My friend Trinity and I are doing weekly writing prompts that we’ve created for ourselves. I plan to post mine here. The title of each post will be the week followed by the prompt. They can be fiction or nonfiction or whatever. This one is nonfiction. It’s my first one.
I spend most of my life trying to be a kind and considerate person. To me, one of the most important things about being a human is attempting to overcome the natural self-centeredness we’re all born with to imagine others complexly and widen my capacity for compassion. We can only ever see things through our own eyes. We can only experience things from our own perspectives. As someone who thinks that empathy is one of the greatest abilities we humans have, being thoughtful and considering others is something I always strive to do. If someone cuts me off in traffic, I try to think of all the reasons they might have felt the need to do that (maybe it’s an emergency, maybe it was an accident, maybe they’re a new driver who’s just getting used to the road). If a customer is difficult and rude, I try to give them the benefit of the doubt - maybe they’re suffering a lot in their life at the moment…maybe they’re usually much kinder and more appreciative, and I’ve caught them on a bad day. You can never know exactly what’s going on in another person’s head; you never really know their motivations and reasoning for the way that they are. And I try to keep that in mind when I’m dealing with people who leave me feeling less than inclined to be polite or kind.
However.
There’s one major thing that gets in the way of me living this kind and thoughtful life all the time. Wherever I go, whatever I do, no matter the time or the place, I live with a monster by my side. This monster spends all of its time twisting about my ankles, waiting for the right moment to slither up to my shoulders.
And then it whispers in my ear. Delicious, dreadful things.
Sometimes the monster is easy to ignore. Erik leaves his shoes out in the living room where he kicked them off after work. I hear the monster purr as it slithers up to whisper about how inconsiderate my husband is, how hypocritical. Doesn’t he always stress keeping the house clean and tidy? Doesn’t he always fuss about picking up after other people? Why should I have to pick up after him? He should know better than to leave these things lying around. What a terrible, selfish man.
It’s ridiculous, right? It’s just a pair of shoes. I shush the monster, shoo it away, and I pick up the shoes. No doubt I’ve left things like this out before that Erik’s had to pick up. It’d be such a stupid and petty thing to fight over. Sometimes, the monster is easy to silence.
But sometimes it’s much harder. Sometimes I give in. Sometimes when the monster whispers, I listen.
When I’m talking to Erik and Tyler and the conversation turns in such a direction that I can’t participate, and Tyler cuts me off for trying to break in and change the subject. When the boys leave their things scattered about the living room and kitchen after I’ve spent the entire day cleaning. When family members treat me like an inexperienced 16-year-old with no opinions of worth. When Erik is angry at me and I feel like I don’t deserve it. When I feel angry and wronged but no one will apologize for what they’ve done. When professors or customers or random people in the world say and do things that upset me and hurt me and make me question all the goodness I believe exists in the world. Then I fall to the power of the monster. It stokes my feelings of anger, darkness, bitterness, injustice, all to make me finally
snap.
You deserve better than that, it tells me. They shouldn’t treat you like that. How dare they think this is okay? You should teach them a lesson. You should show them that they can’t walk all over you like that. Tell them what you really think. Show them who you really are. You shouldn’t keep your feelings locked up. Let it out! Let your feelings roar!
And when the yelling starts, and the sarcastic comments start rolling off my tongue, I find it difficult to stop. I can feel my anger and frustration feeding the monster. I can see and feel it growing larger and larger, much more difficult to contain and control. Logic and reasoning escape me, tumbling away from me as quickly and easily as my angry words. I feel myself becoming a person I don’t want to be, and I see it in the eyes of those in front of me, those on the other end of my meanness and anger, and it’s usually the people I care most about that see this worst side of me. It’s the moments when the monster takes over that I feel most unlike myself, when I’m most ashamed, when I feel less and less like a real human being and more like a monster myself.
And the monster lives for this. It finishes its feast and leaves me to my troubles before I’m even finished wrecking everything. As the monster leaves, reason and empathy return, bringing with them feelings of shame and regret as I quickly realize my mistakes. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t think about it that way. No one told me that. I didn’t realize. I could have been nicer about it. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I should have known better. That was very rude of me. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I’ll try to be better. It won’t happen again. Please forgive me.
