melba. The driver has cleaned and sanitized everything, put away all the supplies. “Let's go,” I tell him. As the ambulance pulls out, I feel like crying. But my eyes remain dry, like Melba's. Hobbies： sewing and gospel music, I think as we glide in the darkness of the night toward home.