Work Text:
In school, my father David Llewellyn was the odd, eccentric boy. He wasn’t that outgoing—a little more reserved than most, I’ve been told—but my mother has told me that he had something that caused her to gravitate towards him.
Lucy Salisbury, my mother, was always the more outgoing person in school. Despite her popularity, she was on top of most of her classes too, and was an example of a perfect student.
Along the way, my parents fell in love; it was as if gravity led them to each other, they say. They dated throughout their years of high school, and the relationship stayed a constant positive for the pair of them. By graduation, they were practically engaged. In fact, they were married on Christmas Eve.
One drawback of their marriage, however, was me. I don’t mean that in a self-depreciating way, either; I mean it for the sake of my mother.
You see, David graduated from university. My mother, meanwhile, gave birth to me in the middle of what would’ve been her sophomore year. Consequently, she had to drop out to take care of me. She thought it would be best if she directed all of her attention to her son rather than school. She never got to graduate.
So, while my mom kept her stay-at-home mom title—and raised the bar for all moms, I might add—my father chose his profession in being a headmaster of Watford, a boarding school on the outskirts of London.
For the first 18 years of my life, he played the role of an overbearing father. He was a caring husband, but didn't know how to raise a child; as I said earlier, my mother did most of that. But I know that David tries his best to be a father. (He has his moments.) But above all, he strives to be a caring husband. That belief was fostered throughout my mother’s illnesses.
When my mother fell ill for the first time, I was around 11, and overheard my parents agree that her ailing health could be partly caused by the weight of marriage on her shoulders. They both made efforts to lessen her stress.
Unfortunately, the illness lingered even as she did less and less. But she wasn't throwing up or anything. No, she was just tired, lost weight, and often wasn't herself. She weakened; daily tasks became a struggle for her. Both my father and I could tell that it was eating her up inside.
It was awful, watching her deteriorate. Painful. Unbearable, even.
Eventually, seeing his wife was too much for my father. After months of pain, he finally broke through her stubborn nature—she often argued that she didn't want to be a "distraction"—and drove her to the hospital in hopes of finding some magical explanation for her miserable condition.
The hope was misguided.
A day after her arrival, Lucy was diagnosed with Stage I breast cancer. It wasn't the most serious form, but it was still scary nonetheless. Terrifying, in fact. However, as the fighter she often is, my mother made it her bitch—the first time, that is.
After two years of treatment and a partly strengthened marriage later, my mother recovered before I turned 13. It was a wonderful (early) birthday present for me, and a relief for my family as a whole.
Unfortunately, it returned a few years later, this time jumping to Stage III. Miraculously, my mother prolonged the sickness, eventually beating it after a grueling, two-year fight. When she returned home, our family celebrated with steak, and we smiled together for the first time in months.
I was about 17 then.
About a year later, my family is in the same old situation. This time, however, it's worse. Much worse.
When she was diagnosed three months ago, the doctors gave her maybe eight months to live. The doctors, as they typically are, were wrong.
My mother is currently on what my father and I can only assume is her deathbed. And it couldn't have come on a worse day, as it's December 24th.
Christmas Eve is special for most, obviously. It’s the day where everyone is supposed to be jumping for joy, wrapping presents and baking cookies as they wait for the next day.
To my family, it’s quite different this year. Rather than competing in games or participating in holiday traditions, my family is left watching a loved one slowly decay in a hospital bed. Not exactly ideal.
The kicker is the fact that it’s also my parents’ anniversary. It's been 18 years since they pledged to always be at each other's side, and they've stayed loyal to that. Sadly, it seems that they may only make it 18 years.
Overall, for such a fun season, this winter has been cruel. The snow outside, which typically serves as a reminder to have fun and celebrate, is now a cruel reminder that life is often cold and, well…bitter.
Yeah, it's a bitter time, to say the least.
But as bad as this season as been, I may know a way to make it better.
Before she was stricken with cancer for the third time, she and I were shopping. She wanted to buy me some clothes, I think; I tend to shop by myself, but I couldn’t say no to her when she asked if she could go with me. (How could I?)
