Mrs. Beaumont

Most people would describe me as a cynical person, someone who is distrustful of the world around them. They were right, there were not many people I could trust and frankly I could care less. I am a college sophomore currently majoring in law; I needed to be as sharp as a knife and could not be bothered with insignificant people. Most of the time when my dorm mate would run off to some crazy party, I would stay behind and study for upcoming tests. If I had no tests or no assignments due, I would turn on a bit of Mozart and read the next few chapters to be ahead of the class. Normally I would sip a little tea with lemon and cuddle in my bed. That would be a normal Friday evening.

For the fools that think I may be a perfectionist, I am not. Perfectionists are foolish people who will eventually trip upon their own quest for perfection and ultimately would become insane. No, I was not a perfectionist. If you must call me something, I would be an ambitious person. Someone who wanted to succeed and would not let anyone stop them, not a perfectionist. I am smart enough to know that perfectionism does not exist. I was also smart enough to know that I did not need anyone.

My typical morning was a quick breakfast at a local cafe. Kristi D's was the name and it was a quaint little place and it was certainly much quieter than Starbucks or any other big name cafe. There were some college students loaded on caffeine quickly typing away on their keyboard. My guess was they were trying to finish an assignment before their next class. In the morning, everything was calm and crispy. I would eat my typical blueberry bagel with cream cheese. My poison was a pitch black cup of coffee. Most of the time, I would read my assignments over to make sure they were all prepared for class. Occasionally, I would read the newspapers, but most of the time, it was just politics or accidents. I could careless if a house burned down and every member died. Yes, it was a pity, but it happened; no use crying over spilled milk. If I did read the newspaper, I would only read the Arts section of The New York Times.

After breakfast, I would go and get ready. I always tried to get first to the lecture hall and have my questions out for the professor. Reading ahead and taking notes were my specialty and it prepared me for future exams. After classes ended, I would go somewhere for lunch and dinner and then back to my dorm to begin my cycle again. From time to time, my dorm mate would badger me to go out. I would always make up an excuse. I don't know about you, but I certainly did not want to spend an evening with a bunch of crazy young adults. Tonight was one of those badgering nights. My dorm mate wanted me to go bowling, a simple activity. I admit, it did sound fun and I was tempted, however if I went, it would mess up my entire schedule and tonight I was to read an important case to discuss in class. I politely decline and quickly turned on the Mozart. I fell asleep reading Brandenburg v. Ohio.

The next morning had a certain grey quality to it. I don't know if it was the fact I woke up with a headache and a whole bunch of text in my face. Something about this morning did not seem smooth like there were bumps on the road. Maybe I should have gone bowling after all. The sky matched my mood; I recalled hearing thunder right before I went to sleep. As I walked into Kristi D's, there was just a slight change of atmosphere. The smell of fresh baked bagels filled the air and gently flew all around the cafe. The dark roast of coffee was a rich sensation for any mortal's senses. It certainly smelled normal, a wonderful aroma, it just felt different. I sat in my regular seat and ordered my regular. The atmosphere was still a little strange and in a stroke of fate, I turned my head to the newspaper rack. On the cover of the local paper was a picture of a horrific car accident and when I say horrific and meant horrific. If the headings did not read "Three Killed in Car Accident" I would not even guess it was a car. All it looked like was a twisted piece of metal, crumpled, like aluminum foil. Call it morbid curiosity, but for some reason, I had an urge to actually read this story. Picking up a newspaper, I quickly flipped to the story with about the twisted aluminum foil.

Last night at about 11:40, a black Honda Civic...I quickly skimmed over the details. Apparently, there was a storm and a drunk driver was on the road and crashed into this poor family of four, killing three. Your typical sob story, however as I read further, something caught my eye. It was the name of one of the victims, rather the name of the sole survivor. Daphne Beaumont...I knew a Daphne Beaumont once upon a dream...but it couldn't be the same one. Then, it hit me like a bag filled with ice, it must have been her. The family, the age, the name of the husband...it was her. My blueberry bagel was staring at me, but I had lost my appetite. Daphne Beaumont was better known as Mrs. Beaumont, my high school Italian teacher and one of those rare people I did trust. Now this was not going to be like a Lifetime movie where I began crying hysterically and run out of the cafe. No, I was not corny; however I did want to go see her. I continue to read the newspaper and found out she was taken to the St. Mary's Hospital. I figured she would not be well enough to have visitors today or tomorrow, so I would wait until the weekend to visit her. Since today Tuesday, that would be no problem.

