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| Courage | Mallika Khuansathavoranit |
| He was lying there so still and pale upon
the hospital bed, as he had lain for more than a month.
His face was gaunt, every angle emphasized, his once-tanned
skin now an unhealthy shade of gray. Tubes ran through
his nose while wires hooked him to a machine that stood
beside his bed. Callie reached out and took her brother's hand. Her heart ached. She missed his answering squeeze, missed his teasing, his concern ... everything about him. "You're so far away," she whispered, "so far, and yet you're still here." She looked at him for a long time, eyes dry of the tears she'd once had. So many tears, that she would often wonder how a body could shed that much water and still not be any physically worse for it. As she gazed at him, trying to remember how he had been before the accident, sunlight shone in through the window opposite her and draped across the bed like a golden blanket. Startled, she looked out the window, her attention caught. It was a beautiful morning. The sky was rosy from the sun's touch, and fluffy clouds crawled lazily across it. This was all she'd asked for, that today be beautiful-- The doctor had told her and her parents a week ago that her brother wasn't going to wake up. Ever. "He's a vegetable," the man had said, his eyes apologetic. "There's nothing anyone can do." He paused, then continued, his voice very gentle, "We would like your permission to unplug him." Closing her eyes, Callie could still feel the moment her heart stopped beating, could still hear her mother's anguished cries, her father's stony silence. All of them knew it was the right thing to do, no matter how painful it was. Keeping him alive like that would have been cruel. And so, in front of the hospital's ethics committee, they had agreed to let him be unplugged. Unplugged. Her brother was not a microwave or computer, that you could "unplug" any moment you pleased. It was this word, this one ugly word, that gave Callie the courage to stand up and ask those doctors if she could be the one to do it. She didn't want someone who had never known her brother, never loved him the way she and her parents had, to unhook him from a machine and let him die. At least with her he wouldn't be alone. Exhaling shakily, she opened her eyes, looked at the hand that held his tightly. She didn't know if he could feel it. She didn't know anything anymore, only that her heart ached-- She ran her fingers through her hair, swallowing with difficulty. "All I have to say is here in my heart and I think you know what it is," she told him, a trembling smile on her lips. "I want you here with me, with us, but not like this. Not like this," she repeated hoarsely, her smile crumbling, tears she'd thought finished long ago falling, every one of them breaking her heart just a little bit more. "I want you well." She looked at him through her tears, memorizing every line of his face. She had onced asked all the gods she knew of to let him wake up, to give her this gift of a miracle. Now, all she wanted was to see his eyes one last time, to see them spark with mischief, light up with love. She wanted it so badly, but she knew that she could wish all she wanted--nothing was going to happen. So she prayed instead for courage--courage for right now, and courage for afterwards. She leaned over, kissed him on the cheek, one of her tears sliding down his face. Her hand shook as she touched the cold metal of the machine beside her brother's bed, a machine that kept him alive-- Forgive me. It took more courage than she'd ever used, more strength than she'd ever needed, but she knew it was the best thing for him. Love guided her, love for her brother in every part of her. "I love you," she whispered, as the electronic line on the machine's screen flattened silently, as her brother stopped breathing. |
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