HomeThe Habit
by Lynn Nicholas
I curl my hand around the match to shelter the feeble flame. It arm wrestles with the wind, struggling for its few seconds of life. I tighten the curve of my fingers to increase the buffer, clamp my Virginia Slims Menthol between my lips, and bend my head forward until my nose twitches from the pungent scent of phosphorous. The flame dies. The score is three to zero. I blaspheme under my breath and strike a fourth match. I--by God and all that’s holy--need this cigarette, and right now. I lean against the peeling grey trunk of the eucalyptus tree, using its width as a shield. My cheeks hollow as I drag hard on the cigarette. The delicious scent of tobacco fills my nostrils, and I smile with satisfaction as a gentle stream of smoke swirls through my fingers.
My anxiety lessens. My mother called me ‘high strung’. Others have since taken me to task for being too emotional, undisciplined, impulsive, and willful. In short, I need to get a grip. Whatever. So I smoke. Smoking smooths off the rough edges. Nicotine brings me back from the brink of insanity, but my abhorrence of my addiction lands me too often on the ledge of despair. I pray until my knees ache, meditate on self-control, and try to quench the insatiable cravings with caffeine. Nothing works. Without my smokes I am a bundle of hot-wired nerves. Smoking is so imbedded in my persona now, it’s like I was born with a cigarette clutched in my tiny baby fist. I despise myself for this weakness of spirit, even as I inhale and close my eyes in pleasure.
I tuck myself deeper into the recesses of the small garden sanctuary. The expansive eucalyptus is the anchor. Grey flagstones form a courtyard of sorts, framed with red-flowered hibiscus and draping scarlet bottlebrush bushes. Hummingbirds flirt with the flowers; lizards bask on the warm flagstone. A statue of the archangel Raphael, whose name means God has healed, stands in a pose meant to comfort, with one arm extended in compassion. The layout of the garden is designed to afford privacy and solace: an alternative to the hospital chapel. I find it to be more serene, and besides, one can stash cigarettes and matches out here.
The shushing sound of wind-tossed eucalyptus leaves teases a memory from behind closed eyelids. I was twenty, cowering on a bench in this same spot, sniveling about my shortcomings. I failed to demonstrate strength of mind, again. I became too attached to a patient, who was suffering from a vicious form of cancer: esophageal. Neither chemo nor radiation therapy sent her cancer into remission; it had metastasized, and I’d just heard the news. I was weeping and praying for strength, when a young woman in scrubs crashed through the bushes and almost fell on top of me. Her eyes were swollen and she was wiping her nose on the long sleeve of her undershirt. She stuttered an apology, mortified at presenting such an unprofessional demeanor and embarrassed for almost landing in my lap. I signaled her to sit, and she slumped down beside me and broke down again. The fledging nurse confessed that nursing school did not prepare her for the grieving and sometimes angry families of terminal patients. Her classes failed to teach her how to develop emotional detachment. She was drained from the strain of it all. I confided my story of weakness, and JoAnne, the nurse, tentatively offered me my first cigarette ‘to calm my jitters’. I inhaled in my salvation and never looked back.
A dirt-filled dust devil rips through the garden. It pulls hidden bits of trash from under shrubs, swirls everything into a careless collage of rubbish, then dumps the discards helter-skelter. The exposed litter brings an old saying to mind: don’t air your dirty laundry in public. Point taken. I crush my finished butt under the toe of my boot and drop it deep into the pocket of my Dominican habit. The rough breeze pulls at my hair and I tuck the loose strands under my wimple. I stash the testimony to my shame in a stone recess under Raphael’s wings. The statue’s eyes regard me with sadness. I whisper a prayer request for the archangel to heal my disobedient and worldly spirit, and I return to my duties on St Joseph’s cancer ward. This evening, after Vespers, I’ll go to confession, again.
Lynn Nicholas, a former technical editor, writes from home in Tucson, often typing around a cat, who sits in front of the keyboard. Lynn’s stories and essays have been published by the e-zines Every Day Fiction, Long Story Short, WOW! (Women on Writing), Foliate Oak Literary Journal, Rose City Sisters Flash Fiction, and the AARP Bulletin. Lynn is also an amateur ballroom dancer. Contact Lynn.