Anyway, back to the point.
When we were passing through the women’s section, I noticed her glance at the shoes isle. After asking her what gathered her attention, she had meekly looked at me, saying it was just a pair of shoes. I had her point them out, but she was still insistent on not buying them. I could tell she wanted them though.
In the time since, she’s mumbled about various things of the past. Good things, mind you. Following a rough night of treatment, she had told me she really did want those shoes.
In her haze, she had mentioned that when she did inevitably die, she wanted to go out while surrounded by family—and at that, she had glanced at me with her signature smile.
“Though, Simon, I wouldn’t mind looking good,” she said. I remember her reaching out to stroke my tear-stained cheek as she continued. “Those shoes were almost as beautiful as you.”
I had cried that night. (In fact, I don’t think I’ve cried as much as that night since.)
When I was done sobbing in front of my sleeping mother, I remember taking a few minutes to ponder her words.
In retrospect, I think she may have jokingly said that. If anything, it could’ve just acted as a setup to call her son beautiful. And that’s what I love about her. She makes me happy. Actually, she makes everyone happy.
But that's the thing; I want her to be happy, too. No, I need her to be happy.
As a son, it's my duty to make my mother happy, and she wants to look at her family looking her best. Maybe wearing those shoes will make her feel happy again. If that's the case, then I'm going to get them. That might prove difficult, however.
Because of the hospital bills piling up, my family’s income is bone dry. And while I do have a job, the bakery doesn’t pay all that well; most of my savings have gone into helping my mother, anyway. I hardly have enough cash to buy my mother a cheap present, much less a pair of beautiful shoes. My mother deserves the best shoes available, price be damned.
I don’t know how I’m going to do it, honestly, but I need to make my mother happy. It’s been painful to stand by her ailing side, and I just want her to feel something other than pain.
I need her to feel anything but pain. (She deserves more.)
I need her to feel loved. (And cherished.) (And happy.)
I need her to be surrounded by family—which she currently is, of course. But before I join my short list of relatives to gather around my mother's bed, I need to fulfill my mother’s other wish: I need her to look beautiful.
She always looks beautiful to others, but not always to herself. But I’m going to make sure she’s beautiful in her own eyes.
It's the least I could do, I think.
--- --- ---
This is all running through my head as I walk outside of the hospital in search of my father’s car. The green Range Rover—my father insists it’s a “Warwick green," but I’ve never been bothered to ask why that matters—is parked in a crowd of snow.
When I reach the car, I shove my freezing hand into my right pocket, and fish out the pair of old keys that happened to slip into my pockets from the hospital. (Translation: I stole them, but I don't think my father would mind. He's been at my mother's side all night.) Inserting the key, I wrestle with the lock for a cold minute, and finally manage to throw open the car door.
Once I've crawled inside, I start the car—or try to, rather. The trusty ‘Rover sputters, but doesn’t start.
Grumbling, I try again.
No luck.
I sigh. “Of course you don't start now," I mumble to myself. "Why would you?"
To get rid of my frustration, I hit my partly-numbed hands on the dashboard. It hurts and leaves my hands stinging, but it helps ease my frustration. For the time being, anyway.
Leaving the keys in the ignition—I don’t think anyone would be able to get far if they stole the car, anyway—I throw open the door again, and step out into the blistering cold weather. Promptly, I slip (because of course).
As my feet slide on the icy ground underneath me, I desperately grab hold of my father’s car to save me from the fall. Thankfully, I find purchase in a leather seat, and give myself a few seconds before I continue.
Once I regain my balance, I hesitantly step away from the car as I shut the door. The store is somewhat close, so I guess I’m going to walk. Fun.
But if I have to walk to make my mother happy, I’ll do it. She’s been there for me for 18 years—it’s time for me to be there for her.
--- --- ---
It’s a good thing I love my mother.