You’d think the monster would be sated by now, but it almost always returns for dessert. This time, it doesn’t need my anger, so quickly wilted away. It doesn’t need my feelings of injustice or darkness. The monster feeds on my guilt, worry, sorrow, regret. And it’s very good at what it does.
You shouldn’t have treated them that way. They love you; they care about you. How could you be so mean? How could you say those things? How very selfish of you to act the way you did. Such a child. Do you think things will be okay now? Don’t you see that you deserve to be treated this way? You brought this upon yourself. It’s all your fault. You’ve gotten yourself into this mess. Do you really believe they’ll still love you? Do you really think they’ll forgive you? Foolish girl.
I cower under the monster’s renewed attacks, this time directed toward me. I nod, agreeing with its twisted logic. Of course it’s my fault. Of course I was wrong. I’m always wrong. The monster feeds my guilt, telling me what a terrible person I am, and I can’t help but listen. I am what’s wrong with the world. The monster is constant; the monster is strong. The monster is all I have left.
But miraculously, I feel the monster losing strength. Someone apologizes. Someone shows how much they care about me. Someone admits they were wrong. Someone tries to cheer me up. Those I love see the monster inside of me and still I find them standing by my side. And in the face of such support, such loyalty, such goodness, such love…the monster doesn’t stand a chance. I see the good in the world again, and I see the good in myself, all through the lens of the people I love and care about. They help me conquer the monster and keep it at bay. They help me find and become my true self, one that is kind and thoughtful and considerate. They help me feel empathy for those around me, and I hope I do the same for them.
The monster still lives inside me, and I still can’t win every battle. But as long as I can keep fighting, as long as I’m aware of the monster and try to keep it from winning me over, as long as I’m trying my best to be the good person that I know I can be, I think that’s enough.
The monster says otherwise, but I don’t even bother listening.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Thursday, September 18, 2014
The Story of Benjamin Watson
So here I am, back in a short story writing class. It's exciting to write again...it's been a while, and it feels nice to get back into the swing of things.
Anyway, this story is my longest one yet (my professor set the page limit at 30 this time). Erik said this is his favorite story that I've written so far, which is a wonderful thing to hear because this is the story I've been most uncertain about. I came up with the idea of telling Ben's story not long ago, and I really really like him. I've been struggling with trying to do him justice, and I hope I did okay. Celia is based on my friend Trinity, who is easily the best person I've ever met at cheering people up and making connections with people she's never even met before.
So anyway, here it is! This is the final copy I'm turning in to my class tomorrow for group critique. It doesn't have a title yet, unfortunately. I'm really nervous but also kind of proud of my story, so we'll see how it goes. I hope they don't tear it down. I don't think I could handle that. I think I'm more sensitive about this story than I normally am, and I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.
- - - - - - -
Benjamin Watson awoke, as he did every morning, at 6:30 AM. He didn't need an alarm clock; he hadn't used one in over thirty years. His brain had somehow internalized this hour as the proper time for waking. Ben pushed himself out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom to get ready for the day. Showering was the first thing he did every morning, the stuttering start to his daily routine. He stepped carefully into the shower, trying to avoid using the handrail he'd had installed three years previously. The steaming water was a tad too hot, and he reveled in the sensation, the tingling of nerve endings.
Ben only allowed himself ten minutes to shower. He'd forgotten to grab a towel, so he slipped and slid his way across the bathroom floor and dried himself off with a thinning, ragged piece of cloth. He brushed his teeth standing naked in front of the sink, staring down at the white foam as it swirled down the drain. He dressed the same as he did every day, in a grey cotton shirt, black pants with suspenders, and argyle socks. He never altered his preferred uniform unless there was a special occasion. Ben hated special occasions. He found them disruptive.
