The Woeful Samaritan
You remember the hospital, don't you? Next to your school playground? Our family has quite a history there. Thirteen years ago, you were born here. Your mother and I walked out the front door holding you. I remember she was exhausted but could not take her eyes off you. She quietly held you all night that evening, so full of love, breaking the silence only to hum you to sleep. She loved you so much...
Only three years ago, I, your father, had an operation there. As we walked out together, the three of us, you gently tugged on your mothers blouse and asked, “Mom, why is Dad so tired today?” Your mother answered with a smile, “Your father did a great thing today. He helped a stranger who was in need.” You looked slightly confused, but rightfully so—you were only ten years old. You asked, “How? How did Dad help the stranger? And why? You said we weren't supposed to trust strangers.” Your lovely mother, ever so patient and gentle, satiated your curiosity, “Your father gave the stranger something he really needed. It was not something easy to give up. But I promise to tell you more when you're older. M'kay?” Your mother always had a way with kids. She was a Kindergarten teacher after all. She always knew the right things to say without causing you to lose your innocence. She satisfied your inquisitive mind without even hinting at the fact that I had anonymously donated one of my kidneys to Adam Thompson, coal miner, drunkard, and complete stranger with whom I had no connection with, save for the rare O-negative blood that coursed in our veins. It was a great day for me, for I felt a certain intrinsic satisfaction for what I had done to help someone. Even one such as Thompson. “Yes James,” I added to your mother's answer, “though a stranger may have nothing to do with you, and though you may have no reason or obligation to help him, it's a kind and honorable act to be a good Samaritan. Do you remember the story of the good Samaritan?” You exclaimed, “Yea! I remember! It's where the stranger gets beaten up by bad people, and two people see him but don't help him, but the Samaritan comes along and...” Your voice rambled on and on as we walked past your school playground to the car.
We're at the same hospital today, three years later, only today, it's just you and I who walk out. It is raining heavily, and the sky is darker than the black umbrella we are standing under. You're still wiping the tears off of your face on your brand new red sweater. The sleeve is the color of blood now, darkened with your torrential tears, like so many raindrops. You ask me in a shaky voice, barely audible over the sound of rain relentlessly striking the pavement, “Dad? When can Mom come home with us?” I feel my own eyes getting weighed down with tears, but I keep you from seeing them. I mask my grimness with a sad, listless smile and answer your question. “Your mother is very tired and needs to rest. But she'll come home in no time, so don't worry too much, alright Champ? Wipe your tears off now. A man needs to be able to hold his tears.” You obediently stop sniffling and ask me with a teary but hopeful gaze, “Really? You promise Dad?” My heart broke to lie to you like this, but I told you, “Yes, James. I promise. Your mother is just sleeping.”
Sleeping. What a morbid understatement for a terminal comatose state. I was sickened by the fact that I gave you false hope like this, but you must forgive me, James. I did not know what else to say. It was cruel, I know, to tell you, a mere thirteen-year-old, to swallow his tears at the sight of his mother's immobilized and listless body, but I did it to spare you heartache. You're much too young to be wallowing in grief, for you have your whole life ahead of you. You had just lost a mother today—I wasn't going to take your innocence as well. People say it was an accident, James, but this was actually your father's doing. But how could I tell you that it was the same man whom I saved three years ago who was the one who made you motherless? My heart was since turned to stone and broken apart, but it broke once again for you, knowing that you would grow up without a mother. Is it really better to have loved then lost, than to have never loved at all? I am sorry that I did not leave that piece of human refuse to die. It was the greatest mistake of my life. It was my pursuit of intrinsic reinforcement that caused everything to turn out the way it did.
When I finally escape the thoughts of grief that flood my mind, I find that we are sitting on a bench of your school playground, closed down for reconstruction. I still see the swingset that your mother's car was driven into, forced off the street by the swerving four-by-four truck the drunkard Thompson was trying to control. This was your mother's grave, James, you just don't know it.
As the rain methodically pounds against the umbrella I'm holding above us, as my dress shoes and your sneakers get drenched in the seemingly endless downpour, I get lost in my thoughts again, only to be awakened by the sound of your voice. “Dad, why do you look so sad? Mom's gonna get all better, right? Just like you and the stranger you helped out did?”
I was silent. I was lost for words. I look skywards from under my umbrella, and you follow my gaze. I feel a stray tear break loose from my right eye and stream down my cheek. What have I done for my son to deserve this injustice? I turn my head and look into your eyes. “James, never trust strangers. Never.”
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