Quintessence by Laura Chilibeck
~3400 words, 17 minutes reading time
Issue 1 (Winter, February 2023)
Family members, carrying holographic flowers and crystal teardrops, pour into the hospital room. Their outfits are vibrant, multicoloured like aviation light signals at an interstellar spaceport. When we were first admitted, I brought a new game, poster or toy every few days, but as his illness progressed and more monitors were brought in we quickly ran out of room. Now, I barely remember to change my clothes let alone leave the hospital. I swallow past the lump in my throat and clutch my son’s jaundiced hand tighter.
They aren’t here for us.
The matriarch in the other bed has only been here for three days. She never woke, and these are her last few hours. She has an unusually large family; They’ve come to witness the last of her life.
Whispers float past the hazy contamination fields that separate the hospital beds. “Do you think she’ll share a memory of mom as a baby?” The young child’s voice is full of energy, the way Dusan’s used to be.
“Well, your Baba Orenda had three children and people can only share one moment. I think she might surprise us with something from her life that was special to her, that she’d want us all to enjoy,”explains a man with a melodic voice.
A tingle runs along my skin—the older woman is dying. She’s choosing to share her quintessence with me. It seems that most people are eager to share joyful memories with everyone they can reach, spreading love as they go. Gentle as a breeze, her thoughts float into my mind like a daydream.
In the memory Orenda is sharing, she’s youthful and vibrant, possibly younger than my thirty years, with wavy copper hair. She steps onto a wooden stage into a single bright light and before her, the room is dark and nearly silent. She sucks in a lungful of air and sings the perfect first note of a familiar song. I shut my eyes and, in my mind, I’m the singer. Lavender smoke wafts around the stage, and the black gems on my dress catch the spotlight and glitter like stars as the vibration of the drum and guitar ring through my body.
Applause erupts the moment the performance ends. Exhilaration shivers through my limbs, and tears line my eyes from the pride spilling out of my heart. Above it all is pure joy. It’s too intense. I open my eyes, shaking my head to clear it. My chest tightens and tears stream down my face. Memories at the end of life are a gift, but it’s not enough when the person dying is only six years old.
Dusan’s little fingers are half the length of my own; his hand sits loosely in mine. The illness has made his hair thin, and he won’t let me cut it–it’s sparse and matted around his face. His dark lashes flutter and I hold my breath. Last night he was squirming in pain. I don’t want to experience that again. He sighs and I inhale.
The people on the other side of the screen murmur, hug, cry, and laugh. I catch snippets of comments; some of them are paying respects via hologram and missed the experience of Orenda’s quintessence and now want to know what it was. Sometimes a child peeks past the barrier but is quickly whisked back to their family. They’ve dimmed the lights on their side to an evening glow, where ours blends to a soft blue––a reflection of the sky outside. With so many people moving around us, I try to keep our space separate and our own. Very few things interest me past Dusan’s bed.
The flow of patients and visitors have become a background hum to our stay here. Lives end, people grieve but keep moving forward. Dusan and I remain.
•••••••••••••
Sharp light pierces my eyes, and I blink. It’s coming from beyond the window. I leave the shading transparent to get as much natural sunlight as possible, because Dusan misses going outside. Leaning against the wall, and peering around the five story parkade full of hover cars, the memory trees stand, now in full bloom. The crystal teardrops hanging from the branches shine as bright as the sun. The trees are a constant reminder of life and death, easy for anyone to pick from and bring a piece inside to a loved one. I tap the switch and the window tint grows three shades darker. When Dusan and I arrived, the trees were covered in onyx buds. That was two months ago.
Hugging my arms to my chest, I watch Dusan from beside the window. My stomach twists in knots and I tighten my jaw. Somehow it feels both like yesterday and years away. Work has always been my passion, and I’d been so focused on writing the code for the launch of our new product I hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in Dusan. I spent hours away or at my desk, and didn’t think twice about his disinterest in his meals. I only realized the hue of his pale skin had changed when the whites of his eyes became a terrible shade of yellow.
