Caleb, are you out of your mind?You think I’m inviting you to move in because of money?Pitiful, that’s all.
Caleb sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy panes at the street outside. His wards window faced the hospitals inner courtyard, a modest garden with tiny stalls and flowerbeds, but hardly anyone lingered there.
Winter clung to the city, and patients rarely dared the cold for a stroll. Caleb was alone in his room. A week earlier his neighbour, Tommy Whitaker, had been discharged, and the emptiness that followed settled over Caleb like a heavy shawl.
Tommy had been a sociable, laughing lad, a storyteller with a million jokes, always performing them with the flair of a seasoned actor. He was, after all, a drama student on his third year.
Spending time with Tommy was never dull. His mother visited daily, bearing fresh scones, fruit and sweets, which Tommy generously shared with Caleb.
When Tommy left, the cosy domestic hum that had filled the ward vanished, and Caleb felt lonelier than ever, as if he were a forgotten book on a dusty shelf.
His morose thoughts were broken by a nurses entry. He looked up and his spirits sank even further: the cheerful young nurse Dasha was replaced by the perpetually sour, foreverfrowning Mrs. Margaret Hargreaves.
In the two months Caleb had spent in the hospital, he had never once seen her smile. Her voice matched the hard line of her face: sharp, gruff, unpleasant.
Whats the matter? Back to bed!she barked, clutching a syringe filled with medicine.
Caleb sighed in resignation, turned his chair toward the bed, and she deftly helped him lie down, then swiftly rolled him onto his stomach.
Strip off your trousers,she ordered. Caleb obeyed, feeling naught. She administered the injection with practiced ease, and he thanked her silently each time.
Wonder how old she is, Caleb mused, watching her focus on the faint vein in his gaunt arm. Probably retired by now. A small pension, so she has to work, which makes her so bitter.
At last she slipped a fine needle into his pale, almost invisible vein, causing only a brief wince.
All done. Did the doctor see you today?she asked suddenly, already gathering her things.
No,Caleb shook his head. Maybe later
Well, wait. And dont sit by the window it drafts, and youll dry out like a cod,she warned, and left the room.
Caleb wanted to retort, but he couldnt; beneath her harshness lay a thread of genuine concern, however faint. He was an orphan. His parents perished when he was four, a blaze swallowing their cottage. He survived because his mother, in a final act of desperation, hurled him through a shattered window onto the streets snowpacked heap just before the roof collapsed, burying the rest of the family.
That night he ended up in a childrens home. Relatives existed, but none rushed to shelter him. From his mother he inherited a gentle, dreamy nature and bright green eyes; from his father, height, a lanky gait, and a knack for numbers. His memories of them flickered like fragments of an old film: a village fair where his mother waved a bright flag, a summer breeze brushing his cheeks while perched on his fathers shoulders.
He also recalled a large ginger cat, called either Murchick or Barshik. Apart from these shards, nothing remained; the family album had been reduced to ash in the fire.
No one visited him in the hospitalthere was simply no one. When he turned eighteen, the state allocated him a bright room in a university hall of residence on the fourth floor.
Living alone suited Caleb, though at times a deep ache rose, as if he might burst into tears. He grew accustomed to solitude and even found its advantages. Yet the orphanage years haunted him: watching children with parents on playgrounds, in supermarkets, on city streets, brought bitter, restless thoughts.
After school he dreamed of university, but fell short of the entry marks, so he enrolled in a technical college. He liked it, and the course suited him, but his classmates kept their distance. Quiet and withdrawn, Caleb seemed uninteresting, and he preferred books and scientific journals to noisy student antics and video games.
Conversations with them lingered on coursework alone. With girls, his modesty never helped; louder, more assertive boys always won their attention. At eighteen and a half he still looked no older than sixteen, earning him the nickname the ivory crow among peersa label that oddly didnt bother him.
Two months earlier, hurrying to a lecture, he slipped on an icy pavement in an underground passage, shattering both legs. The fractures were complex, healing slowly and painfully, though the last few weeks showed improvement.
Caleb hoped for discharge soon, yet anxiety gnawed at him: his flat lacked a lift or ramps, and a wheelchair would remain his only means of getting around for a long while.
