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Prolific Writer
Join Date: Nov 2004
Location: USA
Posts: 227
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The Gift of Life
Dear Charlotte,
Because Lisa has become much worse, she will no longer be your pen pal. I am very sorry, as is Lisa. The poor girl’s disease is causing her much pain. As the days pass by, she becomes weaker and weaker. It is very likely that she will pass away in a few weeks. We will be lucky if Lisa makes it to Christmas.
However, Lisa could take a new injection. Lisa’s parents, I’m sorry to say, cannot afford it, which costs quarter of a million dollars. The expensiveness is because the injection is made from an extremely rare flower hidden deep in the vast rainforests of South America. Others have Lisa’s same disease and have enough money. They get the cure. Unfortunately, that is how things work in this world.
Mrs. Leslie Ferham
Orwale Hospital Nurse
P.S. If you wish to receive a new pen pal, please call (840) 558-3294.
Charlotte Wright read the letter in silence. And then she read it over again and again. Her anger grew, sizzled, and died. The words in the letter could not be true.
Charlotte kept telling herself so, but a tiny voice in her mind told her otherwise. The voice that did not seem hers now was, and she was forced to believe what was presented to her, the truth. The awful, terrible, horrible, sad, sad, sad truth.
“Another pen pal!” shouted Charlotte furiously, a fine stream of tears running down her cheek and falling onto her lap.
Charlotte looked at her wavering image depicted in the old-fashioned mirror across from her bed. She had bright, blue eyes that were teary and swollen from crying. Charlotte’s short, pale blond hair framed her face, now red like Santa’s traditional outfit.
She was only ten years old, but caught in the grievances that she did not deserve. Gazing at herself made Charlotte sadder, which only made her madder. And the madder she was, the sadder she desired to be. She rolled in pity. Pity for herself, pity for Lisa, and pity for the other cruel happenings across the globe. The objects in Charlotte’s room were swimming before her. Everything became more intense. Her nose began running fiercely. She wiped it on her sleeve. A headache exploded from nowhere.
Charlotte had known Lisa for only four months, and yet her pain brought pain upon Charlotte. She had signed up to be pen pals with a hospitalized, poor girl from New Jersey. In her home state of Wisconsin, Charlotte had noticed a sign in her doctor’s office when she went to get a regular check-up that gave information about the program. She could have a pen pal as long as she paid for the postage.
Charlotte had found this the perfect opportunity to make a friend and better the world by cheering someone up. She couldn’t imagine how dull it would be to spend the majority of your days clinging onto wellness and time in a hospital bed. A single sheet of paper had given Lisa hope, strength, and warmth. Charlotte’s letters were like packages of food, constantly nourishing Lisa. Charlotte admired Lisa’s courage and tolerance while Lisa admired Charlotte’s charisma and intelligence. But now, their communication had gone down the drain, and worst of all, Lisa would go with it. Charlotte’s act of kindness hadn’t been enough.
The pain had ceased inflating inside her. No larger could it get. Pain had found a home in the girl. It, she decided, would not die until she did.
Charlotte smoothed her velvet, green jumper, collected herself, and paced to the living room, blinking back tears. Outstretched on the couch, laid Charlotte’s snow white, chubby cat, Marshmallow.
Upon noticing her owner’s arrival, Marshmallow sauntered over to Charlotte and rubbed against the girl’s legs. Charlotte picked up the large cat and mollycoddled her, stroking Marshmallow’s satiny fur and cuddling her. A low purr of gratitude emitted from the fluffy bundle.
Marshmallow was Charlotte’s best friend. All her life, Charlotte had attended parochial school. She only had six classmates. They did not get along very well because four of them were boys, who picked on Charlotte, and the two girls despised Charlotte for her intelligence and sensitivity. However, it did not bother her all too much. She had Marshmallow, and until now, Lisa.
