Mrs. Stone’s Conviction

I

She was perched upon an austere white seat, three empty ones on either side. Her legs were crossed sideways, beneath her. She wore blue pants, a blue shirt and a blue hat. She carried a blue handbag too, that she clutched in her lap with white-knuckled hands. She made the hospital reception appear more Spartan than it really was.

She stared ahead at a brown spot on a white floor tile, her head skewed to one side, her eyes not blinking even once while a young boy, clutching a book that didn’t seem all too enthralling, stared at her from a seat across. Her face was furrowed, lines crisscrossing, features mingling—the general effect was one of plaintive orthodoxy. She appraised the spot on the floor, the dreadful fleck, as if an orderly continuance of her day depended upon it. Perhaps she thought she deserved more from life, or another life even. The young boy was uncomfortable; he thought he shouldn’t be staring so, but she exuded the sort of impenetrability that is intolerable in ones close to the self, but enigmatic in strangers. And there was resilience about her. She—a part of the white wall that stretched out behind her or a permanent fixture like those sturdy metal seats, screwed to the floor with unforgiving nails—was not going anywhere. She affirmed the present, this moment here, the wait for the next suspended all around her, still as death. The boy was afraid to turn the page of his book lest he should break her concentration or perturb the moment that she, impervious and refined, lay in.

A voice called out for a Mrs. Stone, and the woman in blue finally looked up, as if startled at the existence of things outside her self. Mrs. Stone, Doctor King will see you now in Room No. 304, that’s on the fourth floor; do you know where that is? the voice continued. The boy pretended to read the book, turning a page as the woman rose and walked past him saying, Yes, that’s my son’s room, no one need accompany me.

The boy’s eyes stayed glued to the meaningless black letters on the page as Mrs. Stone’s footsteps receded down the corridor, his ears bursting with the sound of her shoes on the white tiles—

Click, click, click.

II

Doctor King stands beside young Father Stone’s bed, not thinking of anything in particular and therefore allowing his mind to fixate upon the whiteness of the bed-sheets rather longer than necessary. There is a knock on the door. Do enter, Mrs. Stone, he says closing his eyes. This is going to be difficult, he mutters to himself.

She enters and, not bothering to make herself comfortable or waste time with pleasantries, starts off right away. Mr. King, she begins—Doctor King, he corrects her. Oh well, Doctor, she acquiesces, you mustn’t do anything anymore, it should be over any day now, and it would’ve been over a few months ago if it hadn’t been for you. You mustn’t try to save him anymore. It is time that he and God are united; death must take its natural course; your scientific efforts to prolong his existence artificially must not be allowed to interfere; he is my son, and he is not afraid of death; he would want to embrace it with open arms; you are destroying everything he has worked for; what would you...

The doctor watches her contorted mouth move grotesquely as she continues the tirade he has ceased to hear. It grows quiet in his head. He looks at her son’s chest and stomach, quiet and peaceful, rising and falling at the same spot like a wave chained to the ocean floor. He feels like he is caught, rolled into an endless film of bubble wrap that suffocates him.

...must cease. It must cease now, she says, finally stopping for breath, her hand on her heart, her mouth shivering with silent rage. Why will this man not let my baby die in peace? Why must he suffer?

I’m afraid Father Stone must undergo treatment as long as his body continues to respond to it, says the doctor, offering mechanically the answers he has been trained to give. I do not have the authority to cease his treatment, and euthanasia is not permitted in the state. I’m afraid you shall have to settle with the fact that your son is going to fight for a little while longer. If you wish to cease payment for the medical facilities you avail of at the moment, you may...

The woman looks at him, her harsh face half-concealed under the oppressive blue hat. She does not listen to the meaningless jargon he is uttering. She feels that she has failed, as she knew she would. She cannot impress upon this foolish young doctor the urgency of this philosophical situation, her son’s situation. He must die because his time has come, because he is not afraid of death. The hours have arrived, and they must not pass. He must die.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of her belief, she feels that she is sinking, sinking into the white wall that follows her everywhere. The doctor’s voice isn’t even a whisper, and in her head there is only she and a swirl of faith.

With shaking fingers, she opens her handbag, and reaches for the gun.