It’s cold—freezing, actually. (Have I mentioned that before?) The ground is littered with ice and wet snow, and I’m having a hard time walking along the highway. (If my mother knew I was doing this, she would have a fit.) Luckily for me, there’s not many cars, and they’re hardly going fast in this weather.
Overall, the distance between the hospital and the store isn’t too far; it may just be a couple miles. It’s more or a less a 40-minute walk, and I’ve been speed-walking (which is hard to do in this weather, but I’ve managed) for maybe 15 minutes.
Putting my head down against the cold, I stuff my hands further in my pockets as I continue to trudge through Christmas Eve’s merciless weather.
--- --- ---
It's only been a few more minutes, yet the snow has seemed to pick up. It’s harder to see now because of it. But that’s the least of my worries, honestly; I can’t help but notice the blue lights. Headlights, I think. I also notice that they’ve stayed in my peripheral vision for the past minute or so, too.
Suddenly they're gone, but only for a brief time. When they reappear, I can see my shadow directly in front of me—the lights must be behind me then. Great.
I continue when I hear the distinct sound of a car stopping though. (If this person intends any harm, I can take care of myself.)
I continue when I hear the distinct sound of a car door opening and shutting, too. (There’s nowhere to run, anyway.)
I stop, however, when I hear a voice. “Hey!” (The voice is harmless. Posh, maybe, but still seemingly harmless. Maybe I can put up a fight.)
Turning around, I see that there’s a boy standing next to a red Jaguar. (A rather good-looking boy, but that’s besides the point.) He looks about my age.
In our silence, I just stare at him, waiting for him to approach me. (He's quite pale and lanky, but doesn't look like a threat.)
When he’s a few feet away, he stops.
Quirking a curious eyebrow, he speaks again. “I'm sorry to interrupt your late evening stroll, but why in the absolute fuck are you walking on the side of a highway?”
I stare at his tall frame wearily, but I’m determined to stand my ground. “I’m going to the store,” I say weakly. (More like shout; the wind is deafening.)
“In this weather?” he asks incredulously.
I kick at the ground. I don’t have time for this. “Obviously,” I mutter.
I catch a glance of him—he’s shaking his head, maybe in disbelief. “You lunatic. Why would you possibly be going to the store in this weather? And on Christmas Eve, no less.”
In response, I look back up at him. Daring him. (To do what, I don’t know.) “I want to get a present for my mother.”
For a split second, I see his face soften. Just as quickly, he schools his sharp face. He narrows his eyes, his long, black hair shielding them as the harsh wind picks up. “It’s a bit late for that, you know.”
“I know. Of course I know that, but, uh,” I try, clearing my throat in a vain attempt of holding in a few rebellious tears. “She…. She’s going to die tonight. I think.” My eyes flicker briefly to his face, which quickly transforms into a look of pity. (Serves him right.) This time, he doesn't school his face, and lets me continue. “I want to give her one last gift before she passes away.”
He takes a moment to take in the last bit of information, but pipes up soon enough. “Fuck,” he says, his voice noticeably softer, “I’m—”
“Don’t,” I interrupt, already knowing what he's about to say. “Don’t ‘I'm sorry’ me, please. I've heard it enough."
His face folds in understanding, and a few seconds pass as we stand there. I swear I can see his mind working.
When the silence is broken, he does it with a shiver. “Do you…. Do you want a ride or something?”
“To where?”
Now it’s time for him to appear sheepish. “To the store,” he replies. I glance at him. Once again, he’s staring at me with that soft expression not lacking in pity. “So you can buy a present, of course. I was heading over there, anyway.”
“Oh.” I try and shift my expression to make sure I’m not glowering at him. (That would be, you know, rather rude.) “I guess that would be nice.”
For a second or two, we stand on the side of the mostly inactive highway.
The moment doesn’t last for long though, for he pivots on his heel and starts walking back to his Jaguar. “Come on, then. We don’t have all night.”
As I’m walking back to the car, I can’t help but think out loud. “We may not have the hour.”