Alicia Wright, Charlotte’s mother, was arranging the porcelain nativity set mounted on the coffee table while chatting hurriedly on the telephone, buckled under her chin and covered in a profusion of strawberry blond swirls of hair. Alicia was a single mom, forced to take on more than she could handle.
When Charlotte was but three years old, her father had passed away in a car crash. She couldn’t remember him at all, no matter how many times she ogled at old photographs of him, trying to bring back memories.
Especially during the holiday season, Charlotte’s mother was extra-busy, working two jobs, taking care of her daughter, and bustling over Christmas. Charlotte firmly believed that her mother loved her. She figured her mom simply didn't have much time to show it.
Charlotte approached Alicia, unexpected tears flying from her eyes. Talking, she thought, would make things better, if only a shard so.
The girl opened her mouth, words waiting to escape. Her mother’s eyes met Charlotte’s for a millisecond and instantly flashed away. Charlotte knew that her mother had noticed her state of wrath, but was trying to pretend she had not, to continue her doings. This made Charlotte most annoyed.
What kind of parent treats their child in such a manner? A single parent, Charlotte reminded herself, not giving into the possibility that her mom just did not care.
Out of indignation, Charlotte rapidly threw several jackets on her back, tied a striped scarf around her neck, put on her galoshes, and raced outside, slamming the door on her way out. Galvanized because of her bright surroundings, the girl’s eyes squinted on instinct. A powerful aroma of winter shot up her nose.
Charlotte trudged through the thick, shimmering snow down and about her neighbors’ yards until she came to a clearing encircled by bare, outstretched trees. A young deer darted away as it saw her coming. Myriad snowflakes fell upon her. The air was bitter cold and her fingers began to tingle. Gusts of harsh wind knocked into the ten-year-old, levitating her scarf and hair.
Charlotte focused on the immense, gray sky, howling and weeping. Her words slurred, Charlotte spoke what she would have told her mother, explaining every detail, including her feelings. She saw her breath, which was the only reply she received. The snow kept falling. The trees kept swaying. Not one effect had risen from Charlotte’s conversing. In her mind, the suffering of a sick, poor girl had been ignored.
After a full minute without a sound erupting form Charlotte’s throat, she said to herself, “This is crazy! Lisa’s not even dead yet. How will I act once she is?”
A strength Charlotte had never dreamed she could possess popped out of nowhere. At that moment, Charlotte decided that she would not let Lisa die. Somehow, she would cure her friend. The sobs slowly faded away. Determined, she stripped off one jacket, set it in the snow, sat atop it, and ruminated about the situation.
A complex and arduous task lay before her. How could she Charlotte, a mere ten-year-old girl, change the fate of another? The answer must be to acquire quarter of a million dollars, noted Charlotte. However, a question arose from her answer. How would she come across that much money? Of this, she did not know.
Normally, she would have thought to ask Santa Claus for the money. When Charlotte was younger, before one of her peers had so rudely told her the truth about the jolly, old fellow, she had believed him to be almost god-like. As long as she behaved well, whatever she desired would be become hers. But now that Charlotte knew her hero did not exist, there was no one she could turn to.
“If only there was a Santa Claus,” the girl whined bitterly. She laid back on her wooly, black jacket and allowed herself to be slowly enveloped by tiny snowflakes descending in ribbons.
An idea came about Charlotte’s thoughts. The lottery! A person can win massive amounts of money from entering. However, the girl very well knew that she was too young to gamble.
As quickly as an idea can be crossed off a list, another can be added. Her second idea was this: She could steal money from a wealthy person just like the legendary Robin Hood. Taking from the rich and giving to the poor. What’s wrong with that? Nothing, said a voice in her head. As long as you don’t get caught. Although Charlotte considered her intentions alright, she didn't very much like the idea of stealing or the severe consequences that could result. Besides, what do I know about burglary? thought she.
And then, when Charlotte’s hope had began to melt, the most logical idea occurred to her. She could raise money like any other red-blooded American would do.
Why hadn’t she thought of this first? A small laugh rolled out of her throat.
