Grace from Blood

A/N: This story has a working title, and I thank Emily so very much for it.
I want to thank Caitlin for sparking the idea for it, and for giving me the websites on Hemophellia.

Grace Hault was a nine-year-old bullet of energy, rising with the sun and setting with the moon - and a hemophiliac. Whenever she would ask to help cut the green peppers for salad, her mom would say no. Whenever she had a school project, she knew she had to ask her dad for help. She had never been ice-skating and she learned years ago that anything silver and shining with a point would kill her.

On this particular morning, the sun was no where to be found, instead rain clouds filled with precipitation let lose a deluge that drenched the roof, making Grace feel sorry for the gutters and wishing she could go out and play. But she couldn’t, because she might fall and she might get hurt. There was always a might where Grace was concerned. You had to be careful. Grace moved away from the enchanting window and danced into the kitchen, her eyes flying to the calendar. Today, a day so murky and dreary it could qualify as the beginning of another biblical flood, the calendar reminded her it was time for yet another transfusion. Grace rubbed her arm in the place where the last transfusion had been, she still felt it sometimes, whether the pain was real or not, she didn’t know.

The stairs creaked and moaned as Grace’s mother Ellen tramped down the stairs, noticing Grace spinning around the room, she immediately stopped, staring at her daughter. Grace could feel the warm air peel away and she stopped spinning, falling neatly to the floor.

“Grace!” Ellen flew to her daughter’s side, picking her up.

“I’m fine, Mama.”

“I know you are, I just…” Grace looked up thoughtfully into the eyes of her mother. They matched hers, like a mirror, the same sea grass green blue.

“Another bad dream?” Grace said quietly, as if she were the mother. Ellen nodded and set her daughter down.

“What time?” Grace asked as she settled herself at the kitchen table, waiting for something extravagant to be put in front of her. Ellen glanced at the calendar, then at the clock, and then softly muttered a curse.

“Now.” Ellen said, starting to fly around the kitchen, grabbing car keys, her purse and coat, and a banana for Grace.

“But mama!”

“We’ll stop on the way back and get you something.” Ellen pleaded with her daughter as she handed her a deep red coat. Grace buttoned up and slowly moved to the door, as Ellen stood in the threshold waiting her daughter, all the while losing her patience. Grace finally made it out of the house and to the car. Ellen checked to make sure she was buckled in; she always did, and then slid into her own seat.

“Here,” Ellen complied and placed in a Josh Groban album, the Italian words springing to life with the car, causing a smile to pull at of their lips. As a unconditional fan, Ellen had to pass the adoration for good music on to her daughter. Grace moved her head back and forth, easily soothed by the music, as loud as it was, on the way to the hospital. The ride was filled with mother and daughter bonding time, split between stopping at red lights and skipping song tracks. Ellen pulled quietly into the parking lot, no one was there, not at this time of the morning.

“Come on Grace,” Ellen held fast to her daughter’s hand as they marched into the over-bearing building. Grace watched as her mother stepped routinely up to the desk and listened as the woman routinely asked her name.

“Patient?” The woman at the desk asked.

“Grace Hault,” Ellen said softly. The woman at the desk allowed her fingers to fly over the keys, typing out names and dates and finally handed Ellen a piece of a paper.

“Room Four-Fifty-Seven,” she said, smiling at Grace. Grace wouldn’t smile back. She listened as the rain pounded against the window, and noticed the colorful paintings aligning the wall. She wished for the zillionth time for breakfast, and a slight pang rose in her chest as her mother and her boarded the elevator. The bolted box went up to floor four and pinged open for them, automatically. Grace watched a few roaming patients with IV hook ups, wheel chairs, meander around aimlessly. What else was there to do in a hospital? You’re just here to prolong dying. Ellen clutched Grace’s hand tighter until Grace felt her knuckles go white, and wondered who was more nervous. Her or her mother? The room was so bright that Grace had to shield her eyes, pulling away from her mother to shrink into the awaiting chair. Ellen spoke companionably to a nurse that Grace knew by sight but not by name, and she waited until the doctor was going to come out, and take her to the scary chair. Thinking about it made her insides turn, she hated getting transfusions, sometimes she wished she could just bleed out, instead of coming here all the time.