St. Mary's Hospital was one of those hospitals that were crawling with nuns. Being an atheist, it seemed kind of weird to be in a churchy kind of place. The receptionist was an African American male. Calmly, I walked up to him. My leather jacket was the only noise that was in the entire floor. It was a small hospital and there did not seem a lot of panic, like an almost surreal sense of tranquility. Discreetly, I asked the man where Daphne Beaumont was situated. He raised an eyebrow and gave me a pass. The room number was 517, ironically, her classroom number. A friendly reminder from him was not to stay too long since she was really in no position to have lengthy conversation. Up the elevator I went, to room 517.

Nuns were like penguins, I swear. They walk around in little lines, saying God Bless You. With a confused look, I walked across the hall to 517. Before I entered, I held my breath. Mrs. Beaumont was such a pretty woman, tall and slender. I was afraid what I might see. Looking down, I knocked and slowly opened the door.

Mrs. Beaumont was the only person I've ever trusted. Not even my parents could compare to the fact how much I trusted her. With a smile that could fix broken heart, crushed dreams and teenage problems, Mrs. Beaumont was my confidant. When I was dumped, she was there with a box of tissues and open ears. For problems, I always went to her. Mrs. Beaumont was incredible, she taught me how to shoot rubber bands, a useless task I could not do prior to high school. If it was not for her, I would not know a thing about art. In a dance during freshman year, I was scared to dance and she was the one that lead me to the dance floor. Now, she was a wilted flower. Tubes and wires connected to her. Her once neat brunette hair spread on the sheets in a messy bun. Scrapes, cuts, and bruises ornamented her face. Lips were swollen, nose was scraped, and she had a large bandage above her left eye. The ever annoying heart monitor beeped in the background as a reminder that she was still alive. I did not know if she was conscious or not, but I leaned over, I touched her hand. I always remembered that she had the softest hands. To my surprise, the hand receded. To an even bigger surprise, I found Mrs. Beaumont looking at me. Her eyes were like two slits, too swollen to be open all the way.

A grumble, but I could make it out. She sounded like she had just drunk two bottles of cheap vodka. Her question was, "Who are you?" I did not expect her to remember me, I never went back to visit and my guess was that the brain rattle did not exactly do any good either. In a whisper, I replied with my name. A slight change of her position made me jump a bit. A little wheeze was let out and she tried to open her eyes a bit wider. She scanned me for a bit and then, to the best of her ability, smiled.

"I haven't seen you in ages..." This time her words were much clearer and with her good hand, the one I touched, signaled me to come closer. I quickly pulled up a chair, so I could be eye leveled with her. Even though her face was marred with scrapes and bruises, she was still beautiful. I tried hard to not cry, but it was rather difficult. A lump formed in my throat and I desperately try to swallow it down. Tears bordered my eyes and I could feel the warmth rushing to my face, but I tried to fight it. It was rather stupid to cry at this age, I was not in high school. A tear made its way out of my eye and now was taking a slow glide down my cheek. Quickly, I wiped before Mrs. Beaumont could see it. After five minutes I knew it was time to go, I was going to explode. My chest was breaking and I was to explode and cry like I did in high school. Saying my good-byes to the sweet Mrs. Beaumont, I left her in a rush and ran out of the room faster than I've ever ran before. Leaning against the wooden door, those pesky little nuns ran across the floor and asked me if I was alright. Damn it, I was fine I felt like saying, but I knew that I wasn't really fine.

Everyday after that for the next two weeks, I returned to the hospital and we talked about the old times, about my rubber band incident, about the dance. She asked me about college and what I wanted to do. There was something that scared me though, when we talked about family, she would say that she could not wait to see her family...that she wonders how they are doing. Her sons, little boys about eight and nine years old...and her husband, she did not know they were gone. I've heard that hospitals sometimes wait until a patient was stable enough to handle the news to break it to them; it was just so cruel to watch her.

"We're going to Europe this summer, to visit my husband's family..." Those words made me cringe. All I could do was smile and nodded my head while holding these stupid tears in. How could they, not tell her...I wasn't sure if I should, maybe they were waiting...the funeral was this week I think the family from Europe came to bury her entire family. I was surprised they did not come to visit her.

It was a Friday, April 18th, I would never forget that day, the day that Mrs. Beaumont began to die a little inside and I died with her. April 18th was a wonderful day, to begin with. About six years ago, freshmen in high school, April 18th was the day when Mrs. Beaumont cut her hair to donate to Locks of Love and she acquired a bob for the remaining of the year. I would still laugh from time to time in my dorm about that day. To celebrate that day, I decided to bring a bouquet of Dahlias, her favorite flower. As I went pass the daily ritual of nuns and receptionists, a whisper emitted from room 517, the ghostly tale of the events that took place that faithful night. A wimp I was, I leaned against the wall and made sure she did not see me. The cellophane of the flowers crinkled a bit and my shoes clicked, but I made sure there were no other sounds.