Resonant, sonorous rings of the church bells killed the hushed atmosphere. It was noon. Charlotte’s mother had told her earlier that they would go out for lunch and noon was the conventional lunchtime in their household.
Charlotte fled home, her galoshes crushing the snow. Alicia would object to her daughter leaving the premises without her consent and straying so far away. That is exactly why Charlotte kept her hiding spot, the clearing, shrouded from her mom.
*****
The clock stroke one. That night, Charlotte lay deep under her thick blankets, pondering the day’s events. She could not fall asleep, nor did she wish to. The only sound in the room other than Marshmallow involuntarily purring in her sleep was a soft hum from a car passing by. As it moved, the headlights cast amorphous shadows on the walls.
Charlotte had successfully slipped into her house without being caught. The reason being that Alicia was so busy doing computer work for her boss that she completely forgot her lunch plans.
Charlotte was disoriented about the eccentric certitude she had so easily acquired. She was mystified at herself, but did not bother to dig deeply into the matter. Something remarkable had occurred and that was enough for her.
Staring into the dark abyss, the girl had no idea how she was to raise such a great deal of money, especially by herself. Charlotte wracked her brain without progress until she eventually entered a world of dreams. One that was entirely her own.
*****
It was the next day and Charlotte was at Dimersons’ Pond, ice-skating. Marshmallow sat on the edge of the pond, watching her owner fixedly. The cat looked like a pair of azure eyes and a tiny, pink nose, her coat blending into the snow.
Charlotte skidded to as top and jerked her head around at the sound of a dog yipping. Walking his Scottish terrier was none other than Mikey Bumbleton, one of the mean boys in her class. He had chocolate brown hair, a pointed chin, and a sneer painted on his chapped lips.
Marshmallow hissed at the dog as Mikey opened his mouth. Charlotte, her eyebrows pointed inward in expected anger, wondered what insult was stirring in his throat.
Before he could utter a single word, the dog’s leash escaped his grasp. The midnight black dog ran across the ice in the direction of a squirrel on the opposite side of the pond.
“Freddy, come back.” commanded Mikey.
Freddy did not obey. He paced a few more feet, nearing the squirrel, which scurried up a tree. Crack! Suddenly, the ice beneath the dog’s feet began to part. Startled, he leapt forward, right into the water, missing the bank by mere inches.
Freddy struggled to get back on the ice, but his claws kept slipping off. The snow on the bank was icy as well and much too high for the terrier to reach.
“Freddy!” Mikey yelled desperately, sprinting around the pond with all his might.
Charlotte, who was closer to Freddy than Mikey was, swiftly skated to the spot where he had jumped in. She could not see the poor dog and was afraid he had drowned under the ice.
What a horrid way to die! thought Charlotte, tears stinging her eyes.
She skated on a safe portion of the ice and threw herself on the bank, where the hole would be more visible. There, bobbing up and down in the freezing waters was Mikey’s dog. Meticulously, Charlotte scooped up Freddy and cradled him just as she would with Marshmallow.
Still shocked, Mikey grabbed Freddy from his rescuer and stroked him gently. He completely ignored her and what she had just done, too concerned about his pet to pay anyone else attention.
Finally, when he had realized that everything was alright, the boy looked Charlotte straight in the eyes. The sneer had been replaced with a warm smile.
“Thanks,” he said gratefully.
“Yeah, no problem,” Charlotte mumbled, taken aback.
“Look,” Mikey’s grin vanished, “Even though I don’t like you, I want to do something in return for this.”
Charlotte blinked, “What do you mean?”
“Just name something and I’ll do it for you,” offered Mikey. “Before I change my mind.”
Charlotte realized that she was put in a rare, but wonderful position. She wanted to ask the boy to cease teasing her, but she knew he would refuse. The girl looked into his eyes, brown and cold.
“You can help me raise money,” Charlotte decided.
“What for?” Mikey asked quizzically.
“A sick girl in New Jersey. She can’t afford an injection that would cure her,” explained Charlotte.