He located his shoes in a hall closet and trudged down the hall to the kitchen to put them on. He used a small tool to help slip the backs of the shoes over his heels. Properly shoed, Ben undid the chain from his front door and stepped out onto the porch, shielding his eyes against the rays of rising sunlight blinking through the trees.
The walk down Hawthorne Street to the A.M. Café at the corner of the neighboring Harper Street was not far. Benjamin enjoyed the sensation of the morning wind brushing his bald scalp as he walked, ruffling the sparse, grey hair gathered in bunches around his protruding ears. He liked this time of morning best because there were few people up and about, and the café would not be crowded.
The wind gusted into the small café as Ben opened the door and slipped inside. A hush seemed to settle over the mostly empty room as the door swung shut behind him. Ben walked right up to the counter, hands digging in his pockets. No one greeted him, but a lone cup of coffee sat waiting, lazy tendrils of steam rising from the surface and disappearing into the cool air. Ben set two dollars and fifty-eight cents exact change onto the counter, then he wrapped his knobby fingers around the waiting cup and meandered toward his usual table in the far corner of the room.
As he sat down, Ben sent a sweeping look around the café. He’d known the first time he walked through the door that the café would become a part of his routine. The A.M. Café was beautiful, with an open and airy design that still managed to be cozy. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling lined the red brick walls, letting in large swathes of light from the rising sun. The café was split by half-walls into several alcoves, giving the impression of privacy and separation without breaking up the room. In the center of the largest alcove stood a long community table made of dark wood and surrounded by benches. Small orbs of light dangled over the table where one or two other early risers sat clustered chatting amongst themselves and munching on sandwiches or pastries. Bookshelves and smaller round tables were nestled against the walls and in corners, and a few mismatched chairs scraped against the oak floors as a young couple sat down in a corner with their steaming mugs of coffee.
Ben set the warm mug on the table and sat down in the chair facing a window that looked out over a sea of wildflowers preening in a neighboring field. He leaned back and took a long, slow sip of dark coffee. Coffee was his vice, his one addiction that he would never willingly kick. He'd quit smoking twenty years ago at the insistence of his second wife, and he'd never been much of a drinker. Coffee, however...that was a different story. He'd enjoyed a lifelong love affair with coffee, and it was a relationship he planned to savor until the day he died.
Ben sighed deeply, his breath mixing with the coffee's rising steam in an intimate embrace. A feeling of lazy contentment stole through him along with the heat of the coffee. This, he felt, was how things should be: cup of coffee, solitary table, beautiful view, and nothing at all to disturb his peace.
- - - - - - -
The coffee never lasted through the hour that he sat in the café, but Ben never asked for a second cup. He stared out the window, swilling the dregs of coffee left in his mug with a toothpick he found sitting on the table. Sometimes he brought a book or a newspaper, but most of the time, Ben just liked to sit and think. This uninterrupted time to think was often the best part of his day. Some people thought best in the shower, some in the car, some while listening to music, some in bed at night…but Benjamin Watson thought best over a cup of coffee in a café.
A glance at the large, ornate clock hanging over the counter told Ben that his café hour was up, so he scooped up his empty mug, set it in the dish bin, and stepped out into the sunlight; there were so many windows in the café that his eyes didn’t even need to adjust to the light of the risen sun outside. He retraced his steps back toward his home, whistling an unfamiliar tune he couldn’t quite place. Only when he reached the front walk of his house did he realize he was whistling a song he’d heard in the café that morning. It was odd how those things happened.
As he reached for the latch on the front gate, Ben looked up at his house, and a familiar mixture of pride and loss flowed suddenly through him. The white painted wood of the house stood out against the deep green of the surrounding foliage. A bay window looked out over the neat lawn, and stepping stones led up to an antique wooden door with a cast iron handle. Ben had built the house for his first wife, Helen, over fifty years previously. He’d spent three years walking through the front door knowing that she was waiting on the other side, and over forty years more coming home to his second wife, Fiona, and her two kids. And here he was, so many years later, entering the place he’d built to house a wife and family, but now there was no one inside waiting for him. He shook his head at the bitter thoughts and stepped into the house, trying hard to think of something more cheerful. He’d never been very good at that.