--- --- ---
From the moment I slide into the Jag, I'm hit with a wall of warmth. (I would say it’s too warm, but it’s a pleasant feeling after walking in the freezing cold for so long.) The heater’s cranked up, and it's instantly soothing. Wonderful.
Once I’m settled in, the boy pulls back onto the road, making sure to avoid a small patch of ice as he speeds up.
We've only been driving for a minute when he breaks the silence. “What’s your name?” Wow. What an icebreaker.
I open my mouth to respond, but hesitate. Should I tell him my name? My last name? When I do reply, I decide. “Snow.”
"Snow?" I peer over at him. There's a small, puzzled expression on his face. “What is that, your last name?”
Close. “It's my middle name, actually.”
I hear him mumble in acknowledgement as he takes a right turn. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “Um, what’s— What’s your name?”
“Baz,” he says immediately. “That’s my first name, of course.”
“Baz,” I repeat to myself, chuckling. I smile faintly. “That’s a nice name.”
“Thanks.”
After that, the Jaguar’s hum lulls us into another fit of silence. But the silence doesn't last long.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he starts, “but what will you get your mother?”
It's a simple answer, honestly, but his question still takes me by surprise. "Shoes," I eventually reply.
“Shoes?” I hear the question in his voice. “May I ask why?”
“Well,” I say, sighing before clearing my throat, “it was a wish of hers. The last time she was well," I clarify, "she pointed out some shoes that she liked. Said she would like to have a pair.”
Baz makes a sound before turning into the store’s lot. “That’s sweet.”
I frown, mumbling, “It’s not sweet. I’m just granting her wish.”
Before he pulls into a parking spot, I hear Baz let out his own mumble—or grunt? (He doesn't seem the the type to grunt, but it sure sounded like one.) Either way, I can’t make it out. Despite my confusion, I don’t press.
When we’re walking into the store, however, I do ask him to elaborate. “Hey, uh…Baz?” When he peeks over at me, I continue. “What did you say when you were parking your car? Didn’t hear you.”
As I lead him throughout the store in search of the shoes, I can hear him thinking; soon, I actually hear him. “I said you were being sweet.”
“No. It was after that, I think.”
His head is slightly turned to the side. “That’s what I said. You’re granting a wish, which is something that not many people do. The only way to describe that is sweet."
"Oh," I chuckle anxiously, “thanks?”
“I’m being serious." His mouth forms into a tiny frown. It's cute. "I haven’t kept my mother’s wish.”
Oh? “What was your mother’s wish?”
I hear him exhale. “For me to keep a good relationship with my father.”
“Is he dead?”
“?y father?”
“Yeah.” Who else?
“No, he isn’t.”
I cock my head to the side, slowing down from my speed-walk in front of a clothing section. “Then you still have time, right?”
“Well, yes,” he says, “but our relationship has deteriorated more and more over the years. It’s practically a lost cause at this point.” He swallows, taking a moment. He’s sporting a more degrading tone than before when he starts again. “Luckily my mother isn’t around to see it.”
It takes me a few seconds to let that sink in. When it does, I let out a weak, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
I stop walking, causing him to stop beside me in response.
“How did she, uh,” I try meekly, "You know…." I struggle to finish the sentence, and flit my eyes over at him, hoping that he understands what I'm trying to say.
He clears his throat, and does indeed finish my own thought. “Die?” I nod. His head slightly lowers—it’s easy to miss, but I notice it. “A fire. I was five.”
“ Shit. ”
“That about sums it up.”
Again, the air between us is silent (besides the few voices from around the store, of course; don’t bring logic into this). But it's a nice silence as we walk around the store. Peaceful, even.
Finally, I find the isle. The isle, that is.
“I think this is it.”
He looks at me, curious. “And what is ‘it,’ exactly?”
“The, uh. Isle,” I say dumbly. "The isle where the shoes should be at.”
“Oh. Well, what do they look like? I could help look for them with you.”
“Right. Uh….” I scratch my neck, taking a moment to dig through old memories. “Grey.” Like his eyes. (I don’t say that.) “A size 9.5 or so.” I place my thumb on my temple, thinking. “Er…they're ballet shoes, I think. Can’t miss ‘em.”
