She wrestled with childhood, hopelessness usually winning the daily match. An only child, she was the offspring of an accident, unwanted and unplanned. As a result of her mother's inability to secure the funds to abort her and her subsequent birth, her father departed in search of another life, one that did not contain the responsibility of a child and fatherhood. When her father left, beer moved in, sometimes replaced by vodka or gin. Sobriety was a stranger who only made an appearance on rare occasions.
It happened late one evening four days before Christmas.
Nothing went right that day, despite her good intentions. Explanations that were not listened to gave way to a quagmire of corrections and slanted remarks meant to remind her of how life for her mother would have been much better if her birth had never occurred.
She sat alone on her bed that evening, her knees against her chest, while she clutched the worn flannel blanket against the darkness and the cold of the unheated apartment. She cried silent tears, wishing her mother's wish had been fulfilled. The pains of her life were far more numerous than her pleasures. She wondered and hoped for the blessed peace of nothingness, her imagination trying to envision a world in which her birth was a nonevent.
Sorrow gave way to a need for sleep, and she sprawled beneath the blanket, turning onto her stomach in the hopes that her breath against the mattress would warm her face.
In that twilight, when the border between sleep and consciousness blurred and the two intermingled, she felt a presence, wondered at it in her semiconscious state, but did not fear it. Perhaps it was a dream, that small warm hand in hers. Perhaps it was a wish come true, a friend who had found her at last and was letting her know that she was not alone. Perhaps it was her imagination. It mattered not. It gave her comfort and it was enough. She drifted into sleep.
Throughout her childhood, whenever life seemed unbearable and not worth the living, she would lie in the darkness with her arms at her side and, just before sleep would take her, she would feel the comforting presence within her hand. There were good times, to be sure. Her mother was dry for two months after joining AA and hope returned when her mother smiled at a card she'd made in school. It was a haphazard creation made with too much white paste on the flower cutouts but also with a silent plea for some sign of love. The smile was all she received. During the good times, she slept well, not needing the hand of Anna, the name she had given her invisible friend.
Others at school talked of imaginary friends, their voices giving life to their visions. She felt that maybe Anna was also her creation, but she said nothing to the others, only smiled and listened.
As she grew older, she began to challenge her mother. She would hide the alcohol or pour it down the sink before her mother returned from her own search to find meaning on the streets and in the bars. One night her mother didn't come home until the sun was half an orange in the east and the school bus was honking outside the apartment building. As she was hurrying out the door, her mother, smelling of smoke and sweat, grabbed her by the hair and told her if she ever touched her stash again she was on her own. That night, Anna's hand nestled warmly in hers.
When she reached an age when wisdom took the place of hope, she found a job and an apartment far from the torment and tears of her childhood. Anna came less frequently but did come whenever needed. Anna's comforting hand eased her timidity and fear whenever life seemed beyond her control.
And then love entered her world, beginning with a friendship that grew with each smile and evolved into love with a meaningful kiss outside the elevator, the elevator being full and into descent, leaving them the last to depart the office. That night she lay in her bed and whispered Anna's name before closing her eyes, telling her of love's magic. As she turned on her side, she thought she heard a sigh.
A year later they were married and the comfort that Anna had provided was replaced by a shared love that assuaged her needs and nurtured her soul. She would sometimes wistfully think of Anna, but as time passed she pushed the memory of her invisible friend into the realm of make-believe, convinced that she had created her in order to survive.
"One more push," the doctor said, his surgical mask slipping a bit. It had been a normal pregnancy. She felt the spasm's onslaught and grimaced, sweat running into her hospital gown as she pushed with what strength remained. The tympani of her beating heart seemed louder to her than her labored breathing. Then came the cry, that wonderful, life-filled cry, from a creation formed by love. The umbilical cord was still attached as the doctor laid the baby on her stomach. "It's a girl," he said. "Have you named her yet?"
The bundle of fury that was her daughter stopped crying when her mother touched her. Slowly, the tiny hand found hers and she gasped with remembrance at the familiar touch.
"Anna," she said with wonder, through joyful tears. "It's Anna."