The choices we make

Mary knew the sun was about to come up. She lay in her bed, waiting for the first light to find its way through the gap in the closed shutters. Under the covers, it was warm, but when Mary got out of bed she knew the chilly morning air would make her shiver. So she stayed under the blanket even though she knew she should get up. Suddenly, there was a loud coughing attack from the bed on the other side of the room. Mary forced herself to get up and wrapped her woollen shawl around her as she rushed to the other bed. It was her mother who had coughed. Mary looked at her mother and saw the glazed look, though it met her gaze, it didn’t seem to see her. Mary was afraid of that look. Her mother had had it for almost three days and Mary’s father had had it for almost five. It had been almost two weeks since her father first got sick and then her mother had fallen ill. Now she was the one who took care of them and the household. She turned around and went back to her own bed. There, her dress hung over the headboard, and she hurried to pull it over her head. It did not offer any direct warmth, as it was cold from hanging unused during the night. But it would soon get warm. She went up to the fireplace and stirred among the remains of the fire that burned there during the night. There were still embers left, but it took a while for Mary to get the fire going. She looked at her parents again before going down to the kitchen and out into the courtyard to collect water. The water tub which stood out in the yard had a thin layer of ice. She had to knock holes in the ice in order to fill the bucket with water. As she stood in front of the stove, she looked down into the pot where the porridge was boiling. Her mother made tastier porridge; when Mary cooked the porridge it either became too loose or she barely got it out of the pot. But when her mother made it, it was smooth and when you poured the milk, the porridge rose like an island in a white sea. When Mary poured the milk today, it got mixed with the porridge into an unappetising grey sludge. She sat down at the wooden table with her bowl and as she ate her breakfast, she thought about what it had been like before her parents got sick.

Mary and her parents lived in a small house in the city’s artisan quarter. The house was not as large as the villas that were closer to the city centre and the castle, but it was big enough for her father’s shop and for the family to live a comfortable life. Mary’s father was a silversmith, and he was skilled. Mary knew several of the city’s wealthiest families ordered jewellery and other items from her father. Her mother used to be in the kitchen, behind the store, or in the store when Mary’s father was in the forge out the back. Mary could spend her days helping her mother, listening to her father tell her how to decorate a cup so the characters seemed to dance, or running around the streets with her friends, looking at everything there was in the city. She knew almost every alley in this part of the city. But it felt like all that was years ago, Mary thought. Now she, at only ten years old, was in charge of the household and responsible for her parents. She would soon have to go to the market and buy meat and maybe vegetables, but the money they had left wouldn’t be enough. Her father’s shop had not been open since he got sick. The money had slowly but surely disappeared, and the price of food had risen. It was because of the sickness that ravaged the city. Farmers and hunters were afraid of becoming infected and did not want to enter the city to sell their goods. Those who came raised their prices. Mary was wondering if she could open the store during the day when she heard another cough. She quickly got back on her feet and poured porridge and milk into two large bowls that she carried upstairs. Her father was still asleep. It was scary the way he was breathing. But her mother was awake and looked at her with her foggy eyes.

“Good morning, Mom,” Mary said as cheerfully as she could.  “I’ve made porridge for you. I think I’m getting better at it,” she continued as she walked up to the bed. “Please, I want you to eat some, Mom. You ate almost nothing yesterday.” Mary’s mother looked at Mary but did not react when Mary held out the bowl of porridge. “I know you’re tired, but please try,” Mary coaxed. Her mother didn’t seem to hear her.

Mary put the porridge bowls on the floor and picked up a stool, on which she placed the bowls. Then she started trying to get her mother to sit up in bed. By pulling, pushing and pleading, she got her mother to sit up hunched against the headboard. When she was done, Mary felt warm and out of breath. She took a bowl of porridge and sat on the edge of the bed next to her mother. Patiently, Mary fed her. After what felt like hours, she had gotten her mother to eat a couple of spoonfuls. When Mary didn’t think her mother would eat more porridge, she put down the wooden bowl and crawled over her mother to shake her father to life. He groaned in his sleep but didn’t seem to wake up.

“Dad, I really want you to wake up,” Mary said, shaking him a little more. Her father’s eyelids fluttered and opened. His eyes focused on Mary, and he raised his hand and stroked it over her cheek. “Dad?” Mary asked, a lump in her throat.

 “My good little girl,” he whispered with cracked lips.

“Dad, I’ve made porridge for you,” Mary whispered back, hurrying to get the other bowl. She helped her father eat a couple of spoonfuls before he started coughing, and after that he didn’t want to eat anymore. “Dad, the money is almost gone. No one wants to help me because everyone is afraid of getting sick. I think I have to open the shop today, but I don’t know how to do it,” Mary said as she sat between her parents in bed.

“My beautiful and talented daughter,” said her father, smiling,

“Daddy, I need your help,” Mary pleaded, and a tear ran down her cheek. But her father had already fallen asleep again. Mary climbed gently over her mother and down on the floor. She was alone again. She had to do this on her own. Mary wiped her eyes on her sleeve. Only babies cried, and she wasn’t a baby anymore. She took the bowls of half-eaten porridge and went down into the kitchen. After cleaning up from breakfast and milking the two goats, she opened the door to the small shop. 

There was a thin layer of dust on the bench and the air felt old. Mary cleaned the shop. Her father would never open the shop if it wasn’t clean and tidy, and she wouldn’t either. It was about taking pride and knowing your worth, Mary thought. When the little shop looked nice and clean, she went upstairs again. She put new firewood on the fire and picked up the stool and placed it by one of the walls. She stood on it and reached up. Her hand felt along the wall. It felt cool and smooth. Her fingers felt their way until they found the little notch. There was the key to the chest that stood under the bench in the kitchen. Mary took the key and went downstairs and opened the chest. Wrapped in fabric and straw were her father’s finished works. Carefully, she carried the items out to the shop and placed them as her father used to do. When she was satisfied, she walked up to the door and opened it, and stepped out into the street in front of the shop. She opened the shutters that covered the windows and let the sunshine in. Mary went back inside and sat on the stool behind the counter and waited for her first customer. She was nervous that no one would come. They were perhaps too afraid of the sickness her parents had.

Everyone knew few people survived when they got the sickness. Her parents would be fine, Mary knew that. They had her taking care of them. All those other people who hadn’t made it must have been alone, or maybe the whole family had gotten sick. Mary was convinced that was the case. What bothered her the most was she hadn’t been to church for two Sundays. She couldn’t leave her parents alone for that long. This was something she often worried about. The priest used to say that God took care of those who loved him. He had also said that those who didn’t go to church on Sundays did not love God. What if God thought Mary didn’t love him and didn’t help her? Mary needed God’s help to make her parents healthy. She knew that. But Mary had had a little worship service at home, not as nice as the one in the church, but a small one. Mary didn’t know the old language, so she couldn’t say any of the nice things the priests always talked about. But she had prayed to God for a long time, and she had told of all the things she had done that were sinful, and in the end, she had asked God to save her parents. But she was still afraid God would not understand. Perhaps God didn’t even hear prayers when one was small and insignificant. Perhaps God only heard prayers from the rich and the important.

Mary’s thoughts were interrupted when a man came through the door. He blocked the sun shining through the doorway and seemed hesitant to enter. Although Mary only saw him as a black silhouette, she knew who he was.