Despite the number of art classes that she taught in a week, Friday evening’s, at the close of the day, were Daisy’s favourite. For the past few years, she had willingly given up her time to teach a class at the local hospital. There were no age or ability stipulations, resulting in the class attracting a wide range of students. It ran on a drop-in format so from one week to the next, she never knew who was going to be there.
Balancing her large plastic craft boxes in her arms, Daisy headed down the hallway to the lounge that she had been allocated for the class.
“Allow me to open your door for you,” offered a young man chivalrously as she stood struggling to balance the boxes on one arm.
“Thanks,” she replied with a smile as she sidestepped past him into the room.
“Is this the art group?” he asked shyly.
“Yes, it is but class isn’t for another half hour. I’m just in early to set things up.”
“Need a hand?”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
As they set up each workstation with the requisite arts and crafts supplies, they chatted about the class and the type of mediums it was able to offer the budding artists. From the plastic wristband just visible under the cuff of his sweatshirt, Daisy confirmed that he was a patient. When she had started teaching the classes, she had been asked not to ask the patients why there were in hospital. Many of them, usually older women, openly told her but she sensed that there was something this young man was hiding, and she respected his privacy.
“I’ll be back in five,” he said a few minutes before the class was due to start. “Save me a space.”
“Of course,” replied Daisy. “And thanks for the help to get set up.”
“Pleasure,” he said as he flashed her a smile.
True to his words, he returned just as the class was starting. He sat quietly working on a small sketch for the two hours and at the end of class he handed it to her.
“For you,” he said shyly.
It was a beautiful drawing of a daisy.
“Thank you.”
Each week for the next six weeks, he was there waiting for her. They fell into an easy routine where he helped her to set up the room then nipped away for a few minutes before returning to take part in the class. Out of all the students/patients that she had taught, his sketches showed the most talent. Some weeks he would paint but mainly he preferred to sketch. After a couple of weeks, he asked if he could borrow some supplies to use during the week. Without hesitation, Daisy gave him a sketch pad, a box of pencils, some paints and a couple of brushes.
One Friday, the hallway was empty when she arrived and there was no sign of him in the class either. Her heart sank a little. She’d been looking forward to their Friday catch up all week. As time had passed, they’d formed a friendship that she secretly hoped they could continue when he was no longer one of the patients. It suddenly struck her that he’d never told her his name.
“Oh well,” she thought as she passed out the art supplies to the rest of the group. “Perhaps he went home.”
Two hours later, as she was packing up, Daisy became aware of someone standing in the doorway. It was a middle-aged man, but he had a familiar look about him. He was holding a sketch pad and a bag of art supplies.
“Hi,” she said with a smile. “Class is over for tonight. Sorry.”
“I came to give you these back,” said the man stepping into the room. “And to say thank you.”
“Thank you? I don’t understand,” began Daisy then the penny suddenly dropped. These were the art supplies that she had loaned to her missing student.
“My son passed away this afternoon. Cancer. Allergic reaction to his new meds caused a cardiac arrest they say,” the man’s eyes filled with tears as his words faltered.
“Oh, I am so so sorry,” gushed Daisy reaching out to touch the man’s arm.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, “You’re the first person I’ve told.” He paused then cleared his throat before continuing, “Storm loved your classes. They were all he talked about these past few weeks. He hadn’t painted in a long time, but you gave that pleasure back to him.”
“He was very talented,” complimented Daisy, thinking to herself that Storm had been the perfect name for him.
“He had made you something. Think he had been planning to bring it along tonight. Thought I better pass it on,” he paused. “And return the art things.”
“He made something for me?”
Storm’s father nodded as he handed her the sketchpad and the bag. “It’s in the pencil box.”
Accepting the things, all Daisy could think to say was, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’d best be going. Family to call. Arrangements to sort out. Nice meeting you.”
He turned to leave, adding quietly, “A parent should never have to bury their child.”
“No, they shouldn’t,” empathised Daisy, remembering her own young daughter’s white coffin vividly. “Can you please let me know the arrangements when you have them? I’d like to pay my respects.”
He nodded then turned and walked down the hallway, shoulders slumped, and gaze lowered.
Feeling her own emotions in turmoil, Daisy set the things down on the table. On impulse, she flicked through the sketchpad. It was filled with sketches…sketches of her! Each one had a daisy emblem hidden in it somewhere. In one it was a flower in her hair; in another it was a flower on her T-shirt. Closing the book, she reached into the bag for the pencil box. Inside the box, nestled among the pencils she found a flat blue stone. It was a lapis lazuli palm stone. Turning it over, she saw that Storm had painted a tiny daisy chain round the edges and in the centre had written “A little pocket hug from me to you.”
Tears flowed silently down her cheeks as she slipped the stone into her jeans’ pocket.
Coral McCallum 