One afternoon, Dr. Roman Abramovich, a trauma surgeon, entered his ward. After inspecting the Xrays, he declared:
Well, Mr. Carter, good news: your bones are finally mending as they should. In a few weeks youll be on crutches. Staying here any longer is pointless; youll continue treatment as an outpatient at the clinic. A discharge paper will be ready in about an hour. Someone will meet you?
Caleb gave a silent nod.
Excellent. Ill summon Margaret; shell help you pack. Stay healthy, and try not to end up here again.
Ill try,
The doctor winked cheerfully and left. Calebs thoughts tangled about his next steps until Mrs. Hargreaves interrupted.
Why are you still sitting? Youre being discharged,she said, handing him a backpack tucked under the bed. Get moving. Nurse Nina Petrovna will change your linens.
He packed his few belongings, feeling the nurses stare linger on him.
Why did you lie to the doctor?she asked, tilting her head.
What do you mean?Calebs face turned puzzled.
Dont play the fool, Caleb. I know no one will come for you. How will you get home?
Ill manage,he muttered.
You wont be walking for at least half a month. How do you plan to survive?
Ill figure it out; Im not a child.
Suddenly she sat on the edge of the bed, leaning close.
Caleb, it may not be my business, but with injuries like yours youll need help. You cant do this alone. Dont take it the wrong way, Im being honest,she said softly.
Ill manage on my own.
You wont. Ive been in nursing for years. What are you arguing about, boy?
Even so, why are you telling me this?
Because youre staying with me for now. I live far out of town, but my front step is just two steps away from a spare room. Once youre on your feet you can go home. Im a widow; no children, no one else.
Caleb stared, stunned. Living with a stranger felt odd, yet he had long stopped hoping anyone else would help.
Why are you silent?she pressed, frowning.
Its awkward, I guess
Stop pretending, Caleb. Its uncomfortable to stay in a wheelchair alone in a house without a lift or ramp. So, are you coming to my place?
He hesitated. The idea of moving into someones home was unsettling, but his legs were still weak, and Mrs. Hargreaves didnt seem entirely foreign.
Now he realized how she had cared for him all this timereminding him to close the window, urging him to eat cheese for calcium, chuckling at his jokes, checking his temperature. She was the only person in the whole world willing to help.
Ill agree,he finally said, but I have no money the scholarship wont arrive soon.
Mrs. Hargreaves, hands placed on her hips, gave him a puzzled look, then scowled and said,
Caleb, are you out of your mind? You think Im offering you a roof for cash? Pitiful, thats all.
I was justCaleb began, cutting himself off, apologising for any offence.
Im not offended. Lets take you to the ward where you can sit for a while,she commanded, my shift ends soon and well go.
Mrs. Hargreaves lived in a tidy cottage with narrow windows. Inside were two snug rooms; one became Calebs.
The first days he was shy, rarely leaving his room, careful not to burden his hostess. Noticing this, the elderly nurse said plainly:
Stop being shy. Ask for what you need; youre not a guest.
In truth, Caleb loved the place: snowdrifts against the windows, the crackle of firewood in the stove, the smell of hearty stewit all reminded him of his own lost home and a distant, happy childhood.
Days passed. The wheelchair stayed in the corner, later replaced by crutches. The time came to return to the city.
After another clinic visit, Caleb, a little limping, walked beside Mrs. Hargreaves, sharing his plans:
I need to sit exams, catch up on credits. So much time lost, a nightmare. I dont want to go back to the college.
Take what you need,she replied, your technical college wont vanish. Start moving now, as the doctor advised reduce the load on your legs!
Over the weeks their bond deepened. Caleb found himself unwilling to leave the cosy cottage or the endlessly kind woman who had become a second mother to the orphan. He lacked the courage to admit it, even to himself.
The next morning, while gathering his things, he searched for his phone charger and froze. At the doorway stood Mrs. Hargreaves, tears streaming down her cheeks. Impulsively, Caleb stepped forward and embraced her tightly.
Will you stay, Caleb?she whispered through sobs, what will I do without you?
And he stayed.
Years later, at Calebs wedding, Mrs. Hargreaves took a place of honour at the head table, a motherinlaw to the groom. A year after that, she cradled her greatgranddaughter in a maternity ward, naming the child after herself.
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