Elaine at Nine

By E.B. Howard

There comes a time when a person realizes how significant a name or a number can be. For me, it was twenty-five years ago; the name was Elaine and the number was nine.

It was on a particularly wet and cloudy day that Elaine’s story came to mind. It had been some time since I had had anything other than a subconscious thought of her. I was all of seven years old and attending elementary school when I first became aware of Elaine. She was nine years old, and two grades ahead of me. Not only was she two years older than I, she was also much larger in size, seeing as I was a very petite little girl. If I reminded everyone of a little doll, Elaine reminded everyone of a great Olympic champion. In my mind, she was. She seemed to be strong and energetic, and could run faster, throw a ball harder, and could catch a ball better than any boy.

Being that we weren’t in the same grade, I can’t say that we were actually friends. In fact, at times, she intimidated me. Whenever she walked on the playground, it was with a ball under her arm and her head held high, as if walking in to take charge. She had an air of confidence that was as strong and as stiff as our starched, white, uniform issued blouses. In her presence, I felt the word fear, because I always thought that if there was ever a confrontation between us, she would win hands down. Not that that ever came to pass; in fact, if Elaine was ever mean to me, it has long since been forgotten.

As I remember her now, she was all braids, and multi-colored barrettes, with almond shaped brown eyes, a beautiful caramel color to her skin, a fabulous smile, and long muscular legs that sported thick, white bobby socks. She had an essence that said she was in command. Simply stated, she was a pretty and nice young girl. It would be a while before I would come to understand that for me, that same young girl would someday come to represent appreciation, gratitude, and life itself.

I do not remember the date; I only know that one day while at recess she fell down on the playground. We attended a private Catholic school, and our playground consisted not of lush green grass, with wonderful sprawling, leafy shade trees, and a bounty of playground equipment; instead, it was the asphalt church parking lot. The only shade came in the late afternoon from the grand, mammoth sized church and its towering steeples, as the sun headed west. It was black, hot, and it did not say welcome. When you fell down on such a playground, you could feel it. Scraped knees, scraped hands, and lots of Band-Aids and antiseptic were par for the course. On that particular day, we did not know that Band-Aids and antiseptic would not be enough for Elaine. We did not know that what she needed was far more complicated than that. We only knew that Elaine came back to school on crutches.

There always seemed to be an elephant in the room, that certain something that no one wanted to talk about. In this case it was our classroom and our teacher, Sister Mary Bertha, wasn’t doing much talking, nor was anyone else of authority, at least not about Elaine. She would simply say that Elaine was getting help and would quickly change the subject. Instead of asking questions, we jumped rope, played hopscotch, ran relay races, bounced the balls playing two square, and picked our teams for Red Rover. Elaine remained on crutches. I had asked my mother if she knew about Elaine, and as I remember it, she did not. Then one day, we all found out. The elephant in the classroom was about to be addressed. Elaine had gone into the hospital. Her leg had been amputated. Elaine had cancer.

When you’re seven years old, you don’t really have a perception as to what cancer is. I know I didn’t. Whenever the subject was brought up, Sister Mary Bertha would say that everything would be alright and to keep her in our prayers to God. As I sat in our classroom each day, along with the chalkboard and what was written on it, I would also look at my teacher’s face hoping that it might give me some kind of a clue as to what was going on with our schoolmate. It didn’t. Instead, what I noticed was her long grey robe, and black and white habit, as she steadily swayed back and forth writing our lessons on that chalkboard. She was a master at hiding her emotions, so as not to upset her students. She was a pro, as all good nuns are.

We as children had all kinds of ideas as to what was happening; we whispered, we thought, we took it all in. Whether you are a child or an adult, not knowing the facts about a particular situation can cause one’s imagination to take flight in all different directions. What my imagination told me was that somehow, falling down on that pavement caused Elaine’s cancer, and if she got cancer, what would happen when we fell down? After all, didn’t we all fall down at one time or another? Did that mean we were next? In my seven year old mind, it was a question for the ages. How I wished we had had grass and not the sharp cutting edges of that asphalt. Darn that asphalt! With its white striped lines, its oil stains, and its hot steaming surface, it seemed to me that it was the enemy.

