Short Story Time: The Miracle Worker

I want to showcase some of my work on my website. Here is a short story I wrote last year. Let me know what you think about it. Feedback is much appreciated!

“He loves to watch movies,” the woman commented.

Isla scrawled this information onto her wrist. She sat across from a young woman in a small conference room at the Clearwater Veterans Home. This was where the woman’s father was being cared for. The Alzheimer’s made him decline rapidly, faster than anyone could anticipate, and now he was being placed on Hospice. No one was expecting him to live much longer. Not even his own daughter. It was this point in life that people usually hire Isla to ease their minds with her soothing illusions. Some people called her an Illusionist. Others took a liking to the term Miracle Worker.

“He used to go to those drive in movie theaters. That’s where he met my mom, y’know,” the woman continued, voice shaking.

Isla looked up at her with sympathetic eyes. The woman took a deep breath and blinked back tears.

“Do you have a picture of your mom?” Isla asked her, “we want to make the illusion as real and as authentic as possible,” she added.

The woman sniffed, “Oh, of course,” she replied, digging through her giant canvas purse. After a moment, the woman pulled out a photograph and handed it to Isla. She took the delicate paper in her hands, studying the woman in the photo. Studying the way her blonde hair flowed down her shoulders, the way the blue dress looked in the glossy photo.

“She’s beautiful,” Isla told her, handing the photo back to her.

The woman managed a smile, “Yes, indeed.”

With a click of her pen, Isla rose from her chair.

“Ms. Chorman, I promise I will do my best to ease your father’s mind.”

Tears began to flow down the woman’s cheeks as she too, rose from her seat.

“Thank you.”

***

Isla’s knuckles tapped softly against the door as she entered the room.

“Mr. Chorman?”

There was no answer. Isla closed the door.

“Mr. Chorman, my name is Isla Baker,” Isla introduced.

The room was dim with only a patch of sunlight shining through the window. Cards, pictures, and photo albums lay scattered on the furniture. The steady sound of the machine beeping was the only noise in the room. Mr. Chorman was laying on his back with his hands folded over his chest. If Isla didn’t know any better, she would have thought he was dead. She went into her bag and pulled out a round white candle. She set it down on the corner of the nightstand. With a lighter in hand, she lit the candle. The tiny flame began to cast an enormous shadow against the walls.

Mr. Chorman stirred.

“What…” his ragged voice trailed off. Isla took his hand.

“It’s alright, Mr. Chorman,” she assured him, “I’m here for you.”

“W-w-where’s my wife?” he asked her, “where’s Ingrid?”

One of the hardest parts about the job was watching people slowly lose their minds, forgetting who they are, forgetting the world around them, until nothing was left. Isla knew she couldn’t tell Mr. Chorman that his wife had died twelve years ago. The news alone would break his heart and send him spiralling.

Isla gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“We’re going to go see Ingrid right now, Mr. Chorman,” Isla informed him, “how does that sound?”

Mr. Chorman didn’t reply. Isla waited for an answer, but when none was given Isla took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She pictured the drive in theater, with bright cars lined up all down the rows, the smell of hotdogs and popcorn in the air. She imagined a large canvas screen showing an old John Wayne film and the way the projector light flickered from behind.

Then, she imagined Ingrid, as beautiful as the setting sun, wearing that blue dress with her golden locks neatly curled. Isla focused on the scene before her, and with all the strength she could muster, she pushed the thoughts out of her head and projected them around her. She weaved the illusion together, and soon, the images came to life before them.

Mr. Chorman gasped in awe as his head pivoted around the room. Isla added in a touch of noise, the sounds of the movie playing, car horns, and the faint clicking of the projector. She placed them in the seats of a cherry red Chrysler, with Ingrid seated next to them.

The man’s eyes widened at the sight of his beautiful wife, smiling beside him.

“Ingrid…”

Isla imagined Ingrid reaching her dainty hand to him, and soon the two were grasped each other’s hands with theirs.

“I’ve missed you,” Mr. Chorman whispered, his bottom lip trembling. Even in the dim room, Isla could see tears in his eyes. He managed a weak smile.

“I’ve missed you, too,” Isla imagined Ingrid telling him.

The tears began to roll down the man’s face. Isla gave his hand a gentle squeeze and turned to him. Mr. Chorman met her gaze and gave her a warm smile.

“Thank you…” he stammered.

Isla could feel her own tears creeping up on her. She returned the same warm smile as he did.

“You’re welcome.”

Mr. Chorman exhaled a breath and leaned back in his bed. Isla let go of his hand and turned back to the candle, still glowing brightly in the darkness. Though the vision was far from being real, Isla knew in her heart that it felt real to him. Even if it didn’t last forever, Isla felt at ease knowing that at least Mr. Chorman had gotten to see her this one time.

Mr. Chorman closed his eyes and fell asleep. Isla began to relax, watching the illusion fading away around them.

With her work finished, Isla sucked in a breath and blew out the candle.