A Love to Live For (13 page)

I realized then that even if I managed to have a successful career, I still wouldn’t feel fulfilled. My life would still feel incomplete, just as it did at that moment.

And I knew exactly what was missing.

Or rather, who.

Indeed, I suddenly wished Joseph was there with me so I could share the good news I had received with him and we would both smile about it and celebrate together. Sure, I could very well celebrate with anyone, but I just knew that no one would feel as happy for me or as proud of me as Joseph would, and just those feelings would make everything perfect.

I missed him.

Out of nowhere, I felt an overwhelming sadness and not long after, I felt tears streak down my cheeks. I had already cried over losing Joseph, several times in fact, but it seemed I still had tears left to cry.

Why? Why did things turn out this way?

I didn’t even know anymore why Joseph and I fell apart. Was it simply because he had kept the truth from me, which had made me feel so betrayed?

It was strange, but it seemed the worst fights always stemmed from the most trivial of things, things so trifle that after a while you couldn’t even understand why you fought over them, and yet you did. And the worst part was that you no longer knew how to get things back the way they were, if that was still possible.

Was it still possible for Joseph and me to be together? Did he still love me? Furthermore, could I forgive him?

I didn’t know if I could. I was still hurting, after all, and it was hard to tell which was greater – the pain or the love.

Besides, I wasn’t even sure if he wanted my forgiveness. He never said sorry, after all. In fact, he never called me or even sent me a message, never gave any indication that he was hurting just as I was and that he wanted me back.

Frustrated, I buried my face in my hands. At first, I could only complain, wondering why God had allowed me to be in such pain, to be trapped in such a complicated situation. Then, after calming down a bit, I wiped my tears and I started to pray.

Please, God, show me what to do.

I repeated those words over and over again in my head as I sat still on the bench, waiting for an answer. Then, suddenly, I heard a plop and a rustle beside me and when I looked, I saw that my envelope had fallen off the bench and a woman had knelt down to pick it up.

She handed it back to me with a smile. “I’m sorry.”

I shook my head. “It’s okay.”

“That’s a very nice drawing by the way,” she said, pointing to the drawing that was showing through the transparent envelope.

I realized then that I had not arranged my drawings properly after Charles had returned them to me, since usually, I kept a blank sheet on top so that no one would see my work.

“Thank you,” I simply said.

“Is that your drawing?”

I nodded.

“Are you an artist?” she asked again, showing no sign of leaving me alone.

“Yes, I guess I am,” I answered.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She moved closer to me. “You see, I have a friend who’s an artist, too, but he got sick and he can’t give the drawing lessons that he usually gives at the hospital where I work. Would you like to come and give the lesson instead? I would greatly appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t give lessons. In fact, I don’t think I’m a good teacher.”

“Oh, you don’t really have to teach,” she said, persistent. “You can just draw and the patients can just watch you or they can just draw and you can just let them know what you think of their drawings.”

I said nothing, still reluctant.

“Please?” the woman pleaded.

I thought about it. I wasn’t really in the mood for doing what she was asking me to do, especially because I was still confused and hurting and waiting for a sign about what I was supposed to do with Joseph, but it wasn’t like I was busy. Besides, my Dad would be proud knowing I engaged in some charitable work and I might feel better.

I nodded. “Alright, I’ll go.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you very much.” The woman held my hand between hers. “Come to the Christian Children’s Hospital at four o’ clock. I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

“I’ll be there,” I promised.

“My name is Mary, by the way,” she said. “Mary Dawson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mary.”

“And your name?”

“Rebecca,” I answered. “Rebecca Swinton.”

“I truly thank God for meeting you, Rebecca. In fact, it seems as you have just been sent to me as an answer to my prayer.”

I smiled at her before watching her leave. It was good to know that God had answered her prayer, but I could not help but wonder when God would do the same for me.

I was beginning to think He would never answer as I made my way to the hospital that afternoon. I still didn’t know what to do, after all.

Still, I decided to set it aside in the meantime, telling myself that I would dedicate myself to my task and make the most of it.

Putting on a smile, I walked to the hospital and sure enough, Mary was waiting for me at the entrance. Upon seeing me, she heaved a sigh of relief, as if she had been afraid that I would change my mind and not show up, then, she gave me a wide smile.

“Thank you for coming, Rebecca,” she said.

I simply nodded. Then, I followed her to the nurses’ station, where she spoke to someone, and then down a long corridor to Ward 13, which Mary explained was the ward for the cancer patients.