“I can work with that,” Baz replies, crouching as he begins to sort through shoes. “I guess I’ll start on this end. You start at the other end.”
For a few minutes, we scan through the shoes. It takes a bit longer than I would like though—for every grey pair of shoes that Baz finds, he asks me to confirm if they’re the shoes. Unfortunately, I have to say no to him more than a few times.
“Fuck,” I say in frustration, running my hand through my now-tousled hair. “Where are they?”
We continue for maybe five minutes more, but it’s clear that we’re both not in it anymore. They’re just not here. Because of course they aren’t.
I groan. “I’m sorry, Baz. I…I just don’t know where they are.”
He looks at me, his face formed into a look of pity that I haven't seen in a while. “You tried, Snow. I don’t think your mother will mind if you don’t have a pair of shoes.” He gets up, wiping off dust from his pant legs. “Come on. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”
Defeated, I start leading the way. But before I can get far, Baz suddenly says, “Wait.”
Pivoting on my back food, I turn around. “What?” I grumble.
He’s pointing at something, a cautious, hopeful expression gracing his (beautiful) face. “Are those it?”
Following his elegant hand, I see what he’s pointing at—a pair of glittering, gorgeous, grey shoes. Eureka.
I scramble, grabbing the box for my mother’s size as Baz takes a step back. I peer up at him, smiling what's probably an obscene grin in my excitement. “Let’s go.”
--- --- ---
As we’re walking to the front of the store of checkout, Baz regretfully tells me that he needs to run for the bathroom. “I’ll be quick,” he insists. “Wait for me, Snow.” I nod my head at him, and he stares at me for a second before he starts speed-walking away.
I don’t wait for him though. Time is of the essence, I argue to myself. Checkout should be just as quick, too, if not quicker.
When I arrive at the register, however, I realize that I have no idea how I’m going to pay for these shoes. (If I’m being honest, I didn’t expect to come this far.) I was hoping that I remembered the price of the shoes wrong, but they’re about $59.99. I probably don’t have enough.
Digging my hands into my pockets, I find my clump of dollar bills and coins, placing them on the counter. As I begin to count my money—two dollars, three, five, 10, 20—it dawns on me that I definitely will not have enough.
Sure enough, as I place a final penny on the counter, I’m only at $44.61; about $15 short. Fuck .
I look up at the cashier desperately. “I-I don’t have enough. Can I pay you back later or something?” I ask, pleading. “The shoes are for my mom.”
The old cashier stares into my soul with her crinkled, worn eyes. “I’m sorry,” she states, the green eyes remorseful, “I can’t do that, sweetie. I’m sorry. I really am.”
I sigh in defeat, looking down at my money strung across the counter. I fight tears, trying to remain calm as I start picking up my coins one by one.
It’s at this moment that Baz finally finds me.
“Snow, what the—” He stops himself, looking at the lady. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
I glance up at him. “I wanted to be quick.”
He shakes his head. He goes to open his mouth, hesitating when he sees me picking up by money. “Wait. Stop.” He reaches for my arm, clasping his long fingers around my wrist. “I’ll pay.”
I look at him, incredulous. “No,” I say stubbornly. “No, I-I can’t let you do that.”
His eyebrows furrow, but he uses his other arm to get out his wallet. He’s taking out a debit card as he talks. “Why not?”
“Because," I say, stubborn.
He cocks his head to the side. “Snow,” he says sternly. “Let me do this for you.” He releases his grasp on my wrist, but not before he gives it a gentle, comforting squeeze. “For your mother.”
With that, he swiftly swipes his card and starts to enter his P.I.N. into the keypad.
Admitting my defeat, I push down my stubborn nature, turning my attention back to the coins and dollar bills that I've placed down. I start to pick them up. As I’m gathering them up, I lose track of the world around me.
