Sister

“My little woman, Daddy’s little woman…” Wyatt sang and swayed the tiny little girl gently in his arms.

“Put her back, Wyatt, you heard what the doctor said. She’ll catch pneumonia.” Liz looked up from her quilting. “Put her back in the box.”

“I know what he said but she needs fresh air. Her colors not so good.” Wyatt replied still humming between words.

Patricia Jane was born on April 2, 1947 with a hole in her heart. The prognosis was grim and after seven long days in the hospital, Wyatt and Liz had finally brought their little girl home.

Wyatt lowered her into the pasteboard box and covered her with a soft crocheted blanket. He shifted the liquor bottle full of hot water toward her tiny feet and smiled at the warm pink glow coming back into her cheeks. The physicians instructions had been very clear -–absolutely no drafts, keep her warm. The box was completely airtight and had replaced the beautiful cradle Wyatt had crafted with his own hands. Liz hoped and prayed that some day Patricia Jane would be well enough to sleep in it.

Almost two weeks passed and Patricia seemed to be holding her own. There were a few close calls and while Wyatt and Liz’s hopes grew with every gurgle and coo, their worst fear was never far from mind.

“She’s my sweet girl. Yes, her was done it.” Liz chattered as she worked on the evening meal. After kneading out the biscuits, she washed her hands and peeked around the corner at Patricia. She was like a China doll with her fair complexion and fine strawberry blonde hair. But Liz noticed that her eyes seemed a bit dim.

“What’s the matter, little one? Are you sleepy?” The sweet face turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Well, a short nap will do you well before Daddy gets home. He’ll want lots of sweet kisses from his little woman so, we’d better let you rest up now.” Liz tucked the blanket around the frail arms and legs. Patricia’s fingers and toes felt colder than usual so Liz carefully scooted the makeshift crib toward the window where she could warm up in the late afternoon sun.

The table was set and bowls of steaming mashed potatoes, green beans, and crispy fried chicken filled the house with a delicious aroma.

“Mmmm” Wyatt exclaimed as he came through the front door. “Smells good in here.”

He dropped the mail onto the counter top. “And how’s my little woman?” he asked as he made his way across the room.

Liz gave a few details about their day as she poured the ice tea. A glass in each hand, she turned toward the table but stopped mid-step. She knew immediately that Patricia wasn’t doing well. Wyatt lifted her gently. Their poor sweet girl groaned and squirmed with each labored breath.
Dinner was forgotten, and for several hours they tried to comfort her. They took turns warming the whiskey bottle and hummed soothing lullaby’s but it was useless. Patricia Jane continued growing weaker.

When they’d tried everything they knew of to do, Liz and Wyatt bundled her up and drove to the hospital, in vain. Patricia Jane passed away quietly; just two short weeks after her life began.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002