Alarms ring and lights beep on his monitor. I dart to his side, clasp his frail fingers in mine. The lights above us brighten until every bit of shadow disappears. Two nurses rush in. The tall sturdy nurse with rich umber skin and curly magenta hair commands the sound off. She flips her visor down, clasps Dusan’s wrist monitor and begins to scan. Sweat prickles on my forehead and under my arms. Stats run along the clear plastic while she scowls at it.
The younger nurse with copper hued complexion and dramatic teal eyes opens a tray that clanks as he sets it down on the bedside table.
Dusan’s chest barely rises, his body is limp. I bite my lip, ball my hands into fists and glare at his small form, willing him to live.
“Five cc’s of Elphelarine.” The woman holds out her hand and within seconds the young man has the needle prepped.
She clasps Dusan’s jaundiced arm and inserts the needle.
Time has no meaning. My vision has narrowed to Dusan. Breathe, take a breath and open your––
Dusan sucks in a lung full of air, grunts and squints around the room.
“Did you feel me Mom? I almost had my powers.” A half smile pulls at the corner of his dry lips. There’s a spark of joy in his dull hazel eyes. He sits up, revealing his protruding abdomen.
I swallow and smile. “Not yet, sweetie.”
He must have slept through the old woman’s quintessence. He thinks that the ability to share memories at the end of life is like a superpower. Death––it looms, always present, a shadow in my mind. I shove the thought aside and lean forward to give him a kiss.
“Mom.” He rolls his eyes and pulls away.
My chest tightens. I bite the inside of my cheek to try to stop the tears from falling and clear my throat. I know he’s being himself, being a kid, but all I want to do every day is hold him tight and tell him I love him. Smothering won’t help or change anything, and he deserves as normal a life that I can give him right now. I straighten the bed and avoid eye contact with the nurses.
“Since you’re awake,” says the nurse with bright pink hair, “would you like something to eat?” Dusan’s vital signs run in cyan and red lights along her clear visor. Dr. Santi told me it can scan to the micro level. I’ve tried to understand when the doctors, nurses and technicians explain the medical technology and Dusan’s disease, but it’s all over my head, and my thoughts lead me back to my wasted hours at work when I could have been with him instead.
“Root beer float?” he asks, batting his eyelashes before he starts coughing. I clasp my hands and try to keep my face neutral.
“Nice try, kid.” The nurse with visor twists her wrist, a ruby red hologram pops up listing times and appointments. She flips it closed again, pulls out her screen, and taps it a few times before sliding it back into her pouch. “How about a protein loaf and a green smoothie?” She checks his tube, monitor, and temperature, before gesturing at the ceiling to dim the lights to a soft evening glow, then gives me a brisk nod and leaves.
The younger nurse whispers, “I’ll see if I can find you a pudding, okay?” He winks at Dusan and gently squeezes my shoulder. My eyes tear up.
“He’s nice. I bet people share their superpower memories with him all the time,” Dusan says between coughs.
“Most people know not to overwhelm the staff with their quintessence.” I hand him a tissue. “But you’re right, he’s very thoughtful.”
Dusan adjusts himself in bed, wincing with every movement. “Mom, last night I had the best dream.”
I tuck the microfiber blankets around his legs, “What happened in it?”
“I was climbing huge rocks and when I looked down, there were clouds and waterfalls and I was floating! Just like in my movie.” He stops and swallows a few times, “So Mom, when I’m better, can we go visit the Floating Islands?”
I lick my lips. Only Off-Worlders can afford to go there, but I will promise him a trip to the Three Moons if it gives him hope and something to live for. “Of course.” I force a smile.
“YES!” He pumps his fist in the air like someone who has just won a sports game. Then he begins to cough, huge body-wracking coughs. When they subside he lays back in bed, his face more pale than before the shimmer of joy in his eyes gone, replaced by reality. “I’m bored. Can I play my game?” He lets out a rattling sigh.