Suddenly, I make out a faint whisper that removes me from my brief stupor. “Thank you for doin' that,” I hear. I look up. The cashier lady is gently talking to Baz, who's grabbing the box of shoes. “People don’t do that often nowadays, you know.”
“It’s Christmas,” he says. “It’s the least I could do.”
He turns to me now, leaving the cashier to just smile at him. “Onward, Snow.”
I have no choice but to follow him. I don’t get far though; the cashier stops me. “Keep that one.” I glance at her. She raises her eyebrows at me as she continues on. “He seems like a good one.”
I mumble out a small, “Yeah,” not bothering to correct her that we’re not actually together. “I’ll make sure to.”
She smiles even wider. “Good. Now, get goin'. Be careful.” With that, she pats me on the shoulder, motioning me to follow Baz. Which I do.
Baz has already started the car when I get out to the parking lot. I get in the passenger side, mumbling the location of the hospital to Baz. It's not long before he's hitching the car into gear, shifting onto the highway.
The ride to the hospital is quiet. Baz and I hardly talk. Me, because of my jittery nerves thanks to thinking of my mother; Baz, because he’s more focused on not wrecking the Jaguar. It’s still a nice silence though—I’ll take a nervous silence over a morbid, mourning silence in a room filled with family members.
Unfortunately, that’s exactly the silence I’m about to face.
--- --- ---
We get to the hospital soon enough. Baz hands me the box of shoes, leaving me to rush out.
When I shut the door and begin for the hospital’s entrance, however, I notice that Baz’s car is still running. Is he not coming in with me?
Reluctantly, I go to open the Jaguar’s door. I poke my head in. “Baz?”
He looks at me curiously, moving his hair out of his face without a second thought. “Yes?”
“Are you not coming in?”
“No.” He takes in my expression, and presses on, “Do you want me to?”
I nod at him. “You don’t have to, obviously, but—” I hesitate, nibbling my bottom lip. “I would like you to. It might, you know...help. Or at least be there,” I say, nibbling on my lip.
He just looks at me for a second.
Nodding, he shuts off the car, pocketing his keys as he gets out of the car. When I shut the door, he starts for the hospital door. Before I follow him though, I go to get my father’s keys from his Rover, opening the door and grabbing them before Baz even realizes I’m gone. By the time he’s reached the door, I’m right behind him.
Once I’m in the hospital, I quickly check in, motioning for him to follow me. He stays put, insisting that I should just go in. I’m in too much of a hurry to see my mother to argue with him (though I do feel a pang of something, perhaps disappointment, as I go).
When I rush into the hospital room, I find most of my family looking solemnly at the figure in the bed. There’s only one person at my mother’s side now—my father. I assume he’s been there all night, too.
Finding my mother’s eyes, I’m relieved to see her frail face break into a relieved smile of her own. “Simon,” she croons. “There you are.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice David following his wife’s gaze before he wordlessly acknowledges me. He also doesn’t question the keys in his hand.
He does, however, look curiously at the shoe box. “What is that, son?”
I’m confused at first, but quickly catch up. “Oh,” I mutter, glancing down at the box, “It’s a present.” I refocus my attention towards my mother again. “For Mom.”
At my words, I see my mother’s eyes sparkle—I swear I can also notice a teary expression sporting my father’s face as well. Which is quite rare in itself, honestly.
As I get on my knees, positioning myself at the foot of my mother’s bed, I hear her ask, “What's in the box, Simon?”
“Oh. It’s, uh,” I take a deep breath, making sure to gather my words. “You know those shoes you mentioned all those months ago? The grey ballet shoes?”
She thinks, replying, “Yes.”
Opening the box, I take them out, holding them out in my right hand. “I got those."
"You didn't."
"I did."
"You didn't," she repeats.
"I did. Honestly." And with that, I open the box, showing them to her.
Her face brightens again, and her face looks just as beautiful as it did in her youth. It's brief, yet I'll still cherish it. "Simon." She gently shakes her head, and repeats herself sweetly. "Simon."
Unsure what to do, I scratch the shoe box that's still in my left hand. "Yes?"