I do not recall how much time had passed, but we would see Elaine again as she returned to school; somehow, it was different. She no longer seemed to be in command, and she was not there long enough. Not too long after that, she left school again. Then one day, with the sun filtering in through the windows, as we sat quietly in our neatly lined rows, staring at oddly clean chalkboards, an announcement was made; Elaine had died.

The following night I laid in my bed trying to figure out how it was that a nine year old, with so many miles to run and so many balls to throw and catch, could simply die. I tried to picture her smile, hoping that the memory of it would penetrate the darkness and the stillness of the room. At that moment the door opened, and in the same way that the ray of light entered from the next room, my mother came in. As usual, she helped to pave a path of understanding for me by explaining what had happened. She sat at the edge of the bed and explained that the fall hadn’t caused Elaine’s cancer; it was the cancer that had caused her to fall. And no, that didn’t mean that everyone has to get cancer; it just happens.

With those words came to what I now understand to be a pivotal moment in my life. With Elaine being nine years old and I being seven, I could only hope to get through the next two years so that I could eventually turn nine, and surpass that crucial age, so as to go on with my life. It was then that I started what would turn out to be a yearly ritual for me.

It went something like this, “Dear Lord, thank you for letting me be seven, please let me be eight.” The following year it went, “Dear Lord, thank you for letting me be eight, please let me be nine.” Then I turned nine, and I was at that crucial point. It was as if I had been in a small boat traveling through a narrow and treacherous strait, and if I could just steer clear of the rocks and over the rough waters, I would be free to sail on. So this time I said, “Dear Lord, thank you so much for letting me be nine, please, please let me be ten.” I turned ten, and I gave a big sigh of relief.

In being ten, and so relieved that I had made it past that crucial age of nine, I discovered that with each year that passed I enjoyed each one even more, and was so grateful that I got to experience this thing we call life. It was truly a joy to behold.

It was twenty years later that I would find myself talking of Elaine and the impact that she had on my attitude towards life. It happened at work, as I watched the clouds roll by on that particularly wet and cloudy day. My boss, who was also my very good friend, was in despair, because in a few years she would be turning forty. She hated her birthdays with every year that passed. Her mood seemed to match that of the weather outside, so I thought it was time to tell her about Elaine.

As she listened to my story and became familiar with my yearly ritual which I still performed every birthday, she declared, “What a sad way for a child to grow up, always being so afraid that you have to pray for another year of life.” I explained to her that I saw it in a different way. To be so aware of the fact that you have the opportunity to enjoy all that this life has to offer, to appreciate it, and to look forward to each year, was indeed a gift. It was a gift that was given to me by someone who never got to realize that she had done so.

I kept my eyes on my dear friend as she walked back to her office; then I turned back to look beyond the wall to wall windows that stood before me. The wet asphalt on the parking lot took me back to that other asphalt parking lot from so long ago. It reflected the movement of clouds, passing cars, the changing colors of the traffic lights, and people walking in various directions. As I savored the moment, I thought about those things that are sad, and those things that bring joy, and people who come into your life, and those who one day leave.

I was glad that instead of dreading the idea of turning a year older, I actually looked forward to it and rejoiced in that fact. And I thought about Elaine with her braids and multi-colored barrettes, her almond shaped brown eyes, her fabulous smile, and the age that she would have been at that time. She would have been turning thirty, and I’m sure quite happy about it. I wish she had lived a longer life, but she didn’t. Instead, I learned a lesson and decided to take it forward, and yes, to keep saying that prayer. I said it this past birthday, and I will say it again on my next birthday, and so on, and so on, and so on, hopefully for many years to come. Elaine at nine, was that pretty and nice young girl, who for me, became even more. For me, the name Elaine and the number nine, will always represent the ability to learn, to behold, and to appreciate.