A Mother's Kiss

Category C: Highly Commended (2024) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Joy Liao

I remember that it was a humid summer afternoon. The air was still as even the cicadas took a break from singing their tunes due to the heat. The hospital’s multi-faith room struggled to hold all of us in. Sweat trickled down the pores from our noses, our palms, and I could feel my damp blouse clinging to my back. 

The four children squished themselves onto the Burgundy two-seater sofas with a questionable stain in the back corner. There was a set of six-year-old twins, their nine-year-old brother, and in his arm dozing, was their two-year-old sister. Richard, their father half leant against the windowsill next to them. He was unshaven, and nervously rubbed his knuckles against his stubbles under his chins. The social worker and I sat across from them.

That morning during my ward round, I had seen Richard hunched over in the corridor, staring at the closed door of room 12. I put the files I was holding back into the trolley and came up to him.

“The nurses are giving Trish a sponge bath,” I said.

He didn’t turn to look at me. I knew he was listening intently to the sound coming from the room. Every time we heard a soft moan, I could see his temporalis and masseter muscles tense up.

“How are you doing?”

“We are out of time,” he whispered to himself. Before I could reply, he abruptly turned and walked away from me to the end of the corridor. It was a dead end, with a small window overlooking the chapel in the garden. The chapel of resurrection. It was adorned with strips of blue stained-glass windows and a calyx shaped ceiling. I had spent a lot of time there during my lunch break, in solitude. Pondering about life. How do I live? And pondering about death. How do I die well?

I didn’t follow him. I stood there, waiting. After about a minute, he turned around and walked back to me.

"This afternoon. I would like to bring my kids to say goodbye to her. Would you be able to spare some time for them? They might have some questions.”

The first person to break the silence was one of the twins. “There’s going to be cricket on TV at two. Would we miss it?” He didn’t know what we were going to talk about, but his instinct told him that he wanted no part of this.

“I know…that…things have been a little different at home. Your mum has been really sick, and she couldn’t be home with you,” I addressed the elephant.

“I know. My mother has breast cancer that has metastasized to her central nervous system,” the nine-year-old quipped. He didn’t stumble on any of the medical terms. He must’ve practiced saying it to himself over and over.   

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.

“Can you please tell me what it means? What does metastasize mean? And what’s the central nervous system?”

I remember that it was a humid summer afternoon. And the cicadas had stopped singing. But the rest of the details were blurred. I don’t remember what I said. But I remembered the wide confused eyes staring at me, and the questions one after another.

“Will my mum be in pain?”

“Why do you want to be a doctor? Doesn't it make you sad to see so many sick people?”

“How do I know if I have cancer?”

“Why can’t you make my mum better?”

And then we took the kids to their mum’s room. Trish skillfully covered her sunken eyes and anaemic lips with makeup. She was radiant with sea green eyes, Russian red lips and a head of flowy black wig.

“My sweet peas. Come and give mummy a kiss!” The kids clambered all over each other onto the bed, fighting each other to be next to her.  She winced from the impact.

“Mummy, I miss you. When are you coming home?”

 “I won’t be home for a while. But mummy has a present for all of you!” Trish took out a gift box with four teddy bears inside. “Mummy is going to give these teddy bears lots of big kisses right now. And each of you gets to take a bear home. Whenever you miss me, these bears will give you kisses from me.  And that means I will always be with you.”

It was a humid afternoon, and everything was a blur. But at the same time, I know that the memory will continue to shimmer like sunlight filtering through leaves for many years to come.