She expected Mikey to make fun of her sensitiveness. But instead, he simply said, “Okay.”
Charlotte studied the boy. Who is this? He certainly cannot be Mikey Bumbleton. Yet it is him.
“Well, I have to go,” said Mikey, tightly wrapping Freddy’s leash around his hand. “Meet me tomorrow at…?”
“The library. Two o’ clock?”
“Yeah, sure,” he scurried away, leaving fresh footprints in the snow.
*****
Charlotte sat at a round, wooden table at the James Roster Public Library. How she loved the library! Everything about it; the smell of books, the peacefulness, and the variety of people who read. She particularly loved it now with its adorned Christmas appearance and new selection of Christmas books. However, Charlotte loved everything Christmas-related.
A few minutes after two did Mikey arrive. He looked uncertain, as if he didn't belong. Reading, Charlotte knew, was not his cup of tea.
Charlotte tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. She read the letter from the nurse aloud and asked Mikey if he had any ideas on how to raise the money.
“No,” replied Mikey pensively, “But I’ll think of one.”
Thought inundated him. No more visible would it have been, had it been water. He stared down at the center of the table. His eyebrows were knit in concentration, his mouth a thin line.
Charlotte watched Mikey curiously. He did not seem to notice. Mikey, to her pleasure, was a very creative boy. He was sure to whip up a marvelous idea.
Minutes passed and Charlotte became bored. She picked up a book on a nearby shelf when Mikey exclaimed, “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!”
“Hush,” rebuked Charlotte as they received several austere looks from passersby.
“Anyway,” Mikey whispered, embers dancing in his eyes, “People will pay money to come see you ice skate.”
“Not a quarter of a million dollars! I’m not that good,” argued Charlotte, disappointed that this was the best idea he could come up with.
“Really! You are good. I saw you out there,” protested Mikey. “Besides, if people know that it’s for a good cause, they will be more likely to come.”
Charlotte was stunned at his compliment and reasoning. She had started taking ice-skating lessons at the age of four, but she was no professional. This was big. Seeing as they had no other ideas, she hesitantly agreed.
“Great!” We’ll have posters, lights, and customers. The whole shebang!” Mikey spoke in his loudest possible whisper.
*****
Throughout the next week, Charlotte created a routine she was to perform that encompassed a number of the most arduous tricks she knew. Any free time she could capture was spent ice-skating. Day after day, Charlotte would come home freezing and exhausted. She would make herself a cup of hot chocolate and sit by the radiant fire, curled beneath a blanket, Marshmallow on her lap. Her muscles were aching worse than ever. Though, the pain left Charlotte gratified. It was proof that her practicing had produced a result.
Meanwhile, Mikey was planning the whole event. He hung posters, which he had designed, on the billboards of local grocery stores, schools, and shops. In blue marker, Charlotte’s favorite color, they read:
One person can make a difference. Think what we all can do together.
Printed below was information about Lisa and the date of the performance, December 23rd. It was cutting it close to Christmas, the time that the nurse predicted would be Lisa’s death, but Charlotte needed the time to practice.
Christmas was approaching rapidly. Any money Charlotte had for presents was instead saved for Lisa’s cure. She did not think her family would mind. Even if they did, she did not care. They had all they needed and plenty more.
In addition, Charlotte and Mikey collected all the money they could. They looked under sofa cushions and in clothing pockets. Charlotte even went without milk for lunch. She saved all the money she could get her hands on, down to the last penny.
Charlotte did not see her mother much anymore, not that she ever did see her a lot. They would talk sporadically at the supper table or before bedtime, but other than that, they were too busy for each other.
Charlotte decided against telling Alicia about her pen pal’s problem. She knew her mom would be most likely to reply with something like “That’s life.” or “I have to break my back for us to make a living. Why can’t anyone else?” She had finally given up hope that her mother would care. It was a rather lonely feeling, yet Charlotte was used to lonely.
*****
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