“But you—are you the one?” ~ from “The Farm on the Great Plains"

This piece is an experiment with a line of poetry taken in isolation.

"But you-are you the one?"
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The child’s eyes peered at me from across the room, speckled with green and guilt. It was my first day working in the children’s ward. Disney films whisper weakly from several rooms, their fairy tales muted and suffocated in sickness and disease. The walls were painted a stale white with red and orange hand prints splattered across it—as if trying to dirty the over-sanitized feeling of the place. Bleach and vomit permeates the air in this place . . . perhaps it’s the red and orange hand prints that smell that way.

She stands in the doorway of her hospital room, a limp animal hanging from her hand. I think it’s a bunny rabbit, but the poor creature has lost his shape to a thousand embraces. His demise is immanent, but what a wonderful way to go . . . .

Her slippers are pink and fuzzy and peak out from beneath her blue nightgown with the yellow ducks all over it. Moving only slightly, but incessantly, the slippers seem alive. They peer this way and that, as if searching for something. Maybe they, too, want to help this little girl.
I hate this place. It makes me want to run away. There are no smiles here. Mothers and fathers sob silently in the hallway, hiding just outside their child’s room—just out of sight. The nurses are calm, just long enough that the children never see them frown. They exchange grim looks with the doctor, as they hand over a chart.

She still stares at me. I wander over to her doorway and crouch down, my brown eyes level with her green ones. “Can I get you anything sweetheart?” I force a smile, my dry lips creak with the effort.

“Are you the one?” she asks, her blonde head tilted to the side, her cheek resting on the pink terry cloth robe that hangs from her slight shoulders.

“Am I the one what, honey?” She stares at me silently. My knees are already aching with the effort of crouching. “What do you need, honey? Would you like a glass of water?”

She nods and I walk her back into her room. I help her climb into the bed and tuck her and her bunny in. She tells me his name is Indy because he likes to watch Indiana Jones with Daddy. Now I smile and my lips don’t creak. I hand her a glass of water and she takes a small sip. I feel it is out of politeness. She does not appear to be as thirsty as her scrutiny would have suggested. She hands me back the still full cup. I take it and place it on the tray by her bed. “Now, sweetheart, you shouldn’t get out of bed. If you need anything, just push this button here, ok?” I let her practice. She tucks the remote under Indy’s arm. I smile again and turn to go.

“But you—are you the one?” she asks again. Again I can not answer. All of the hours and dollars spent in medical school and I can not answer the question of one child.

“I don’t know honey.”

I walk out of the door and return to the desk. The head nurse is there. Her name is Rosemarie and she has cartoon characters on her scrubs. “Rosemarie, that little girl in that room—the blonde girl with the green eyes . . . . Why is she here?” I point at the room where Indy is holding the remote.

follows my gesture with her eyes. “That’s Sophie. Her heart is failing. She is waiting for a donor but . . . .” Rosemarie bit back tears. “I’m sorry doctor, it’s just not fair sometimes.”

No, I think. It’s not fair. I hate this place. Hold onto Indy tight, little Sophie. This place smells of bleach and vomit and death. No, Sophie, I am not the one.