Jessica and her Expectations – Fiction by Argentinean Writer, Marcelo Medone

What time is it? The sun is still streaming through the window, though just barely. It’s getting dark. They’re bringing me dinner in a little while. I don’t feel like eating, especially that tasteless mush. The best thing is that they increased my morphine dose and put me on an oxygen mask. That’s what Dr Curbelo told Rosalyn, the morning nurse. The doctor should have given it to me earlier when I had more time. What good does it do me now that I’m dying? Because I am dying, of that I have no doubt. I will not be fooled: I am going to die today or tomorrow at the latest. I have nothing wrong with my lungs, and I don’t need oxygen to breathe. If I had pneumonia or bronchitis, I would understand the oxygen thing. Or a heart attack; I believe heart attack victims are given oxygen, at least in the movies. They give me oxygen because it’s good for my neurons and I’m going to die. They want me to die happy and they don’t want me to give them trouble. That’s the bad thing about being lucid until the end. Nothing escapes me. I see it in the look of the maid who fixes my sheets, Lucinda, who looks at me with pity.

“Mrs. Jessica, shall I raise your pillow? If you want, I can get you another one,” she says, helpful as always.
“No, dear, that’s fine. Could you put the oxygen mask on me? I don’t have much strength lately.”

Lucinda is very kind, unlike Gloria, the other maid, who doesn’t even look at me. I am very good at identifying people: I remember all the names, from the most maid maid to the most director director. Gloria comes, does her job and leaves. She doesn’t even greet me. She may think she is very efficient, but old people like me are owed a little respect, a little humanity, although she is as old as I am. Maybe Gloria thinks it’s not worth wasting her little empathy on someone who won’t be around tomorrow. I’m sure she thinks that for the little she’s paid, she doesn’t have to be nice to patients. Lucinda told me that Gloria is worried because she has a son who has gone astray, although she didn’t tell me any details. But it’s not my fault with her son. Besides, you can raise a child well and have it go wrong. Or the other way around. Sometimes mothers are worse than their children. I was always a good mother. And it’s not because I say so, everyone says so. My son may be what he is, but he is not a criminal.

As for the nurses, I can’t complain about them. I see them coming and going, overworked. It’s not their fault. I know them all by now and I’ve also learned their names, which they have on a little sign pinned to their uniforms. The best and nicest of them all is Rosalyn. She does my check-up every morning. I have nothing but praise for them.

My doctors are wonderful. Especially Dr Curbelo, who is a sweetheart. He wears a wedding ring and is very attentive. Maybe he’s a widower, because some men still wear the ring of their wife who died as a sign of respect or to keep old ladies like me from being interested in them. Dr Curbelo has a firm yet gentle voice that puts me at ease. As soon as I was admitted, I asked him to call my little Matthew.

“Mrs. Rothman, we still haven’t been able to locate your son. Do you have any other family members or contacts?”
“You know, doctor, sometimes the younger ones forget about us. They go about their lives.”

That was before my first seizure when I only had a headache. That’s why I consulted. I had a headache, and my eyesight was a little blurry when I needed to read. First the neurologist saw me and sent me for a CT scan. Then the oncologist saw me and passed me on to the neurosurgeon. I am very good at memorizing data. The neurosurgeon said that my tumour was inoperable. Suddenly, I find out that I have a malignant tumour and that they can’t do anything about it. I don’t know what they studied for so many years.

Too bad Matthew didn’t come. It would have been nice to see him again.
I remember that summer, in ’81, at the beach, how Matthew loved to go in the sea! How old was he? I think he was eight. I used to tell him not to go in too deep, that it was too dangerous, but he listened to me for a while and then did what he wanted. He always did what he wanted, like his father.
I haven’t heard from George in a while. The bastard must have died, and I didn’t hear about it. I’m sure he died. Serves him right. Matthew never forgave him either. At twelve a boy needs his father. Besides, he went far away. Couldn’t he have stayed close by, if only to see his son? No, sir, he couldn’t. New life. Clean slate.

That time on the beach, Matthew was stung in the face by a jellyfish. He looked like a little monster. We had to take him to the hospital, and they gave him some injectable medication. I don’t know what they gave him, but it worked, and they kept him under observation just in case. That’s when George disappeared for the first time; we spent the night alone in the clinic. I’m sure he was already seeing Lana. The bitch, pretending to be my best friend. Maybe not though, I don’t think the minx would have been hanging around George all that time. I swear I didn’t see what was going on coming until the last moment. Mr. Rothman, the best insurance salesman in the business. Too bad he didn’t give me insurance for infidelity and abandonment. Not that I’m playing the victim. It’s a matter of fairness. I got every buck I could out of him, but I’m sure he already had a side business set up with Lana. She was always very clever with finances.

How good the extra oxygen feels, or is it the morphine? I should ask my brain tumour what it likes better, oxygen or morphine. They’re feeding him morphine to make him behave and leave me alone. Or maybe it’s some I-don’t-know-what-zepam that’s got him under control. But I’m sure the fucker loves the morphine they’re feeding me. The only good thing is that he’s going to die with me. Kaput. We’re both going to leave this world together.
Sometimes, at night, when everything is quiet, I hear voices inside my head: it’s my tumour talking to me. He tells me that he is afraid of dying, that he loves me, that he could not live without me. We are both one, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. Soon we will be one with the Universe, which is equal to nothingness itself. Stardust. An insignificant speck that no one will care about, like the powder that falls from the wings of a butterfly. I once read about the powder from butterfly wings in a poem. I like to read poems. I don’t read long things, because I get tired of them, and they bore me. I like short poems. Here I don’t read anything. My eyesight is still blurry and it’s hard for me to read the small letters. That’s why I ask everyone to read me the little labels with their names, so I can memorize them. I have a very good memory.

Definitely, night is falling. Nights make me sad. I prefer to see the sun. I don’t like shadows. I’ve always loved the sun. And the beach, in the summer, just like Matthew did. I still remember Matthew running barefoot in the wet sand on the shore, kicking up jets of water with his feet. How Matthew loved the sun!
I’m so tired. I think I’m going to sleep for a while. My eyelids are heavy. Any minute now they’ll bring me their filthy mush for supper. I hope Lucinda is coming and not Gloria.
Or maybe Matthew will come. I’m sure Matthew will come soon. He always remembers my birthday, which is next week. He always calls me to say hello. If they have reached him, Matthew’s coming to see me.
Don’t let George come, for God’s sake.