A Life IncompleteA Story by CarlyI. Apartment 16B on Mangrove Street didn’t change a bit when Melanie Kauffman died. Everything was just as she left it. It was fairly tidy, although a bit eclectic. Most of the space in the small studio apartment was occupied by mismatched furniture and unfinished drawings. Her bed was made, but there was a rejected pair of jeans strewn on top of the cheap comforter. Melanie had thought earlier that they accentuated her “knobby giraffe knees”. Her bedside table was home to four books (none of which she had ever finished) and three paper cups filled with varying amounts of water. Her laptop was open on her desk. Her latest Google search was “what can you do with a degree in art?” A vase of 6 wilting roses sat next to her lap top. The note attached had yet to be read because Melanie had already known that they were from Mark. There was nothing unusual about the morning Melanie died. She unhitched her bike from the rack, and headed towards the café like she did every weekday morning. It was a Friday, which meant the weekend was within her reach. She rode her bike carelessly throughout the streets, nearly knocking her neighbor Mrs. Getz off her feet. Mrs. Getz made a rude gesture and mumbled an insult in German as Melanie sped down the street.
II. That same Friday morning, Harold Johnson went through his morning routine. He ate his eggs alone, and read his paper alone. The only time he didn’t feel alone was when he said his morning prayer and kissed the picture of his late wife Eloise. Eloise hung on the wall in place of where most people might mount a television. The picture was taken in 1970, the year their youngest son was born. They had five kids altogether, and they were nice kids. Harold saw them every Christmas, and some of them even came around for his birthday. The thing Harold loved second to his wife was his saxophone. He had been a jazz musician in his hey-day, before he started working at the furniture store. He had long since retired from that job though. He was living off his pension, and getting lonelier every day. But today was a special day. Today he was going to the music shop to buy that brand new neck strap for his saxophone. He held the old one against his dark brown skin. It was tattered and worn like him. He had held onto it for quite some time, but it was barely functional anymore. The idea of a brand new neck strap excited Harold as he drove his 1969 Buick Lasabre down the street.
III. Aidan Fitzgerald and David Pratt sat outside the very café that Melanie Kauffman was headed towards that morning. They had just worked 14 hour shifts, and they needed an escape from the hospital. Although they were co-workers, and assumed to be friends, Aidan really hated David. And David knew, but he didn’t really care. Neither of them spoke about it. It was just a little annoyance that hung between them at every moment. David was in the middle of telling Aidan about his idea for a ground breaking clinical trial when it happened. Tires screeched, and the deafening sound of metal hitting concrete exploded in the air. Melanie Kauffman and Harold Johnson were face to face, pinned under a 1969 Buick Lasabre.
IV. Melanie didn’t really feel much. She knew she should be in pain, but all she felt was its absence. She could see blood matted in her long dark brown hair. Then Melanie realized that she was facing a man. He sputtered and shook. It seemed that he was in enough pain for the both of them. A crowd of people had gathered, and there were two more men at her side. They were middle aged, but attractive. She gathered that they were doctors by their use of words like “abdominal crush injuries” and “compartment syndrome” Melanie suddenly became aware of the fact that she didn’t put on underpants that day. Underpants… what a silly thing to be worrying about when you’re dying.
IV. S**t. Aidan thought as he assessed the injuries of the girl. 20 year old female, 120 lbs, about 5’’7’, and she had 4,000 lbs of metal crushing down on her. A piece of the car had nearly severed her midsection. It was the only thing keeping her together. The girl was so young, and so pretty. Aidan realized that he was holding her hand. He noticed the bracelets on her wrist. They were woven out of different colored string, and had beads attached. His daughters made bracelets like these. “Dr. Fitzgerald, we have to move this car! C’mon, everyone help!” David Pratt yelled using his work voice. The crowd had moved forward, eager to help. “Stop!” Aidan bellowed, surprising himself. The crowd stopped in their tracks, and David turned towards him. “What do you mean, stop?! Dr. Fitzgerald, we have to get this car off, or it will crush them!” Aidan gathered himself. “We can’t.” He explained. “This car is the only thing keeping her together. We need to wait until the ambulance gets here before we move anything.” “Look, it’s a miracle that he’s even alert and talking, but Mr. Johnson will be dead before an ambulance gets here, Dr. Fitzgerald.” David said through clenched teeth. Mr. Johnson, that was the man’s name. He didn’t even know what the girl’s name was. He just knew that she was young, and had so much life to live. He couldn’t let her die. He stood up to look David in the eyes, letting go of the girl’s grasp. “I’m not going to let her die.” He looked back down at the girl. Her hand was outstretched, reaching for his. The beads on her bracelets were glaring in the sun. It hurt to look at. Those damn bracelets.
