The Angel Who Weighed Sixteen Stone and Smelled of Cheap Coffee
In the playroom on the childrens oncology ward, everything was wrapped in a hush broken only by the whisper of paper and the gentle squeak of felt tips. The silence felt delicatefragile as glassladen with a seriousness far too heavy for children yet to see their tenth birthday. The task should have been simple: draw their Guardian Angel. The children were giving it their all.
For me, as a young volunteer, today was a kind of test. Id grown up with a certain idea of beautycrossed myself in churches adorned with painted cherubs, feather-light, golden-haired, with eyes as blue as a June sky. As I walked between the little tables, I was charmed: Jacks angel wielded a great sword; Sophies, wings as soft as whipped clouds. It was all so canonical, touching, a little repetitive.
And then I reached Molly.
She was seven, her head as smooth as a billiard ball after another round of chemo, her skin fine and translucent as tracing paper. Molly coloured with infinite care, the tip of her tongue peeking between her lips.
I glanced over her shoulder and barely managed to hide my surprise.
Instead of the usual angel, Mollys paper featured something else. A round, solid man, taking up nearly the entire page. No wings. Instead, an enormous belly stretched tight under something whitea coat?a bald head potato-shaped above thick, wonky spectacles perched on the tip of his nose.
Molly, I asked gently, crouching beside her, whos that? Were drawing angels, remember?
It is an angel, she answered steadily, though softly, not pausing her careful work on the big white belly.
But he seems a bit unusual, I ventured. Why hasnt he got wings? And hes so big?
He has wings, Molly insisted. He keeps them tucked under his coat, so they dont get dirty. It gets mucky in here.
I smiled, a little indulgently. Children and their imagination.
Heavy, wheezy breaths often echoed down the ward, sounding like an approaching train from the corridor. Shuffle, shuffle. Heavy steps so solid, you almost felt the vinyl tremble.
The playroom door opened, creaking weightily on its hinges, and he filled the doorway.
Dr. Paul Pearson, the head of resuscitation. He was enormousa large, overweight man, his triple chin tucked into the perpetually strained collar of a white coat forever too tight. His face, slick with sweat, held a tired, ashen cast. The plastic-rimmed glasses slipped to the tip of his nose; habitually, hed nudge them back with a thick finger. He smelled of tobacco, sweat, and the strong, cheap instant coffee he was always drinking. This was his third night sleeping here, on the battered staffroom sofa.
I always saw just a worn-down, neglected man who shouldve retired, or at least found a shower.
Well then, little artists! he boomed from deep in his chesta voice oddly cheerful and round as his belly. We all still here?
Were here, Doctor! came the patchwork chorus.
He lumbered through the rows, steadying himself on chair backs.
He stopped at a boy, pale and hooked up to a drip. Gently, he pressed a huge hand to the boys forehead.
Stick with us, champ, he murmured. Your results are in. We can manage this.
Then he made for Molly. I noticed her eyes light up, watched as she reached out to that heavy man, scented with smoke and coffee.
Drawing, are you? he asked. And suddenly I sawbehind those thick lenseseyes not just tired, but a fathomless, relentless blue.
You, Molly whispered.
He snorted, nudged his glasses. Dont waste your paper on me, love, Id break the page.
Just then, the clatter of machines broke out in the corridora shrill alarm, urgent.
Dr. Paul changed in an instant. The panting and shuffling fell away. Without warning, he spun round, surprisingly nimble for a man of his size, and dashed out.
Everybody stay put! he roared. Catherine! Crash kit, now!
I stayed behind, trying to hold my hands still against my chest. In the distance came shouts, clipped commands, clatter of metal, his voicenow iron, not gentle.
Breathe! Come onstay with us! Breathe!
The force of it was terrifying. Pleading and commanding at once. I pressed my eyes shut. I was scared.
Forty minutes crawled pastdrawn out and sticky as toffee. The playroom was silent now. None of the children were drawing. We all stared at the door.
Eventually, it opened. Dr. Paul Pearson staggered in, bracing himself on the frame. He was soaked through, his coat dark with sweat, a bloodstain on his sleeve. He pulled off his glasses, swiped a hand over his face, smearing exhaustion deep into every line. Then he dropped heavy and groaning onto a tiny plastic chair, which complained pitifully under his weight.
Shes alright, he gasped at the emptiness. Sleeping, now.
I looked at him, and suddenlythe fog fell away. The scales dropped from my eyes.
I looked at Mollys drawing, at the awkward, bulky man in crumpled white. Then back at the real Dr. Pearson.
What I saw was not fat or sweat. I saw solidityan anchor, massive and sure, holding these fragile, childish souls here on earth, refusing to let them drift away. A golden-winged angel wouldnt last long herefar too light, hed be blown off with the rest of them.
What was needed was this: a heavy, substantial presence, of mattress, muggy air and coffee, ready to grab at life with huge hands and growl, Not letting go.
His bald head shone under the lights like a halo, not golden but working, brimming with effort.
Molly slipped from her chair and shuffled to the doctor, who sat there with his head down, and wrapped her arms round his thick legthe only bit she could reach.
I told you, she said quietly, looking at me with eyes far too old, He keeps his wings tucked away. So we dont get cold.
Dr. Pearson placed his big trembling hand on her smooth head.
Hold on, darlings, he whispered. Just a little longer.
I turned to the windowI couldnt bear to look any more.
The tears I dreaded still came. I cried for my blindness, for searching for beauty in radiance and finesse, while true Beauty was right there, sweating on a battered chair, mopping his brow with his sleeveweighty, ungainly, and the holiest thing in the world.
