Room 203C , livre ebook

Outskirts Press - David Goldwasser

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

185 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Room 203C is a tiny cubicle built inside a larger hospital room. Originally designed as an isolation space for children with contagious diseases, it becomes a setting where we meet some of the most memorable characters found in life's ever-changing kaleidoscope. What happens in this space will touch your heart forever. It is here, in 203C that you will encounter Max, a young boy stricken with polio and Elsa, a ten year old with cancer. Max learns to deal with the obstacles life throws his way with amazing courage and grace. Elsa must defeat a cancer that in 1960, has no real cure. The converging narratives of a Jewish boy and a Hispanic girl, will remind us how society's different walks of life are united by our humanity and our ability to share hope and strength when confronted by life's often unfair challenges. From the 1930's through today, Room 203C will take you on journey that is alternately heartbreaking and inspiring.

Sujets

Historical

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	27 octobre 2017
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781478792871
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Room 203C
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2018 David Goldwasser
v4.0

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.

This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Outskirts Press, Inc.
http://www.outskirtspress.com

ISBN: 978-1-4787-9287-1

Cover Photo © 2018 thinkstockphotos.com. All rights reserved - used with permission.

Outskirts Press and the “OP” logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

“ Just a little help gives you a little hope and a little hope can build a dream...”

PROLOGUE
The old man shuffled slowly across the tiled floor, his keys jangling against the leg of his green pants, the noise harsh in the quiet space. Lowering his lanky frame, he stooped under the yellow tape and stared at the warning signs. They were posted everywhere; a reminder that the floor was under construction. There were boxes of tiles, piles of wood, brick and metal scattered in all directions.
Shrugging, he pushed his cleaning cart ahead of him as he had done so many times before. It was strange to see the whole floor empty of beds, machines, medical staff and of course, children. Stopping at a door he reached into his pocket, slipped on his eyeglasses and peered through the small window set into the wood above the room number. Staring through the misted glass he reached for the one key in his collection that fit the lock on the faded wood entryway.
His fingers found the strangely shaped key and inserted it into the lock. The key turned easily and he grasped the knob in one hand and pushed the door open. The light went on automatically once his body passed the sensor near the door. It was the only modern convenience in the small room.
The old man gazed around the small space as though seeing it for the first time. In the center of the room sat a child sized table with two chairs that he had built out of maple. He remembered the nights he spent, sanding and staining the wood until it was smooth to the touch. His eyes flickered to the cabinets and drawers he had built into the natural recesses of the walls.
He walked to the nearest cabinet marked “Games for long days” and slid open the top drawer. His wrinkled face shifted as he smiled at the collection of games, the cardboard covers worn with age and use. He closed his eyes, remembering himself standing in Mendelson’s Toy Shop.

Mr. Mendelson was walking toward him, smiling, but Max could see the man’s eyes focused on his twisted left hand. Mendelson stopped and looked at the collection of boxed games Max held in his good hand.
“Max, what brings you here? What’s with the pile of games?” Mendelson slipped his glasses from his eyes to his forehead and held his hand out for the board games.
“Hello, Mr. Mendelson,” Max replied handing over the boxes and moving his twisted left hand into the back pocket of his uniform pants. It was a motion he had repeated thousands of times in response to staring eyes.
“I am buying games for the children in the hospital,” Max continued as he reached into his front pocket for the money he kept folded in there.
“What, are you their parents all of a sudden? You are a garbage man in that place, Max,” Mendelson said as he walked to the counter, placed the games down and began to ring the cost into the register.
“I am part of the maintenance staff, Mr. Mendelson. I am not a garbage man,” Max replied softly.
“Maintenance, schmaintenance, Max.You have no business...
“...Here is twenty dollars, Mr. Mendelson,” Max said quickly, interrupting the lecture. He laid the bill on the counter and scooped up the games with his twisted hand. “I don’t need the change,” and he spun around leaving the storekeeper muttering.
Max opened his eyes and he was back in room 203C, his hands resting on the top game in the open drawer. With a sigh, he turned and crossed the small space and sat heavily into one of the small chairs.
“So hard to catch my breath these days,” Max said aloud and his hand, once so misshapen, reached for the names carved into the table top. All these children, he thought as his fingers felt for the grooves in the wood that spelled their names. They all had a story. I wonder if...
His thought never completed, a sharp pain rocked his chest and Max slumped forward and fell from the tiny chair.
It was many hours later that the construction crew found him in the small room. The men tried to revive him but soon realized he was dead. Phone calls were made and police reports filled out in triplicate. Max was placed in an ambulance and taken to the city morgue. There was no next of kin, no family to notify, only a phone number which went to an answering machine.
Scheduled for an unmarked grave at Potter’s Field, Max was placed in a city hearse five days after his death. The driver signed the necessary paperwork and got into the vehicle. He had just put the big car in gear when two police cars and a large black SUV with lights flashing pulled up in front of him.
The driver got out and walked towards the big black car when one of the police officers approached and told him to get back in his vehicle and follow the police escort.
“Who is this guy?” The driver stammered out. “I thought he was an unknown stiff headed for Potters.”
The officer shrugged and said, “Some friend of the Mayor is all I know. Just get in the car and keep up with us.”
The driver nodded and went back into the hearse. He glanced at the paperwork again and scratched his head. “Maxwell Strengher, no known family,” he said to himself as he drove behind the police car. “Who the heck was he?”

