The Late Night Nurse

My footsteps are as quiet as the night around me as I move through the house. The stairs, which have creaked under the feet of others for centuries, do not creak under mine. I do not rustle the carpet as I pass the room where the mother and father lie in an anxious half sleep. As though sensing my presence, the mother mumbles something but doesn’t wake. I haven’t been in this house in many years, not since I visited the old man, but I remember it well. Besides, I don’t have any trouble finding my way in the dark. 

At the end of the hall, the door is ajar to the child’s room, and I slip in like a draft. The window is open, but the scent of the summer night hardly cuts through the stale air. You can smell her sickness. The heavy scent of medicine and disease hangs in the room like smoke. I sit on the foot of her bed and watch her chest rise and fall rapidly, as though making up for lost time. Her skin has faded to an ashy grey and her cheek, once round and full of childhood, cling close to her skull. Her hands clutch the blankets as colorful fever dreams race through her churning mind. She lets out a little cry. This is when I reach gently out to wake her. It’s time. 

She isn’t scared when she looks up into my face, instead she looks confused. Her brow crinkles and she asks weakly, “Are you one of my nurses?” 

“I suppose you can say that,” I tell her gently.  

From outside comes a low, rough call. She starts, thin hand, slippery with sweat, shooting out to grab my wrist, and the sticky warmth of fever creeps up my arm. 

“What was that?” she asks fearfully. 

“Just a barred owl, darling,” I tell her. She looks like an owl, with her hollow eyes wide and staring, pupils flicking around the room. She is having a hard time looking into my face. 

“I don’t like it,” she says. “It sounds like a monster.” 

“They sound a little creepy, but it’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

She notices she’s clutching onto me and lets go. “You’re so cold.”  

“Does it bother you?” I ask.  

She weakly shakes her head. “No. My entire body feels like it's burning so it’s sorta soothing.”  

I place my cool hand against her forehead, relieving some of the fever. Silently and gently she slides back into sleep. I watch the covers jerkily rise and fall with each strained breath, amazed by how trusting this little girl is of a stranger in her room so late at night. Perhaps she has seen such an irregular flow of doctors and nurse that this doesn’t strike her as odd, perhaps she is too sick to care. 

Eventually a fit of coughing shakes her awake. She is too weak to sit up, so she convulses, twisting the covers about her body. The coughs rack through her until her face is bright red before finally fading. It is a few minutes before she can bring her breath under control and a few more before her eyes slide up to meet mine. For the first time, she really holds my gaze. Her lashes are soft and heavy as falling snow.

“What’s your name, nurse?” she asks. “I’ve never seen you before.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “You can call me whatever you like.” 

“Okay,” she says, then pauses, calculating me. “You look different than the other nurses.” 

“How so?” 

Her brow knits. “Less solid?” 

“What do you mean, darling?” 

“I don’t know.” She sighs. “Forget I said anything. My head is so heavy. It's hard to think."

Outside, the rough call of the barred owl sounds again. 

“Why are you here?” she finally asks, yet there is still no distrust, just confusion. “It’s the middle of the night.” 

“I think you know.”

Her owl eyes finally flick up towards my face. “I’m going to die.” It’s a statement, not a question. 

“Yes,” I say. 

"Oh..." She reaches out of the covers, “Hold my hand. Please.” I enclose her small hand, radiating the warmth of sickness, in my long bony fingers. A shiver runs through her. 

“Will it hurt, nurse?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. Death is simpler than living.” 

Her low lips tremble. “But... but... my friends! They’ll miss me when I die. And my mama and dad.” 

Her grip tightens around my fingers and tears begin to flow down her cheeks. She begins to cough again, sniffling as her body fights against her. A great sadness closes around my heart. It always hurts. No matter how many children die before me, it’ll never be easy. She looks so small and fragile. I squeeze her hand and wipe her eyes with a fold of my sleeve. 

“It’s okay to be sad,” I tell her.  

“You know medicine!” she pleads. “Can you cure me?” She lets out a little sob. “Oh! I don’t want to die!” 

“I know, darling. I know.” I move my thumb gently against her palm in slow circles. “But death is natural. It’s not evil or bad. More natural than life even. Death isn’t something to cure, it is simply another state of being. Your time has come. And, although I can’t stop it, I can guide your soul into the Heaven you believe in.”

“So, I will I go to Heaven?” she asks, her lip trembling. “I always try to be good.” 

I pause. No matter how many souls I’ve seen pass from life to death, I don’t know for sure what happens next. But I have my beliefs.

“Do you believe in Heaven?” I say, and she nods. “Then that’s where you’re going. I think that people go to the afterlife they choose to believe in.” 

“Then what afterlife do you believe in?” she asks. “Where do you think you’re going to go?” 

If there is a god, it has abandoned me in Limbo. But she is a child, and I can’t tell her that.  

“No pain,” I tell her. “No suffering. No feeling at all. Like a deep, dreamless sleep.” 

“That sounds lonely.” 

“It does. What does your Heaven look like?” 

She thinks for a moment. “It’s always summer. I have lots of friends and I can play with them again. I never need to lie in bed again.” A pause. Understanding lights in her eyes, soft and gentle as the rising sun. “You’re... not really a nurse, are you?” 

“I’m many things,” I tell her. “A mother to some, a father to others. A teacher, a guide, and, to you, a nurse.” 

"Are you a person?"

"No. Maybe I was once, but I don't remember."

“Are you a monster? The angel of death?”

“If you want me to be,” I tell her, feeling so much tenderness for this fragile little girl. “I may be an angel, if that is how you see me, and to many, I am treated as a monster. You can call me what you want, but know I feel nothing but love for you.” 

“I pictured you different,” she sighs. “With a scythe or big feathery wings. Or all made of bones. You just look like a normal person. You’re... nicer than I expected.” 

“Thank you.” I smile. 

"I'm glad you're nice," she says. "I feel so... tired."

“Are you ready to go now?” I ask, although she as only give one answer, I still want to hear it.

Her eyes sweep once more around the room taking in the stars painted on the ceiling, her shelves of books, the brightly colored stuffed animals lined up against the wall, as though waiting in a queue. She nods. “Yes.” 

“Good,” I say. “It’s a clear night. Come look at the stars.” 

“I’m too weak,” she starts, “I can’t stand...”  

“Try anyways.” 

So, she stands, leaving her body behind on the bed. Her fingers are still interlaced with mine as I, the grim reaper, lead her spirit to the window where we gaze up into the dark, unending expanse of the night sky.