V. Harold didn’t really want to die. Death never really seemed that bad to him until the moment it was breathing down his neck. He greeted the possibility of death with fear as most people would, even with his faith and his desire to see his sweet Eloise again. And then there was the girl. His face was only six inches from hers. Her hair was caressing his cheek. It carried the bitter scent of blood, and the sweet smell of coconut. The man that had been helping him was arguing with the other man, the red haired one. It seemed that they were arguing over whom to save, the girl or Harold. “Hey.” Harold called out to them “Don’t bother tryin’ to save me. Help this little girl.” Dr. Pratt came over to Harold, and squatted next to him. “Mr. Johnson, her injuries are very severe. She has a very little chance of survival. We can save you.” “Can we wait for the damn ambulance?!” The red haired doctor yelled. “Well where is the damn ambulance?” Dr. Pratt, snapped back at him. “No” a voice murmured. All three men were surprised to realize that the voice came from the girl. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” The red haired doctor said as he sat next to her. “Melanie” she said through gasping breaths “It’s okay. I’m going to die.” “Melanie, we’re not going to let you die.” The red haired doctor promised her. Harold reached out and put his hand on the girl’s cheek to comfort her. Melanie’s skin felt soft underneath his rough leathery hand. The two of them lay like that for what felt like a long time, but it wasn’t a very long time at all. Harold could feel the life trying to escape his body. This is it, He thought. I’m dying.
VI. Melanie Kauffman bled out immediately. Her internal damage was too severe. Nothing could have saved her. That’s what Aidan kept telling himself as he sat in his car, consumed by guilt. Waiting for the ambulance wouldn’t have helped. She was already gone. And Harold Johnson lived. Aidan watched as David Pratt’s car pulled out of the hospital parking lot. He hated him more than usual today. But it was Aidan that agreed to move the car. He helped pull strong men from the crowd. He used all of his strength to pull the car off of Harold and Melanie. He watched as her insides spilled all over Sommer Street. He held her hand while she died. Aidan unclenched his fist. Inside was one of Melanie’s bracelets. He felt guilty for taking it. He never got emotionally involved with patients, but this was different. This girl burst into his life as he was sitting outside the Maple Leaf Café eating a tuna melt. He wasn’t used to having to deal with tragedy like this outside of the hospital. Aidan started his car, and drove home. He was tired, and he wanted to get home to his little girls.
VII. Harold Johnson didn’t get to buy his new neck strap that day, but he did buy it a month later. He spent the next two weeks in the hospital with visits from his children and grandchildren. He sent a letter to Melanie’s parents saying how sorry he was, but got no response. “The accident wasn’t your fault” said the policeman that spoke to him after his surgery. He therapist always liked to reiterate that same thing to him. Harold spent most of his nights playing his saxophone, trying to write something pretty for Melanie. The smell of blood and coconut always seemed to haunt him. It was hard for Aidan Fitzgerald to move on. Melanie’s face seemed to pop up into his mind at the most inconvenient times. He couldn’t help think about what an incomplete life Melanie must have had at the age of 20. He tried to avoid David Pratt, but with little success. David was completely unaffected by the accident. To him, Melanie’s death was the same as any he had encountered in his O.R. To Aidan’s relief, David never brought it up again. Melanie’s apartment did eventually move on as well. Her parents came and cleared everything out. By the time they came, her flowers had long since died. She never got a chance to finish her books, or find out exactly what one does with a degree in art. She never got a chance to tell Mark that she loved him. If only she had gotten a chance to read that note attached to her flowers. When the next tenant moved in, there was no trace that Melanie Kauffman ever lived there. Well not really. It took him six weeks to find a note to her stuck in the air vent… It read:
Melanie,
Ditch the café and meet me at the bridge across town on Friday morning. I have a surprise for you.
Much love, Mark
© 2013 CarlyAuthor's Note
Reviews
|
StatsAuthor
CarlyNYAboutI'm a college student, and an excessive binge reader/writer. Working on a degree in English Literature with a certification in education. I'm also a dancer. I'm looking for people to review my sho.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
first
prev
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
