The Last Will of the Youngest Son

The memory of that day still clings to me like the faint scent of hospital antiseptic. I stared fixedly at the sign that read Operating Theatre. The letters seemed to blur after hours of waiting, my pulse hammering in my ears. In my hands I twisted the little red plastic tractor that had become my son Jacks most treasured toy. Jack, then only four, had first begged for a blue tractor like the one in the cartoon, but over time he grew attached to the one his father had given him, its bright bucket a reminder of a simple, loving gesture.

At last a mans silhouette appeared behind the fogged glass, the doors swung open, and a weary doctor entered the corridor. I sprang to my feet and rushed to him.

Doctor, how did it go? Hows Jack? I blurted.

The doctor lowered his head, his mask slipping off.

Mrs. Eleanor, Im so sorry We did everything we could

***

That night I lay curled on Jacks small bed, the pillow still holding the faint aroma of his skin. On the mirror opposite, the smudge of his tiny handstill coated in cookie crumbsremained untouched. I was grateful I hadnt wiped it away; now it would forever bear the imprint of a hand that would never again soil the glass or rest its weary head upon a pillow.

A single salty tear slipped down the weatherworn side of my cheek. Grief scorched my heart from within. It was a healthy heart that had been taken from Jack, something my older son Thomas still possessed. At eighteen, he was studying at university and beginning to stand on his own. Jack his brief, bright life turned into an unexpected sorrow. All the scans had shown everything was fine; only moments before the birth had doctors unearthed a complex heart defect. During the radical correction something went terribly wrong, and Jack was gone.

***

I fell asleep, restless and haunted, and was once more transported to a sunlit meadow speckled with fragrant, colourful flowers of every shape and size. In the distance, Jack stood, his smile unchanged, wearing his favourite shirt covered in tiny cars. He clutched a large bouquet of daisies.

Jack! My boy! I cried, but he seemed lost in the petals, turning them over thoughtfully.

I ran through the blooming field, arms outstretched for an embrace. No matter how fast I ran, Jack never drew nearer; instead he drifted farther away. Desperation rose in my throat, my hands reaching for something that remained just out of reach. Then, with a gentle smile, Jack lifted his eyes to me, faded into the air, and only a drifting cloud of daisies descended to the ground.

When the petals settled, they formed, in neat white letters on the green grass, an address I could not yet decipher.

***

I woke to the shrill ring of the telephone. The screen displayed Thomass name.

Yes, love? I answered hoarsely.

Mum, Im coming over today. Can you make something for me? he said, his voice bright as ever.

A tired smile forced its way onto my face. It had been nearly three months since Jacks death, yet Thomas was still here, a reminder that life must go on. I managed a shaky, Of course, dear. What would you like? Pancakes?

Great, Mum! Im on the bus now, almost there! he replied.

Thomas tried to visit every weekend, hoping to lift both my husband Edwards and my own spirits. He understood the ache that settled in our chests whenever he thought of his little brother. But life moved onward, and we had to bear the grief together, as a family should.

I rose, albeit with effort, and shuffled to the kitchen. The fridge was empty of milk. Edward was at the table, soldering a tiny circuit board onto his laptop. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine.

Do you need anything? Want to pop to the shop? he asked.

Thomas called. Hell be here soon and wants pancakes, I said calmly. Were out of milk, but Ill fetch some myself and clear my head a bit.

Edward raised his glasses in surprise. Youre getting your bearings again, he thought.

I dressed slowly, stepping out into a gentle spring breeze that brushed my cheeks. Birds sang, and the trees were just beginning to dress themselves in fresh, tender leaves. I sighed, Ah, Jack, you never saw my fifth spring. I shook my head to banish the gloom and headed toward the corner shop.

***

From the shelves I gathered milk, Thomass favourite sweets, a loaf of bread, and a chicken. As I turned toward the till, a familiar laugh floated from a parallel aisle. My chest tightened; that was Jacks laugh. I darted toward the sound, only to glimpse a small childs figurine disappearing behind the stacks. Knowing it could not be real, I followed the figure, knocking over a cardboard promotional sign in the process.

