Reflections on Life and Death

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“No,” Sarah’s mother said, her voice barely more than a whisper around the tubes. “You can’t. They kill people in there.”

Sarah held her mother’s good hand—the one without the IV. Small chips dotted her mother’s face and body, each scanning vital signs. It made her look as if she had chickenpox.

The doctor was watching Sarah. The doctor was a thin thirtyish woman with nut-brown eyes and light brown skin. Her hair, a delicate blonde, was shoulder length and covered with a nearly invisible clean-net so no strands fell free.

“Sarah?” the doctor said, and it made Sarah wonder how a woman ten years younger than herself managed to sound make one word so condescending.

“Sarah—” her mother said again. “You can’t.”

“You can’t go home,” Sarah said.

“But you could take me.”

Sarah closed her eyes. One more thing. It had taken all of her strength to get to the hospital each day before visiting hours closed. She had lost a day of work to be here this afternoon. Her secretarial job was rare, precious, and difficult. It also only paid a quarter of what she really needed. Besides, the children were doubled up in one room in her two-bedroom apartment. If her mother came to stay, someone would have to sleep on the couch.

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