Polly's Dead: A Narrative Fiction

Dead? Polly’s dead?” I couldn’t have heard her properly. “Polly Logan?” The sweat on my neck turned to ice and I shivered. “Our Polly? That can’t be.” I tried to remember the last time we had played together. It was before she started working. Last Christmas—no, well before that. Her family had moved to San Francisco at least two years ago. She had been a cradle friend, the girl I played dolls with. We sang nonsense songs together when we baked cakes. I could see it then, my small hands and Polly’s together on the handle of spoon. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Mother led me inside by the elbow and I sat heavily on a chair. She quickly told Eliza what happened. “There was no doctor in attendance,” Mother explained. “She had headaches from meningitis, over half an out later, cried out once, and died in her own

They don’t know what was the cause of the meningitis.” “It could have been anything. There is so much bacteria in this city, you can’t avoid it ,” Eliza said. “Is anyone else in the house sick?” “Sick with grief,” Mother said. She poured herself and Eliza each a mug of coffee. “It’s a large family, she still has seven children, all under ten years of age, one a baby in her arms.” “We’ll pray they don’t get sick,” Eliza said as she took the mug. “Are any neighbors ill?” Mother blew in her cup and nodded. “An old man who lives across the alley is rumored to be sick in bed, but you know how these stories catch fire. It’s strange though. She was a healthy girl, robust. Never saw her so much as sneeze before.” I kept my eyes closed, trying to see Polly happy, joking, maybe stealing a kiss with Matthew, then bursting through the door to tell me. It couldn’t be real. How could Polly be dead? “Matilda, are you well?” asked