L'Orphelin D'Adieu
A/N: Oh, the lame ideas I get. Here are three super-short vignettes of Alfredo Linguini at the time of his mother's death – intended to jerk some tears, but probably will just roll some eyes. Well, as long as they cause some kind of reaction, I'll be satisfied. Not for those who don't like sad stuff. Enough said. I recommend listening to the song "Hoppipolla" as you read this – that's what I was listening to when I wrote it. Me and my weird non-English music, you know. Go figure.
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One: Moments Au Ciel
Alfredo had to wait until his mother's doctor and priest had left the room before he could sit down next to her. He wanted them to leave him alone, and as long as he stayed still in the corner of the room, mouse-quiet, about to explode with fear and anger and sadness all at once, they did. If the doctor or the priest had any idea how he felt about the whole thing, they would have smothered him with condolences and blessings – which really weren't that bad, but right now, he didn't want condolences or blessings. He wanted his mother.
Now that the room was quiet, save for his mother's erratic breathing, he felt strangely at peace. Two hours isolated in the corner, out of the watchful gaze of the doctor and the priest, had drained him of any hysterical or violent emotion. His mother had fallen asleep just after the priest had given her Last Rites, and the doctor had warned Alfredo that she would not wake up.
"Okay," he said. And that was it. He didn't even cry. He was glad his mother wasn't awake to see him now. She'd think that he didn't love her. He really did, but right now, he felt as ready to cry as a zombie.
Except that she was so pale, his mother looked so like her usual healthy self that it scared Alfredo. A momentary, irrational fear that she had been perfectly fine all along washed over him. The hairs on his arms stood on end, and he frantically scanned his mother's face for a sign of consciousness. But he sighed as he assured himself that that couldn't be true. If it had, she'd already be dead by now.
With trembling hands, Alfredo reached out, adjusted the blanket so it covered her more comfortably, and tucked a renegade curl of fading red hair behind her ear.
"There," he said softly.
The radio was still on, at a low volume. Alfredo stood up and went over to silence the radio talk show mid-spiel.
As he sat down again, he leaned forward in the chair and laid his head on the edge of his mother's bed, forcing himself to relax and wait.
He listened to the erratic and oddly calming rhythm of her breathing until it stopped. Then he went to the nurses' station to report that his mother had died.
The nurses told Alfredo later that there were at least two other women who died in the hospital that day. Only his mother had died with her family near.