By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. She was waiting for me. In the theater lobby. After the show. The little girl was with her family, smiling.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Theater goers were filing out of the auditorium, trying to forget the one-man shipwreck they had just witnessed onstage.
I exited stage left to go shake some hands in the lobby and apologize. And there she was.
You couldn’t miss her. An elementary-school-age kid. Big smile. Flaxen hair. Bright eyes. Holding a brightly colored poster board sign which read “I AM THE MEMPHIS BELLE.” With little hearts drawn on the sign.
“This is Luxe,” her father said by way of introduction.
That name.
I couldn’t place it at first. Luxe? Do I know a Luxe? Have I ever met a Luxe? And more importantly, do I owe Luxe money?
“Hello, Luxe,” I said.
“Hi,” came the quiet reply.
“How are you?” I said.
Then, without preamble, she hugged me. Her little arms squeezed me tightly, like she’d known me her entire life. She was about as big as a minute. Dressed up in a fancy jumper, ready for a night on the town.
“Don’t you remember me?” she asked, mid-hug.
And something clicked in my brain. I recognized the girl immediately. I felt hot tears threaten to fill my eyes. But as I say, I promised myself to remain composed.
I wrote about Luxe Trivett. It must’ve been, what, two years ago. Maybe more. I don’t know. Time flies when you’re an AARP card holder.
No, I’m kidding. I’m not an AARP member. But I might as well be, because standing next to this fresh-faced child made me feel like the late Walter Brennan.
She was 9 years old when I wrote a column about her. She was at an outpatient residence at Saint Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital, recovering from her second bone marrow transplant for aplastic anemia.
Things weren’t looking good for Luxe. She was going through hell. Tubes came from her body. Blinking lights surrounded her hospital bed. Machines galore. Bruises on her little arms from all the needle sticks. All that godawful Jello.
We embraced, there in the crowded lobby. Theater goers, still suffering the mind-paralyzing aftereffects of my performance, sort of gave us room. Luxe’s little arms entwined around me.
“How old are you now!?” I asked, releasing her from our hug so I could get a good look at her.
“Twelve,” came the response.
“Twelve!” I said.
Nod.
“Twelve! You’re practically ready for a retirement home!” I said.
Nod.
The girl never lost her smile. She never let go of her sign. The Memphis Belle. In the story I wrote about her, that’s what I called her. The Memphis Belle—since Saint Jude’s Hospital is in Memphis. And there has only ever been one Memphis Belle.
“You’re not in a hospital anymore,” I said.
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“No more wires and tubes in your little body,” I said.
Head shake. “Nope.”
“And you’re so beautiful!” I said.
She replied with another great big hug. This one, even tighter than the first. And I broke my promise.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: The Memphis Belle
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. She was waiting for me. In the theater lobby. After the show. The little girl was with her family, smiling.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Theater goers were filing out of the auditorium, trying to forget the one-man shipwreck they had just witnessed onstage.
I exited stage left to go shake some hands in the lobby and apologize. And there she was.
You couldn’t miss her. An elementary-school-age kid. Big smile. Flaxen hair. Bright eyes. Holding a brightly colored poster board sign which read “I AM THE MEMPHIS BELLE.” With little hearts drawn on the sign.
“This is Luxe,” her father said by way of introduction.
That name.
I couldn’t place it at first. Luxe? Do I know a Luxe? Have I ever met a Luxe? And more importantly, do I owe Luxe money?
“Hello, Luxe,” I said.
“Hi,” came the quiet reply.
“How are you?” I said.
Then, without preamble, she hugged me. Her little arms squeezed me tightly, like she’d known me her entire life. She was about as big as a minute. Dressed up in a fancy jumper, ready for a night on the town.
“Don’t you remember me?” she asked, mid-hug.
And something clicked in my brain. I recognized the girl immediately. I felt hot tears threaten to fill my eyes. But as I say, I promised myself to remain composed.
I wrote about Luxe Trivett. It must’ve been, what, two years ago. Maybe more. I don’t know. Time flies when you’re an AARP card holder.
No, I’m kidding. I’m not an AARP member. But I might as well be, because standing next to this fresh-faced child made me feel like the late Walter Brennan.
She was 9 years old when I wrote a column about her. She was at an outpatient residence at Saint Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital, recovering from her second bone marrow transplant for aplastic anemia.
Things weren’t looking good for Luxe. She was going through hell. Tubes came from her body. Blinking lights surrounded her hospital bed. Machines galore. Bruises on her little arms from all the needle sticks. All that godawful Jello.
We embraced, there in the crowded lobby. Theater goers, still suffering the mind-paralyzing aftereffects of my performance, sort of gave us room. Luxe’s little arms entwined around me.
“How old are you now!?” I asked, releasing her from our hug so I could get a good look at her.
“Twelve,” came the response.
“Twelve!” I said.
Nod.
“Twelve! You’re practically ready for a retirement home!” I said.
Nod.
The girl never lost her smile. She never let go of her sign. The Memphis Belle. In the story I wrote about her, that’s what I called her. The Memphis Belle—since Saint Jude’s Hospital is in Memphis. And there has only ever been one Memphis Belle.
“You’re not in a hospital anymore,” I said.
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“No more wires and tubes in your little body,” I said.
Head shake. “Nope.”
“And you’re so beautiful!” I said.
She replied with another great big hug. This one, even tighter than the first. And I broke my promise.