The Bees

My name was Aspen, like the place. Or the tree. I can’t remember now.

I knew two places well: Home, and the White Room. I think about them often. Home, and the White Room, and Daniel, and Ma.

Home was dark. Too dark. Home was air that was heavy; a silent room, but for the occasional sound of Ma, coming in to check on me. Home was Ma’s warm hand on my cheek, a cool towel on my forehead, water trickling down like a heartbeat. It was lukewarm milk and Ma’s perfume, sweet like honey and jasmine, and the low hum of insects and cars passing by outside my window. Sometimes light would peek through the dark shades, as if to say, “remember me”? “Go away”, I would reply, so it would. And then I would drift back to sleep, and darkness would return like a thick velvet curtain.

The White Room was bright. Too bright. The White Room was bland crisp walls and magazines, muted conversations and impatient click-clacks on a keyboard. It was voices coming and going, like waves kissing the shore, crashing and crashing and gone again. It was air that smelled metallic, like lemon and pine, clinging to my nose like wet clothes to my skin. It was people in white coats, surrounding me like swarming bees. “Too loud”, I would try to say, “too much buzzing”.

Daniel was gone before me; he was sick too. I remember his laugh, even now, and his eyes – green like Ma’s. They would crinkle when he smiled, at least I think – I can’t remember now.

Ma was warm like the sunshine, but she always looked sad. “Poor Ma, all alone now”, I say to no one at all.

I find myself thinking of those last few months often. The memories return, crashing over me, drowning me. Then they’re gone just as quickly, swept back out to sea. Home and the White Room, the White Room and Home. Pills and tubes and needles, hushed voices and buzzing. It wasn’t always like that, though. I remember a time when it wasn’t. Me and Ma and Daniel, on the beach, searching for seashells and bright-coloured rocks. Whoever found the most colourful rock was the winner. The winner of what? I can’t remember anymore. Me and Ma and Daniel, on the beach, building sandcastles that stretched to the sky – no, higher – and then the water, washing our castle away, back to the ocean, where everything goes. The water biting my ankles, so cold I would shriek in response. “Don’t be scared”, Ma would laugh. “It’s just the ocean”. These are the memories I cling to. The salt and the wind and the sand and Ma’s laugh.

And then just me and Ma. “Daniel was sick”, Ma explained. “Don’t be sad. He’s with the rocks and the sand and the ocean”. “Can we visit?” I’d ask.

Then the headaches, the tiredness, the white and pink pills. The glasses of warm milk with honey Ma made. “You’ll feel better soon”, Ma promised. A lie. I never did. “We’ll go back to the ocean, remember the ocean?” I did. I do.

Then I was back in the White Room with the bees in white coats, always buzzing. “Chest pain, abdominal pain, and those headaches”, Ma said. I heard the bees whispering, “still nothing, fourth visit this month”. “Getting worse”, they would buzz, “and the scans – nothing there”. “So young”, one bee said. Stupid bees, I thought.

Sometimes Ma told me stories while we curled up in bed.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there was a beautiful Princess who lived in a castle (of course). She once had a brother – a Prince, young and handsome – but an incurable sickness had stolen him away. The Princess, too, fell ill, and with each passing day she grew sicker and weaker. The Queen tried everything – doctors came from far and wide – but like the Prince who came before her, no cure could be found. The Queen grew more desperate with each passing day, promising a great fortune in exchange for a cure.

One night, an evil Witch who had heard of the Princess' mysterious sickness appeared before the Queen. “I can cure your daughter”, the Witch promised the Queen, “but it will come at a price”. “Anything!” the Queen exclaimed. A deal struck, the Witch handed the Queen a small bag of beans (magic, of course) and disappeared. The Queen fed the Princess the magic beans every night, and as promised, the Princess grew healthy again. And they were happy again for a while, the Queen and her daughter. Until the night when the evil Witch returned to the castle, to make good on the deal she had made with the Queen.

The Queen offered her jewels, gold, riches untold. But the Witch was unmoved. “We made a deal: anything in exchange for her life”, she said. “I have come to collect my price: your daughter”. The Queen pleaded and begged, “anything but my daughter! Take the castle, the kingdom, it's yours!” sobbed the Queen. But a deal made (especially with a Witch) cannot be broken (even for a Queen). The Witch took the last bean from the bag and fed it to the Princess. And the Princess (healthy, strong, and beautiful) instantly forgot her mother, the Queen, and happily went away with the Witch, never to return again.

“Will a witch come for me, Ma?”

“Of course not, my princess. It’s just a story, an old fairy tale”.

Some days I’d feel better, but Ma wouldn’t believe me. “Lie down”, she would say, “you’re still sick” she’d explain. “Drink your milk, take your magic beans, they’ll make you all better”. Like the princess in the story Ma told me, I got sicker. But the magic beans didn’t help me, even though Ma promised they would.

Sometimes I could hear Ma crying at night in her room. Did she know I could hear her? Does she know I still can? Was she thinking of Daniel? Was she angry at me? “I’m sorry”, I wanted to say, but I couldn’t. Too tired.

A new memory – or was this a dream? Daniel is sick, his head is hurting, he’s curled up beside Ma. Ma is stroking his hair, damp with water or sweat. “You’ll feel better soon”, she promises. But he’s crying, he won’t take his medicine. “Take your medicine, Daniel” I tell him. “Don’t you want to go back to the sea?”

Then I was back in the White Room again. Something was different this time, though, the buzzing was louder. One bee, she looked younger, she kept looking at me. I heard bits and pieces: “her mom…social services…something’s not right…like her first kid”, she said. “The same symptoms, it’s strange”, so much noise, so much buzzing. I wanted to yell at the bees – stop buzzing, leave me alone – but I couldn’t, too tired. The older bee stopped her. “Not now, I’m busy” he buzzed. The young bee looked back at me, and I smiled, I’m fine, you see. Silly bee.

Home. I got sicker and the headaches got worse. I spent my last days curled up beside Ma, while she stroked my hair, damp with water or sweat. No more bees, no more buzzing, it was finally quiet. I looked up at Ma, she was crying again. “I’m sorry”, I said, but not really, I couldn’t.

And then darkness again, warm and comforting. A promise of water and seashells and bright-coloured rocks. “Rest now”, it said, so I did.