“Grace?” The doctor, a tall balding man called to her. Nervousness bubbled in her stomach, twisting her insides as she timidly stood up. She felt weak in the knees, and allowed the doctor to take her hand, and pull her into another room, closing the door with a soft click.

“How are you feeling today, Grace?”

“Fine,” Grace lied.

“Can you bend down for me?” Grace complied, and she felt the doctor lift her shirt up, running the pads of his thumbs over her back, she knew he was checking for bruises. Grace shivered as he pulled her shirt down and sat her in the chair, and hooked up the IV’s.

“You okay, sweetie?” The doctor taped the cannula down and Grace watched as the blood bag was uncovered, revealing the plasma that was anonymously donated, seep its way into her arm.

Don’t call me sweetie.

“I’m fine.” Grace imagined her blood thickening to a bursting point, to a point where she could prick her finger, and nothing would come out. Her blood would clot so fast that she would be cured. But that was wishful thinking and for the next lifetime she would have to be content with walking instead of running. Her vision swam as the anesthetic kicked in and her eyelids closed.

Ellen did nothing but wait and wonder when Grace was having her Aphaeresis. She wondered every-time they went in, who would willingly donate blood plasma to help her daughter. The procedure was long and tedious, it involved catheters and, oddly enough, medicine to prevent the patient’s own blood from clotting. Ellen knew how unlikely the procedure occurred in the United States, and she thanked the anonymous donor whenever Grace came out of the anesthetic- usually after four hours. Ellen opened her purse and rummaged through it. She found mints, a stick of spearmint gum (which she reluctantly stuck in her mouth), her cell phone, and numerous pieces of paper that held phone numbers and house addresses. She opened her book that she was halfway through, a worn out copy of The Time Traveler’s Wife. She could re-read the book cover to cover three more times, before Grace would be released. But instead of seeping into her novel, Ellen Hault picked up her cell phone and dialed her husband’s work number.

“Hello, may I speak to Aden Hault, please?” Ellen clicked her nails against each other as the man on the other end of the phone put her through to her husband.

“Hey,” Aden said welcomingly. “You two at the hospital?”

“Yeah, it just started.” Ellen leaned her head against her arm.

“I should be done by the time you two are.”

“Don’t you have that meeting to go to?”

“It’s been moved to Friday.”

“Alright…I suppose you could meet us here, but Grace is starving.”

“I’ll make sure to get there a bit early,” Aden promised before hanging up the phone. He never said goodbye, but he was always sincere during the rest of the conversation. Slipping the phone into her purse, Ellen picked up her book again and flipped open to a dog-eared, penned in page; and continued to wait.

Exactly three hours and forty-six minutes later (for he had timed it from the moment he’d hung up the phone with Ellen), Aden pulled into the hospital parking lot in his black Toyota. Still in his business suit and work shoes, Aden marched authoritatively into the hospital, only to stop at the desk and ask for directions to where his daughter was. He took the stairs instead of the elevator up to the fourth floor, arriving according to his watch at 12:20. He watched his wife’s face light up as he stepped into the room and motioned for him to sit down.

“Is she done yet?”

“Almost,” Ellen responded, taking her hand in his. He squeezed it reassuringly and before either of them knew it, Grace appeared drowsily in front of them, a tiny bandage over the incision the IV had made.

“Daddy!” She said enthusiastically, before Ellen could get out the words to ask her daughter how she was feeling.

“Hi honey,” Aden hugged his daughter and stood up, handing Ellen’s purse to her.

“Are you still hungry?” Ellen asked Grace as the three of them headed out of elevator.

“Yes!” Grace smiled, her gaped tooth smile setting off her features.

“How about…waffles?” Ellen asked a game they would play.

“No!” Grace said as the three of them marched to the parking lot.

“What about…oatmeal?” Grace shook her head emphatically, closing her eyes.

“Well then, what do you want?” Ellen asked, pretending to be bewildered by her daughter’s lack of agreement.

“Bagels!” Grace parroted as they reached the silver car, Ellen finally letting go of her daughter’s hand.

“Bagels it is then,” Ellen complied and watched from the corner of her eye as Grace buckled herself in, meanwhile talking to Aden.