When I bent to pick it up, my eyes widened: the sign, on a stark white background, bore the same red lettering of the address from my dream.

Jack, what are you trying to tell me? I whispered.

I returned home, the notion that this was no coincidence weighing on me. Jack seemed intent on delivering a message, but what? I would have to look up the address later. Not now, though. Thomas would be arriving soon, and I needed to greet him properly and keep my composure.

***

That evening passed unusually warm and pleasant. I even found the strength to smile while listening to Thomass university stories. He devoured the homecooked meal with gusto, and Edward and I watched him with fondness: he was our only child now, the legacy of a love that had endured loss. Eventually we all retired to our rooms, and night settled in fully.

Exhausted from the days events, I slipped into a deep sleep. In the dead of night I heard a muffled humming from the bathroom. My heart leapt; I could never mistake Jacks voice. He was singing his favourite tune from the cartoon about a blue tractor

I scrambled out of bed, moving as quietly as possible toward the bathroom, hoping not to scare him away. I opened the door, only to find the room empty. Tears streamed down my face.

What was I hoping for? That Jack would be in the bathroom? Hes gone! Its all my sick imagination! I scolded myself.

I turned on the tap, washing my face to clear the fog of grief. No more torment, for Thomass sake and Edwards. I stared at my reflection: pale, with dark circles, a face that seemed to have aged a decade. In a flash of anger I lathered my hands with soap and scrubbed the mirror, not really knowing why. The suds ran down, somehow forming the address letters. A cold draft brushed my neck, and a tiny childs voice whispered, Im waiting for you, Mum

***

Cant sleep? Edward asked, stirring awake from the glow of his laptop.

I sat in a chair, laptop on my knees, eyes fixed on the screen.

Edward, come here If you feel what I feel, then none of this is madness I said.

He rose, his heart thudding, and his gaze fell on a photo of a small boy, about four, with the name Oliver written beneath. Olivers parents had died in a crash three years earlier; hed been raised by his grandmother until she passed, then taken into a childrens home.

The address has been following me these days, I explained, Its something Jack is trying to give me

I recounted the dream, the shop incident, and the bathroom song. After a moments thought, Edward said firmly, Eleanor, were going

***

Mrs. Margaret Hughes, the matron of the childrens home, led Edward and me down a bright, long corridor, constantly turning back to explain. When Oliver arrived, we thought it would be temporary. Hes bright, welladjusted, though his past is tragic. Hes been through three attempted adoptions, but each time he shut himself off. He says his mother and father will return, and lately hes spoken of an imaginary friend he calls Jack, who told him his parents would soon come.

Edward and I exchanged glances. Could our departed son be reaching out to help a lonely orphan?

Take a look, meet him, Mrs. Hughes said, opening a playroom door.

Oliver was there, thin and shy, building a tower of blocks while humming Jacks tune. Suddenly he dropped the blocks, leapt up, and shouted, Mum! Dad! I knew youd come!

***

Mrs. Hughess swift action in the adoption process was a blessing. She was moved when she learned of Jacks death, and within a month Edward, Thomas, and I came to collect Oliver. As we neared the exit, Oliver clutched my hand, then pulled away, eyes wide.

Mum, wait! he cried, looking down the corridor. Jacks there, he wants to say goodbye!

My heart ached once more, but this time the sorrow was tinged with a gentle light. I understood that nothing could change, yet we must carry onfor Oliver, for Edward, for Thomas. I would never forget Jack; his love would always remain. Now I had another little soul to protect, and that gave me strength.

Oliver raced to the far end of the corridor, paused by a window, turned, and ran back to ushis new parents and his older brother. Behind the window, a sleek white dove rose from a steel railing, circled the building, hovered above Oliver, Eleanor, Edward, and Thomas, then ascended into the clouds, disappearing into the horizon.