I nod and hand him the console before joining him on the small bed. He smells like salt and medicine. I miss the hint of grass on him, my little explorer, from when he used to spend hours outside. I whisper, “I love you, Dusan.” I want to pull him close but instead I lean back and watch him play.
•••••••••••••
“Ms. Metz?”
I jolt upright and wipe the drool from my lips. Dr. Santi’s midnight eyes search mine. Despite asking her to call me Wendy, she insists on formalities. I can’t complain, not when she's at the top of her field. We’re lucky to have her trying to help us.
Dusan has headphones on and is staring up at the ceiling where a projection plays his favourite movie:, The Adventures of Blake Zumbria and the Floating Islands. I didn’t know I’d fallen into such a deep sleep. I get out of bed, giving her my full attention.
“Yes, Dr Santi. Sorry, I didn’t know you were visiting today.” I run a hand over my short hair, hoping it’s not a tangled disaster and twist my wrist. A small indigo hologram pops up letting me know it’s the fourteenth hour of thirty-second day of the fourth month—no scheduled appointments. “I lost track of time.”
“I have good news.” Dr. Santi hands me her circular screen.
It’s an image of a liver with a long list of blood types below the name of Dusan’s disease and other medical terms that I’m not familiar with.
“Using samples from you and Dusan, we synthesized a new liver and enough new blood for an entire transplant.” She tucks a stray hair behind her ear causing her onyx earrings to swing. “This would be the first time we’ve tried something like this for Vobora disease. It would be a medical breakthrough.” Her eyes shine with excitement. I know part of the appeal of our case is because Dr. Santi wants to advance medicine and knows we’ll try anything. “If I’m right, this will save his life.” She takes the screen back, swiping it closed before sliding it into her long green vest. “We can do the surgery this afternoon.” Her eyes are full of hope and in the corner of her mouth she’s holding back a grin.
“This afternoon?” I’m struggling to focus on her and the words she just spoke. “I have to sit down.”
Her firm hands grasp my arms and she leads me to a chair. “Is that better?” she asks.
He could live. The minuscule seed of hope wedged between my ribs for the past two months blossoms.
Dr. Santi’s warm hand rests on my back, and I meet her gaze. “I heard there was another quintessence in the adjoining room this morning. I know they are gifts, but it can become overwhelming. I’m sure you noticed most of the staff wearing these.” She flicks her earrings. “They help disrupt the telepathic connection and make it easy for us to choose to participate or not. If it would help, I can give you a pair.”
I shake my head. “Dusan calls quintessence a superpower.” My voice catches in my throat. “I don’t want to risk missing…” I bite my lip and take a breath. “What would a six-year-old even choose?” She’s probably experienced thousands of quintessence, but this is my child.
She fixes me with an intense gaze. “You might not have to experience his for years. It'll be hard but, if the surgery goes well, and his body accepts it… then you and Dusan will have a chance at many more joyful moments together. A full life to choose a quintessence from.”
It’s easy to get wrapped up in her optimism and excitement, but I have to do what’s right for him. “What are the risks?” My throat tightens and fear nibbles at the edges of my mind.
“Blood clots, infection, and if he rejects the new liver there is no going back.” Her tone is matter of fact, almost dismissive. I have a hard time telling if she’s cavalier or confident. I shift my gaze from her intelligent eyes to Dusan’s small sallow figure struggling to breathe in bed. He’s absorbed in the movie, but it’s a shadow of what he was like before, climbing rocks pretending he was the hero of his own adventure.
“I give you my permission.” It’s what Dusan would want, and the only chance for him to have a full life.
•••••••••••••
I remember this place.
I was here sixty years ago, but now Dusan’s hand engulfs my wrinkled one. The tube attached to my arm doesn’t bother me anymore; the medication flowing through it allows me to forget the pain. The hospital is different from when Dusan was ill. The walls once glowed the same shade as the sky, but now they glitch and the edges near the ceiling have a constant black line. Everything ages.
