What Isn't There
Author's note: This is a short one-shot I couldn't get out of my head. I don't own any of the characters; those belong to Barbara Hall, and I'm glad.
Helen Girardi slowly made her way up the stairs, taking each step with deliberate carefulness. In her hands, she held two bowls of chicken soup, one for Joan and the other for a figment of Joan's imagination. Normally, she never made actual food for "YaYa," but this was an exception. Joan was sick in bed, tortured by a bad cough and a high fever, and she looked so miserable that Helen was more than willing to sacrifice a bowl of chicken soup if it would comfort an ill four year-old.
Joan was the only one of her children to have an imaginary friend, and the whole situation made Helen uncomfortable. It was far too reminiscent of her sister who ranted about voices only she could hear, far too evocative of the schizophrenics wandering the Chicago streets and muttering to themselves. Helen did not want that for her daughter.
At Joan's doctor appointment, the pediatrician had attempted to calm her fears, saying imaginary friends were a normal part of childhood development and rarely a precursor to future problems. But Helen hadn't really listened; she was too busy watching Joan smile at something only she could see, something that wasn't really there. To Joan, this was all too real.
Helen gingerly nudged open the door to the bedroom and peered inside. Her daughter looked deathly pale, lost in the sea of cool light blue fabric. Joan's body shook violently as she coughed, and Helen could see her tiny lungs heave following each spell. It was a scene to break a mother's heart. It worked.
In silence, Helen went over to the bedside and sat Joan up. Slowly, she fed her to the soup spoonful by spoonful, taking breaks for coughing spells every few minutes. When she was done, Joan lay back against the pillows, exhausted.
"Thanks, mommy," she said in barely audible voice.
Helen only smiled in response, knowing that Joan would talk more if given the chance.
As she prepared to leave the room, Helen bent over the bed to feel Joan's forehead.
"It's okay, mommy. YaYa already did that. He said to have faith; everything will be okay. He said he would know."
Joan spoke with such conviction and such comfort that Helen couldn't help but smile. For a brief moment, she thanked God for YaYa, chicken soup and all.