"Come here."
Setting down the shoes, I follow suit, walking over and wrapping my hands around my mother's frail body, trying my best to not cause her any more discomfort. I kiss her forehead before pulling back. "Love you, Mom."
She grins toothily, reaching up to move a stray strand of hair out of my face. "You know I love you, too, little rose."
Shit, I think to myself. It's a play on a name she used to call me—rosebud boy—when I was a child. I haven't heard it in years, which makes it even more endearing. I blush, ever-so-slightly tearing up. "Mom."
We spend the next couple of minutes like that, smiling as we attempt to cherish a final talk together. Eventually, the conversation shifts.
Coughing, my mom mutters, “Simon,” a stern edge evident in her voice. Gathering yourself, she presses on. "But how did you pay for them?”
Oh. She must think I stole them.
“A guy, uh, helped me,” I say as I peer over the bed. “He paid for them.” I take in my parents’ awed faces while I manage, “Er, can I put them on you now, Mom?”
“Oh,” she replies weakly, “Of course, dear.”
I smile, and her thin face brightens. Slowly, I put the shoes on her cold, small feet, trying not to flinch when I realize just how freezing they are.
“There you go, Mom.”
She smiles. “Thank you.” After letting out another weak cough, she waves at me, motioning at me to come to her bedside. “Come over here. I need to ask you something.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rush back over, standing over her in question, saying "Shoot."
“Now, about that help—"
“Help?”
“The person who paid for the gift.” She points to her clothed feet. “For the shoes.”
I’m not following her, and I say as much. “What about ‘em?”
“Are they still here?”
“The person who…." It hits me. "Oh. I-I don’t know.”
“Can you go check? Maybe they’re still here. I wish to see the person who helped you.”
I look at her dumbly, blinking as I look over at my father. He just nods at me, but that’s the confirmation I need. “Sure. I’ll be back quickly.”
As I leave the room, I hear my mother’s faint voice again. “I know, my rosebud boy.”
--- --- ---
I’m surprised—yet obviously gracious—to find Baz still waiting in the hospital lobby. (I was honestly expecting him to linger for a minute or two before leaving, but he’s still here.) He's right where I left him.
I clear my throat noisily. “Baz.”
His bowed head perks up, and his eyes expand. “Snow?” There’s a small question in his voice. “Why are—”
I interrupt him. “My mother wants to meet you."
Baz merely stares at me, confused. His eyebrows furrow, mouth slightly open as he reacts. “Are you sure?”
“She said she wants to help the person who helped her son.”
His face opens in understanding, and he stands. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Grabbing his hand to pull him behind me, I start for my mother’s room. “Follow me.”
--- --- ---
My mother is in a worse condition when Baz and I arrive. That's not necessarily saying much—everyone has known that she could die at any time for awhile now—but she looks visibly weaker. Her pale complexion is paler, her shallow breaths are shallower, and her unfocused gaze is more unfocused than ever.
As she notices the two of us, however, her face slightly lights up—a thin smile graces her face again. It’s faint, yes, but it’s a smile nonetheless. (And that’s what matters.) Her lips move, her voice a tone more feeble than before, "Simon." Looking at Baz, she continues. "And?"
"Baz," he responds with a tinge of nervousness, "Baz Pitch."
My mother lies back, a timid smile on her face. "Baz," she repeats to herself, his name rolling off of her tongue. "That's a beautiful name."
I see Baz flash a smile of his own. He shuffles awkwardly on his feet—which must be a first for his apparent graceful self—when he replies. "Thanks."
"You don't need to thank me, Baz," my mother says, looking back at him. " I want to thank you. Thank you, Baz, for helping my son."
Baz stares, though a pained smile is etched on his face. For a second, I'm reminded that our hands are still linked together; I squeeze his, trying my best to comfort him. "Of course…."
"Lucy."
I squeeze Baz's hand harder, though I don't know if it's to comfort him or to quell both of our stubborn tears at this point. When he finds his words, his posh voice is strained. Raspy, almost. "Lucy."