"We want you to understand why we did not tell you before...you were not strong enough and to tell the truth, we did not think you would make it either...we are terribly sorry for your loss...I'm so sorry..."My stomach did a somersault as I heard the doctor broke it to her. A ham sandwich wanted to make its debut on the hospital floor. Mrs. Beaumont's first reaction was naturally of disbelief. Then, the worst part came: when it finally hit her. A small shriek came out of the room followed drowning sobs. I felt like crying right with her. A nurse clearly not equipped to deal with emotional outbreaks tried to comfort her, she was beside herself with tears running down her face, some into her scrapes. Perhaps it burned with the salt from the tears, but I knew that no amount of pain would change the way she was feeling. Embracing her, I made sure I did not hurt her by squeezing, but made sure she knew I was there for her.

Dahlias crashed to the floor, sobs filled the room, the lonely song of a widow and a childless mother. The doctor excused himself and the nurse followed him. Slamming the door, I released my anger. There were terrible people on this Earth and nothing ever happened to them. Why did all the appalling situations happen to the innocent people, the ones with hearts of gold? I did not consider myself an angel, I was cynical and cruel. This should have happened to me, it would have made much more sense. Instead, it had to happen to the sweetest flower, a woman who would put others before herself. Weeping, agony and pain, that's what, filled the room. All the color drained out and only grey was left. I just sat there, doe-eyed and stunned. Mrs. Beaumont pulled on my sleeve a bit, as if to ask a question. Did you know...?

Those words pierced my soul. I was just as bad as all the doctors and everyone who deceived her. What was I to say? Everyone but her knew...should I tell her that? Tell her that her family was currently six feet under while she was on the brink of death? Dangling my head, I let out a little gasp and found myself for a lost of words. My eyes glided to her direction and we met eye to eye. Her eyes raw from crying, red with agony, wet with lost dreams, she then turned away. A shriek followed by a signal to get out was her answer. I did as she ordered and ran out and did not stop running until I left the building.

I did not go for the next couple of days, but I never forgot her. In class, I found it harder to concentrate to the point I was getting laughed at for saying the wrong thing. My normally calm study sessions were broken by the thought of Mrs. Beaumont crying. Then one day, I gathered enough courage to go back. Back to the nun filled hospital I went and I did the same routine. The door to room 517 was wide open and Mrs. Beaumont was propped up, watching television. I tip-toed into the room and went up to the bed. Food was nearby and it seemed she had not touched it.

"What do you want?" It was one of the harshest greetings I've ever received and I did not expect it from the sweetest woman in the world. I explained to her that I was sorry and that if I did not tell her sooner, it was for her own good. With crossed arms, tears began to slide down her face. "You were the only one...my husband's family took care of the funeral arrangements and they did not come to see me. Why did you?" The only easy question she had asked this entire time. My tears that I had been holding since last month finally made their way. I explained to her, she was the only person I genuinely cared about, the only person besides myself that I cared about. She was the only person who could make me laugh, make me cry, make me feel real. In high school, I was broken and she was the only person who could put me together. She was the one who showed me how perfectionism was so stupid and that my parents had to get real and face the fact I could not perfect. She was real, so human and real. My feelings incarnated, and for that I owe her everything I am and will become.

A simple smile came across her face and she stared at a cup filled with gelatinous matter. Starving, she was, I could tell. Probably too sadden to eat, imagine thinking that no one cared about you. I read her mind and opened it for her. It was green and who knows what flavor, but she ate it and cried with every bite.

Somewhere around late May, it happened. The details were blurry, but happened. The receptionist told me that they had to take her for "emergency surgery" and she was very ill and that I should stay for no longer than five minutes. My jaw dropped and sat down on the floor and wonder, what happened. The receptionist told me to sit in the waiting room and he would call a doctor to explain to me for further details.

Doctors pretend they know everything, they know nothing. Some internal damage that was overlooked by a group of incompetent doctors, that's what, happened. She was literally bleeding to death from the inside out. It started out small, but since no one caught, it spread. After a month, her organs were drowning in the blood. That was her death sentence. The doctor said that he did not think she would make through the night. My heart sank when I heard that. I ran up the stairs, even though it was the fifth floor. Drowning in sorrow, my lungs could hardly get any air, but I had to keep running. When I reached the floor, I felt like passing out. The hall spun around and around, but I came to. Walking to the room, I remember the first time I came to visit her to the hospital. Holding the door knob, I hoped for the best...