The warm fingers holding my hand tighten and I refocus on Dusan. There are lines near his bright hazel eyes. I still glimpse a hint of yellow around the whites of his eyes, but when I blink it’s gone, a nightmare from our past playing tricks on me. The scruff on his face has bits of gray mixed with the brown. No matter his age, he’ll always be my sweet Dusan.
“I was an idiot to think it was easy for you on this side of the bed.” He squeezes my hand again. He pulls his lips together like he did when he was little, trying not to cry.
“You were six, Dusan.” Talking is hard. I suck in a slow breath. I’ve had a lifetime of adventures since he was a sick child. Three different careers, including running my own business. More than a few partners along the way and joy in my life, things I could never have dreamed of while exhausted, stressed and depressed when he was ill. Dr. Santi won an award for her work with us, and I send her a card every year on the anniversary of his surgery.
The machine next to me hums, the rhythm slow, steady and soothing. Even the beeping and chatter from the hallway is a distant din when I focus on Dusan. Crystal teardrops hang near the window creating light that dances around the room. If the trees still grow near the parkade, they must be twice as thick now.
I let out a long slow breath. “It looks like I’ll be getting those superpowers first.” I force my dry lips into a smile.
He returns it but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t want you to go, Mom.” His voice catches on the last word and the muscle in his neck is strained.
Tears run down my cheeks. The medication numbs my physical pain, but seeing him so distraught breaks my heart. I shut my eyes, because it’s hard to keep them open.
“We had a lot of time.” I try to swallow, but my tongue is thick and heavy. I take a long inhale and breathe out. “Floating Islands.”
Once Dusan recovered, I chose to cut my hours and work part-time. It took longer to save money, but it gave me more moments with him. We went to the Floating Islands for his twentieth birthday, and they were as magical as we both hoped.
The bed sinks as he sits next to me and lays his head on my chest. I hold him in my arms before I tire and let them drop. His breathing is slow and steady, allowing me to anchor my presence on him––on us. My body is heavy, gravity holds me to the bed making moving next to impossible. I expand my chest and suck in air, but it’s not enough. Nothing feels right anymore.
At last, I let go.
Dusan is warm like sunshine. The scent of grass and salt surrounds him and we’re back in our living room. The tall windows let in the afternoon light. Outside speeders zip by, our small window box of orange and yellow blossoms bathe in the sun, oblivious to the noise. The multitude of ceiling fans whirl creating consistent air flow, keeping our small apartment at a comfortable temperature, although Dusan would love it if I allowed it to get hot and humid like he thinks it will be at the Floating Islands.
In my vision Dusan sits at the narrow table, but I know that he’s right beside me, sharing this moment now. He’s seven years old, and he’s healthy. His hair is long and wavy, the freckles on his nose are bright, and there’s a hint of sunburn colouring his pale cheeks. Warmth radiates through me, knowing he’s going to have a long life.
The two glasses of homemade root beer floats chill my palms. I put extra ice cream in his and the foam is running over the edge and along my thumb. He sets his playing cards face up and takes his from me. I sit next to him and wait until he takes the first long sip from the striped biodegradable straw. “We should drink these when we go to the Floating Islands, Mom!” His smile reveals a hint of a dimple in his left cheek and reminds me of my grandfather.
“Definitely.” I nod and take a slow sip of my own cold drink. It’s too sweet, like liquid candy, but I’m happy to enjoy it with him. My heart is light. He’s living and I’m here, sharing this moment.
The memory slowly fades. I can’t feel Dusan in my thoughts anymore.
I’m separate from the body I wore for so many years. Gravity no longer holds me down. I’m weightless, but still me. Nothing looks the same and yet it is. Instead of human forms there are bodies of light, and around them are shadows of things I could once touch and feel.
Dusan is a warm glow. “I love you, Mom,” he whispers.
Words aren’t the same anymore. Instead, I send him the feeling of my love for him and the world brightens.