Constellations

Constellations Maya was sitting still on the cold concrete, her legs crossed and fingers intertwined over one knee. She leaned forward and watched the couples walking into the ER.

“Look! There’s gonna be a new baby!” She said as she pointed to a panicked couple rushing into the door. The father was still in his bright red Christmas sweater.

“Quite the Christmas present,” I whispered.

“Mhm,” She chimed.

“Can you imagine, that could be us one Christmas.”

Then she turned her amber eyes on me. “Avery,” she whispered sadly.

I was with Maya too long not to pick that one apart. She was tense. Her smile taut and there was a slight tremor in her cheek. When her eyes fell on me again, they were the same as the doctors when they diagnosed her. She had Cystic Fibrosis. They told her late diagnoses were rare; I suppose Maya had always been lucky in the worst way. I remembered how the words left their mouths like moths leaving a cocoon, how their eyes filled with pity. I was a liability to her, something that she was leaving behind. That last month she pretended to be strong for me. Or maybe she was strong, and I was the weak one.

“When I die, I want to become a constellation,” she said.

I knew she didn’t want me to tell her that she would live, so I replied: “When you die, I’ll climb the highest mountain in the world and take a paintbrush to the sky and paint your portrait in the stars. I’ll use the brightest white ink I can find so that your eyes shine brighter than the North Star.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied.

I think the reason we went out to the roof every night was that I think, somewhere in her soul, Maya was still a kid that believed people turned into stars when their hearts stopped.

See, Maya was no stranger to death. She’d held a cold body in her arms before and breathed in the last exhale of someone who was dying. Her brother died in the creek by her house, and nobody could’ve gotten there in time. She watched the light leave his eyes and swore to that day that it looked exactly like a star burning out in the sky behind the city smog and street lights.

Maya brought me back to reality. “Avery. You’ll be okay without me. Promise me you’ll keep living life as if I was still here.”

It was as if she could read my mind. She was wrong, though, and her request was honestly quite selfish. Without her, it would be like I was always missing a piece of myself. I couldn’t tell her that. I wouldn’t. Maya was suffering enough without the knowledge of my own suffering. So I replied, “Promise.”

It was as if my words gave her the permission she needed.

About an hour later, Maya bent over as sharply as if she’d been punched in the stomach, and drops of blood spattered her lap and knees and the dust at our feet. I watched helplessly as the fit tore the dying woman apart. I shouted for help and lifted her trembling body. I carried her off the roof and into the hospital.

Gloved hands took her away from me.

Their shouts silent. I could see their lips moving, but I couldn’t hear their words.

Until one doctor solemnly said, “Time of death, 11:36 PM.”

I stumbled out of the hospital.

She was gone.

Hands reached for me.

She was gone.

I pushed them away.

She was gone.

I sobbed.

She was gone.

I screamed.

I looked up to the sky, but there was no new constellation.