The first day I met Mrs. Beaumont, I hated her. I thought that she was a bit of a snob. What with her culture talks and her constantly flaunting her knowledge of language. She could say hello in eighteen different languages. Her classroom rules were stupid and in freshmen year, I was a bit of a perfectionist and found her filled with flaws. It wasn't until sometime in October that I actually got to know her. She would tell me about her sons and her husband. Like a good mother, she would brag about her children, saying they were the best children around. My mother never did that; she wouldn't dare brag about someone she thought was "flawed." Mrs. Beaumont did brag about me to fellow teachers, saying I was smart and talented. She made me feel like I was worth something. Now I sat next to the crumpled body and wondered if this is how my last day with her would be.

Monitors beeped and she wheezed a bit. Her surgery was late last night; I had no idea whether she was conscious or not. It was kind of peaceful, in a creepy way. Sitting down in the chair beside the bed, I just stared into space and remembered how it was, before all this. Suddenly, a little gasp was let out and someone was whispering my name. Mrs. Beaumont looked at me and smiled a bit. She seemed tired and weary, about to give up. There must have been a tear on my cheek, because she gently wiped my face and told me to not cry. I wish it were only that easy, I had lost control of everything and I had been change from a pessimistic, hard as rock law student to a sniveling child again.

"I wrote you a letter, I was going to mail to you...and when I finished it, I started to feel faint. Alarms went off and I passed out. I think I put it on the nightstand." The lump came back, I had to turn away. The letter was on the nightstand, like she said she had left it. Sliding into my back pocket, I turned back to her. Mrs. Beaumont laid there, ever so still and I waited. She knew and I knew she was not going to make it. Even though I knew she was not going to make, I wanted her to. I wish there was someway I could keep her here. She was my crutch, after high school I built this wall around me and she helped me knock it down. I was not going to leave her; I was going to stay by her side so she would not have to die alone. Occasionally I would go downstairs and get something, like lunch even though I could not eat. But I waited there and just waited.

That stupid car accident...it should have never happened, but if it never did...maybe I would not realize that I was not taking life by the reigns. I hugged her and made sure she knew that I loved her more than I had ever loved anyone at all. The monitor began to slow down and her breathing became more and more shallow. I love you...

A long and steady beep...I shuddered at the sound. Laying there was the shell of my former friend. Even though I knew it was futile, I shrieked her name. Maybe if she heard me, she would come back and realize I needed her. I fell to the white sterile floors and began to cry, gagging on my own breaths. Wailing, I felt someone drag me out of the room. The doctors rushed into the room and left me outside. I sat down on a chair and cried. Cried for Mrs. Beaumont, cried for her death and cried for myself. The same doctor who I met early came out and told me they did everything they could...that bitter phrase no one wants to hear.

The same stupid family from Europe came to bury her too. I was asked to be a pallbearer. On the day of the funeral, it was partly cloudy. The sun was not fully out, but the clouds did not claim the sky. Dressed like a raven, I stared in the mirror. The letter she gave me was to be my speech for the funeral. With the last thing she wrote in my back pocket, I carried the coffin. Normally, I was not very strong, but something gave me strength to carry her. It was the last thing I could do for her, carry her like she carried me. As she was lowered into the ground, my heart sank and all I could do was to stare.

The speeches were shallow. Many people just talked about how great she was. Of course she was great, but why, no one could say. Then came my turn and I stared out into the blank faces of the supposed relatives. I also recognized some teachers from high schools, ones that also came to the hospital from time to time. Taking a deep breath, words began to form.

I am writing this letter to you because I want you to know that you are a very special person. I remember from the day I met you I always knew you were going to be a fantastic person. However, one could never see something like this happening. A car crash, much less one that would ruin everything I had...or so I thought. You came for me when no one wanted to take on the burden of a widow. Of a woman whose life would never be in order...broken forever. When I was talking to you, you seemed to have changed a bit, had a darker outlook on life. I want you to remember this, life is a journey and what you make of it will determine the kind of life you have. I know you are destined for great things, but I want you to know that not always the destination that matters, it is the journey. After all, we only have one life to live and to give. However, as I talked to you more, you changed back, back to the person I once knew. You even taught me about life, when I thought everything was gone, you made me feel like a million bucks. Remember this: no matter where you go, never forget who you truly are and make everyone feel as special as you made me feel. After I finished, I explained to everyone this was what made Daphne Beaumont truly incredible, her ability to make others feel incredible. Silence and then nothing, I did not care, I slowly walked away from the podium.

A year passed since the death of my beloved teacher. Back at college, I've decided that perhaps tea and Mozart are not the best way to spend a Friday evening. However I did not drop the routine completely. I would never forget Mrs. Beaumont or that accident. I just wished no one would have to stand where I stood to realize how much you can truly care about someone. As life went on, so did I. However a part of me stayed buried underground alongside Mrs. Beaumont.