1
1944
T he wheels of the stretcher bounced along the pitted sidewalk as the ambulance workers pushed it swiftly towards the hospital doors. The small boy on the stretcher tried to see where he was but he could not sit up; every movement hurt. He could hear his mother telling his brother Aaron to run to the shul and get his father.
Large wooden doors swung open and an antiseptic smell filled the boy’s nose. Figures in white passed by his eyes as he wheeled further into the building. Finally, they stopped moving and the men who had been pushing him lifted him from the narrow stretcher to a small bed. Bright light filled his eyes when he stared up so he turned his head to the side and looked for his mother.
She was talking to a woman all dressed in white; white shoes, white stockings, white dress, even a white cap on her head. He heard his mother say his name and his birthday. Someone began to remove his pajamas and stuck a thermometer in his mouth. There was a sharp pinch in his arm and so many voices all talking at the same time. The boy began to cry and the whole room began to spin. He heard someone saying, “Shh...just sleep now.” Then everything went dark.

The boy woke up in a small room all by himself. He tried to sit up but his legs would not move. He reached for them but only his right hand touched his legs, his left hand didn’t respond. He tried to move his hands out from under the stiff white sheet but only his right hand obeyed. Pulling down the sheet with his one hand he saw his left hand was twisted in a strange position. No matter how he tried the boy could not get it to straighten out. Pain began to shoot up and down his legs and he started to cry.
The door to the small room opened and a woman in a white uniform came bustling in.
“There, there, young man,” she said. “No need for tears. Your mother and father are meeting with Dr. Adams and they will be here shortly. I am Nurse Connors and I will be taking care of you. Let’s get you ready for the doctor, shall we?”
The nurse began to remove the boys dressing gown and helped him to urinate into a bottle. She washed him gently and replaced his gown. Glancing at his legs and his twisted hand she made a tutting sound and placed his head back on a pillow.
“What shall we call you young man? Do you have a name?”
She reached for his chart which hung on the wall above the boys head. After reading silently for a few moments, the nurse pursed her lips and stared at the boy.
“So you are, Maxwell and you are six years old,” said the nurse.
The boy nodded solemnly and then stared off behind the nurse. His eyes widened as he saw that outside of his little room was a much bigger room, bigger than his father’s shul. The room was filled with rows and rows of children all encased in metal boxes that were connected to machines that made strange noises.
“I believe I will call you, ‘Max.’ That is a much easier name, don’t you think?” The nurse asked as she stepped closer to the bed and blocked his view of the ward beyond the door.
“Why are all those boys and girls in those metal things?” Max asked.
“They are getting well, Max, just like you will. Don’t you want to get well?”
Max nodded. “My legs hurt and my hand is broke and twisty,” he said.
“That’s all to be expected, Max. Dr. Adams will explain it all to you when he comes by,” the nurse replied as she moved toward the door.
“Why am I by myself in this room?” Max asked.
The nurse paused at the door, “Your father, the Rabbi, wants you to have special food from home. No hospital food for you Max,