As soon as I entered the room, I felt my heart stop. The patients were all so young, no more than ten years old probably, and yet most of them were pale and skinny, some of them having bandages and shaved heads, even. Still, they did not seem to mind their condition, or even be aware of it, nearly all of them smiling as soon as they saw Mary and me.

“Where is Oliver?” one of them, a girl who seemed about seven with a pink teddy bear right beside her, asked.

“Oliver is sick,” Mary explained. “But we have a new friend who is with us today. Her name is Rebecca.”

“Hello everyone,” I greeted as I stepped forward.

“Hello Rebecca,” they chorused.

“Rebecca is very good at drawing, too,” Mary said to them. “And she will gladly help you with all your drawings this afternoon.”

At that, some faces lit up, though others just continued to stare at me, as if doubtful that I was as good as Mary claimed, or as good as Oliver.

To make them comfortable, first, I told them about myself and about why I loved drawing. Then, I gave them some basic tips on drawing and showed them one of my drawings, which made some of them say ‘Wow!’ and made others gasp, while others, still just stared at the drawing in thoughtful silence. Afterwards, Mary started distributing pencils and sheets of paper attached to colorful clipboards and I told the children to draw whatever they felt like drawing. Upon hearing that, one child, a boy about nine years old, frowned.

“But Oliver always tells us what we should draw,” he said.

“Hmm.” I scratched my chin. “Then wouldn’t it be nice to draw what you want for a change?”

His frown turned into a smile at that. Then, he quickly started drawing.

I, too, started drawing in the drawing book I had brought with me. Then, after a few minutes, I stood up, deciding to go around the room to see what the children were drawing and give them some suggestions and words of encouragement.

Most of them were busy with their work, the girls drawing flowers, unicorns and princesses and the boys drawing trucks, dinosaurs and space rockets. One child, however, a girl with a shaved head who did not look more than seven years old, was not drawing. She simply held the pencil Mary had given her, tapping it against the still blank sheet of paper in front of her.

I approached her and looked at her wristband, which told me her name was Tammy.

“What’s wrong, Tammy?” I asked.

“I don’t want to draw,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Why should you care? You’re just here because you feel sorry for all of us.” She looked up at me with her lips tucked into a pout and her brown eyes filled with distrust.

I did not allow it to affect me, though, knowing that children often lashed out only when they were in pain. “I’m here because I want to help you,” I told her, keeping my smile on. “Because I want to help all of you.”

“So you’re not here because you pity us?” she asked.

“Of course, not,” I said. “Wherever did you get that idea?”

“Most people only come here because they pity us,” she said. “I hate pity. It makes me feel…strange and not in a good way.”

“I hate pity, too,” I told her. “Which is why I would never do anything out of pity.”

“Really?”

“Really,” I said, touching her arm. “I would never pity you. I admire you, in fact, because you are very brave and strong.”

Her lips slowly curved up into a smile.

“Why don’t you draw someone who’s brave and strong, too?” I suggested.

“Like an elephant?”

“Yes, like an elephant.”

“Okay.”

She started to draw and seconds later, was already absorbed in her work, making me proud of her. I felt good about myself, too, feeling as if I had touched her life in my own way.

I continued going around the room, stopping at each bed. Finally, I reached the bed of the boy who had spoken earlier.

“What are you drawing?” I asked him curiously.

“It’s a teddy bear,” he said. “A really big teddy bear that you can hug.”

I smiled. “Do you want a teddy bear to hug?”

“It’s not for me,” he said. “It’s for my Mommy.”

“Oh.”

“Mommy always hugs me when she comes to visit,” the boy went on. “She tries to be happy but I know she’s sad. She knows that I’m going to die soon.”

“No one knows that for sure,” I told him

“When I die, I don’t want my Mommy to be sad,” he continued as if he had not heard me. “I want her to have a teddy bear to hug so she won’t be sad, but I can’t really give her one so I’m just drawing one for her.”

“Well, it’s very nice,” I said, my voice choked with emotion.

I went to finish my drawing then looked at all of their finished ones, proud of what they had accomplished. Then, after hanging the drawings on the wall with Mary, I hugged each of them, trying to hold back my tears, telling them to be strong.

As soon as I left the ward, I could no longer keep my tears in, though, and all I could do was wipe them as they started falling.

“It is sad, isn’t it?” Mary asked as she walked beside me. “Sad that they have to suffer so much and die so young. They would probably give anything to run around like other children do.”

I nodded. “Thank you, Mary, for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming along,” Mary said. “You’ve made the children very happy.

“I’m very happy to have met them, too,” I told her.