The Inkwell presents: Facing the Consequences

The Last Wish

Written by LA Harper

I stared at the tiny glass jar sitting on the table before me, fuming. It was the first time in a very long while she was not here to meet me for Mother's Day brunch. I didn't know why I came; I knew she wouldn't—couldn't make it. She died six weeks ago, in the same hospital I met her in, and the very one where I was born. People tend to share a lot of things in a small town like Graybrook. Schools, hospitals, churches. You couldn't go anywhere without bumping into someone you knew.

Strangely, though, I hadn't met Miss Bea until she was admitted to my ward, where she immediately filled a hole inside me that had existed for years. She didn't just fill it; she poured out of it, illuminating all my dark corners with a light I hadn't known I was seeking.

I was angry at her for not showing up, for not being there, and immediately guilt strangled my insides with an icy numbness, threatening a revisiting of my lunch. I swallowed, still staring at the jar she gave me in her last moments.

You see, my mother died when I was born. I don't know all the details; any time I asked Dad about it when I was younger, he started crying. Eventually, as I got older, I knew to let it be. He still hurt after so long, and pressing about it would only reopen the wound. Miss Bea took up that mantle when I met her that fateful day after her heart surgery. There was an instant connection; her son had died overseas, and I reminded her so much of him in many small ways during my shifts. After all our interactions while I tended to her, she asked for my contact information so we could keep in touch.

I was reticent about doing something like that, but there was just something about Miss Bea. I didn't want to disappoint an old lady, who was so very clearly going home to empty rooms. Much as I had done since I moved out for school eight years ago.

I took a deep breath, wondering if I was actually mad at her or just at myself. After all, I'd have a mother to join me for brunch if I hadn't killed her during childbirth. It must have been my fault if my father never wanted to tell me about it. I sussed that out a long time ago, and the hole in my life only deepened with the realization.

My mind refocused on the glass bottle – a single, fluffy dandelion seed laid inside, kept safe by a cork stopper attached to a chain. "An emergency wish," Miss Bea whispered, voice fading. "Make it a good one, since it is the last. I've saved it for a long, long time."

A wish? What would I wish for if I did something that fanciful? It was a silly superstition – wishing on dandelions – kept alive by the innocence of children and the adults encouraging it. I scoffed, reaching for my coffee cup. I suppose if I had to make a wish, it would be to go back and save my mother. Losing her was part of the reason I became a nurse. Then, someone would actually be here to meet me. Something bumped my elbow but I thought nothing of it until I heard glass rolling on wood. Turning to look at my precious gift, my eyes could only watch as it fell to the concrete and shattered into myriad shards. A spring breeze swept up the seed, carrying it over the café awning and out of sight.

"Fly high, little dandelion," I murmured sadly. My last link to Miss Bea was now gone, and I missed her even more.

Then the world tilted violently, did a somersault, and dumped me on my ass.

I woke in a bright-looking break room, layered in cheap pastels and even cheaper Formica. Squinting at it, I tried to place why it seemed so...off. Gaining my bearings, I took a look around. I started outside the café, but was now inside a cursed, 80s-style breakroom.

My eye found a brass-framed still life of white peonies and blue carnations in a clay vase, and the air left my lungs. Suddenly I knew why it felt wrong: this was the same break room I used on shift, only it was shiny and new. Gone were the dingy tiles worn down by countless feet. The colors were fresh, instead of tired and muted, faded from time and use. But that painting, that freakin' ugly ass painting, was still there, hanging in the same place, in the same frame, and just as hideous despite being brand new.