“I told her I’d take her somewhere,” Ellen murmured.

“Then we can just go to the Deli.”

“Fine,” she agreed and kissed her husband on the cheek, turning back to check on Grace.

“I’m fine, Mom!” Grace cooed as Ellen checked on her daughter. “I won’t die because you stop the car suddenly.” Grace covered her hand with her mouth and apologized. Ellen didn’t respond, just stepped into the front seat and put the car in gear. They backed out of the crowding parking lot and followed Aden’s car three miles away to the Deli – sitting in silence. When they arrived, Ellen noticed that the Deli was (like the hospital) unusually vacant of people.

“It must be a holiday I don’t know about,” Ellen muttered to Aden as they were escorted to a table in the non-smoking section. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, because no one was sitting in the smoking side of the restaurant.

“What’ll it be,” the server asked. She was a high-school girl, who seemed overly excited to be serving someone, instead of sitting around doing nothing.

“Water for now,” Aden said quickly and the server left as quickly as she had come, disappearing into the burrows of the kitchen.

“We know Grace wants bagels,” Ellen chirped, “but what do you want?” Aden contemplated the menu, as if a wrong decision would send the world hurling towards the sun. After flipping through the options twice, he set his menu down and said simply;

“Bagels.” Grace laughed, a smile adorning her face again.

“I think I’ll be daring and have soup instead.”

“You can’t have soup for breakfast, mommy.”

“Why not?” Ellen looked at her daughter, wondering why on earth you couldn’t have dinner for breakfast.

“Because soup is when-you’re-sick food!”

“Oh, I see.” Ellen said, realizing that her daughter was right. The only time Grace had soup was when she was under the weather. Ellen had soup a couple times a week though, mostly when Grace was at school. The waitress returned with the waters and left with the menus and the orders.

“Why don’t they have crayons here?” Grace asked Aden.

“I don’t know,” he responded truthfully.

“But it’s boring without crayons.”

“You can color when you get home,” Aden promised. Grace grinned, getting her way. If she couldn’t do one thing, she could do another, Aden knew that that was how their life worked. Promises built on top of things that weren’t there in the first place.

“Can I color on my hand?” Grace was asking Ellen.

“You can try, but I don’t think it’ll work.”

“Why not?” Grace asked, genuinely intrigued.

“Wax doesn’t still to skin cells.”

“Huh?” Grace furrowed her eyebrows; unsatisfied with the answer she’d been given. How do you explain to a nine-year-old what crayons are made of, when they just see them as something to color with. Aden glanced at his daughter who was rubbing the bandage on her forearm.

“Mommy,” Grace looked up at her mother, “Why am I sick?”

“You’re not sick Grace,” the automatic response left Ellen’s mouth before she could stop it.

“Yes I am, I go to the hospital all the time, and they stick needles in me. Why am I sick?” Grace asked again. Aden watched his wife pause, searching for an answer. You can’t explain genetics to a little girl, and you certainly can’t explain circumstance. And Aden knew Grace wasn’t going to accept I don’t know, as an answer for this question.

“Because,” Ellen began but the server interrupted with plates of food.

“Thank you,” Ellen said to the server, not only for the food. Grace, distracted by her food, didn’t ask for another answer. Instead, she picked up the bagel and took the biggest bite she could. Aden watched her for a moment before taking a bite of his own bagel. Ellen sipped her soup delicately, not wanting to burn herself. They ate in silence, occasionally taking bites of each other’s food. Aden glanced at his watch and muttered something about heading back to the office for a fax he was supposed to receive.

“Bye Daddy,” Grace hugged Aden gently, and watched as Aden slipped away out of the two front doors.

“Bye Dad,” Ellen repeated dejectedly, and finished off the dregs of her soup, urging Grace to do the same with her bagel. She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and proudly announced that she done.

“Okay,” Ellen picked up her coat and left cash on the table, an extra tip for the waitress, and grasped Grace’s hand, heading out into the darkened day. When Ellen set her purse down, she felt something underneath it. Lifting it up, she noticed a now broken blue crayon underneath it. She smiled and handed Grace a half of the crayon. She noticed too late that once again, her daughter was left with the short end of the deal.

(Fin. chapter One.)