My mother smiles warmly on him. A wordless moment passes between them, yet it seems like a thousand words are spoken.
Over the next couple of minutes, Baz takes a backseat, allowing my family members to descend on my mother. There's final farewells as plenty more tears are bitterly shed. They've had months to cope with my mom's death, and I don't think it's prepared them for this moment. Soon enough, the last remaining person to say their own goodbye is my father.
Still holding onto his wife's hand, he wordlessly looks on her. He bends down, mumbling incoherent, love-laced words before gentling kissing my mother's forehead. Then, just as gently, he places a sweet kiss on her lips.
With her husband's shaking face now pressed into her chest, Lucy takes a straggled breath. She looks at everyone, making sure to lock eyes in understanding. Finally, her gaze lands on me and Baz.
Looking at our linked hands, she smiles, closing her eyes. Her feet, clothed in my gifts, twinkle. As her face relaxes, she takes a final shaking breath.
Lucy Salisbury's eyes never open again.
--- --- ---
One year later:
My eyes water as I remember that day—the day my mother died. It's Christmas Eve again, and it's the first Christmas Eve without my mother.
It might be the best, honestly; her death, that is. Even if she was gone far too soon, at least she's not living in pain. It's bitter and still painful to think about, but I'm glad she's resting peacefully now. Sleeping, resting for eternity.
Today is the first time I'm visiting her in her eternal sleeping state, actually. By that, of course, I mean her grave.
I haven't seen her grave since the funeral, which was held back in late March. I just haven't had the gall to, but Baz finally convinced me to.
Speaking of Baz, we've become good friends since that fateful, remorseful day. Before he had left that night (I did end up sending him home; he stayed for another 20 minutes or so, letting me just cry into his shoulder), Baz gave me his number. He said I could contact him if I ever needed to cope, saying that he's been through his own mother's loss before. It wasn't long until I actually took him up on that offer.
Right after New Year's Day, I called him. Twenty minutes after ending the call, Baz came to my apartment and fixed hot chocolate for me, and we started talking about our mothers.
Eventually, those visits become the norm, and not just for reasons of comfort. Whether it was for conversing or just drinking coffee at a local café together, we just started hanging out. We haven't gone out together in a while, but we have been texting quite a bit. Especially recently, because of the one-year anniversary of my mother's death.
After a bit of convincing, he got through to me to visit my mom. In return, I asked him if he would come with me. He said yes, of course.
And here we are, visiting Lucy Salisbury's headstone. Standing in front of it. It takes a small nudge from Baz to get me to start talking. Annoyed, I look over at him.
He has a single eyebrow raised, and it's typical Baz-like behavior. (The twat part of him has become apparent since last year. I've found that it's slightly endearing, even if annoying.) I shake my head at him, though I appreciate him trying to help me.
Sighing, I direct my attention back to the grave. I let my mind go back to the conversations Baz and I shared shortly after my mother's death. While they were helpful, one thing in particular stood out.
On a lazy Friday night, after one of my university classes, I had called Baz over. It had been one of the first times I had done so. That night, like many nights since then, he essentially served as my personal therapist. In particular, he helped me realize why I had bought the shoes for my dying mother.
According to him, I just needed to do one more thing for my mother. I needed to see her grateful, thankful smile one last time—maybe for comfort, or maybe for handling grief. Either way, he argued that it was a method for me to heal. I agreed with him then, and I still do.
Before I can relay this to the grave in front of me, however, I feel a hand against my own. I open my hand, and Baz slips in hand in mine, giving it a soft squeeze—just like last year. It hits me, then, how much I'm thankful for him; thankful for finding a friend in a time mostly reserved for bitterness and grief. It's been more than helpful, honestly.
As if he can read my mind, he gives my hand another squeeze, and I see him nod at me. And that's what I need; someone to usher me on. My mother used to play that role. It's nice to know that Baz understands that.
Taking a deep breath, I relax my shoulders. Open my mouth. And I start talking.