THE PACT by Jeri Greene

Melanie’s pale translucent skin stretched over her face like rice paper. The fingers on her right hand now formed a claw. There was also something wrong with her right leg; undoubtedly all the changes were caused by the position of her brain tumor.

The pungent smell of rubbing alcohol was overpowering. They must have just cleaned her catheter. I thumbed through the copy of “The Prophet” on Melanie’s bedside table. A photo of two teenage girls at the beach smiled back at me from a silver frame. The machine that methodically dripped the clear liquid into her arm from her collapsing IV bag would soon emit a shrill beep and break the silence. For now, she slept. Melanie looked frail under layers of blankets.

Last November we’d met at Melanie’s house for our monthly poker game. Her speech was limited then. She still managed to make small talk and play her hands without help, but the growing frustration at her dwindling vocabulary could easily be seen on her face.

“I c-can’t win.” She stammered as she folded her hand. 

At the time, I couldn’t help thinking of the deeper meaning. Melanie’s sister had died of a similar type of brain tumor four years earlier after a lengthy illness and many surgeries. Because of its location, Melanie’s cancer was inoperable. Perhaps this was a blessing.

Before she dozed off this evening, we had been holding hands. I’d brought some vanilla bean scented lotion with me and put a dollop on the inside of her cupped right hand. Gently, I massaged her fingers out of their cramped position, then watched as they curled back again.

“Does that feel good?”

She nodded and, with some effort, wrinkled her face into a smile. The right side of her mouth did not go along voluntarily, however, and she looked a little like Popeye. The old Melanie would have found humor in this.

Suddenly, a look of panic swept across her face. 

Was it her spirit, trapped behind those haunted eyes saying, “Why is this happening to me?” 

I rubbed her forehead, trying to smooth the deep furrows.

“Don’t worry about anything. Just relax and imagine yourself on a sandy beach. Hear the ocean, Mel? Feel the warm sun on your skin?”

When she had fallen asleep, I pulled out the well worn note I kept in my wallet since that night in November and reread it. The printing looked like a first grader had done it.

When it’s time, pull the plug! xox  Melanie