- - - - - - -
Each day when he returned home from the café, Ben liked to work in his garden. He'd picked up gardening many years before while working a few landscaping jobs. To his surprise, he’d discovered that his thumb was much greener than he’d ever realized. He relished the physical labor as well as the artistry of gardening: weeding and digging, pushing his hands deep into the soil and drawing out life. He wasn't able to do as much in his old age, but gardening was one of his hobbies that he could still keep up with. Unlike his time in the café, Ben did not think while he tended the garden. The physicality of the process pushed all thoughts from his mind, and he was able to exist for a little while as pure movement and concentration.
Perhaps due to his thoughts about the house before, Ben found it difficult to lose himself in gardening that day. His mind wandered from the plants before him to other places that he would rather avoid. He nearly cut his wrist with his garden shears in his distraction, and he did cut himself on a piece of glass he hadn’t noticed embedded in the soil. He examined the piece, trying to figure out where it had come from. An image came to him: his stepson, Ronnie, shouting and flinging a mug across the yard the last time he had visited. Ben frowned; the memory cut deeper than the glass. He shook his head and tossed the glass into the rubbish sack next to him, wishing he could discard the painful images just as easily.
- - - - - - -
Though Ben reserved a few hours after gardening for lunch and any paperwork or errands he might need to attend to, the majority of his afternoon and evening was spent reading. Ben liked to read. Reading was his escape. It was difficult for him to lead an exciting and interesting life at 82 years old, and books supplied that which was lacking in his reality. He liked adventure stories best. More often than not, Ben awoke in the morning still wearing his reading glasses and clutching a half-finished book to his chest.
Ben did, in fact, wake up in this manner several days later. He opened his eyes to the golden glow of the lamp and the discomfort of his reading glasses pressing painful indentions into the side of his face. Ben stretched and stood up from the bed, but his knee suddenly gave out. His stomach slammed into the bedpost as he caught himself. Wheezing slightly. he tried to stand again, but the leg wouldn’t support him. Ben sat down again on the bed and closed his eyes, massaging his temples. After a moment, he sighed, opened his eyes, and reached for the gnarled, wooden cane he kept near his bed. He showered as usual, forced by his bad knee to use the hated handrail for support, and then dressed himself for his short walk to the café. As he strolled slowly down the street that morning, hindered by the use of his cane, Ben couldn’t help feeling as though something was off. Nothing looked different, as far as he could tell, but there was definitely something wrong. It was louder, he thought. Yes, that must be it. The world seemed louder and busier than he usually found it at this time of morning.
When he pushed open the door and stepped into the chilly air of the café, Ben’s feeling of wrongness increased. There were more people than usual crowding around the tables of the café, and he even had to wait line before he could retrieve his coffee. According to a chalk sign near the counter, the café was having some sort of promotion. Wonderful. Ben grimaced and he gripped his cane a bit tighter as he meandered toward his usual table in the corner.
Normally, his corner was deserted. The regulars who came to the café knew that Ben liked his privacy and solitude. None of these newcomers, however, seemed to know or respect this status quo, and Ben sat down in a self-righteous huff as his usual peace and quiet was disturbed by the noisome chatter of the invading patrons. He felt a painful twinge in his knee as he sat down, which only served to worsen his mood.
As Ben turned his attention to the window and took his first, glorious sip of morning coffee, one voice carried over the general babble of the surrounding crowd.
“Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I joined you?”
Ben didn’t consider for a moment that this comment might be directed toward him. He turned to see who the person was speaking to and made eye contact with a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She wore a knee-length patterned skirt, a t-shirt advertising a band he’d never heard of before, and pale blue sneakers. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and draped over her shoulder. Her pale face was framed with chin-length bangs that were pushed behind her ears. She stared right at Ben, a question in her eyes.
Ben stared at her as though he’d never seen another human being before. She didn’t seem to be bothered by his silence; contrariwise, she must have taken his stunned lack of response for wholehearted consent, because the next thing he knew, the strange girl was tucking herself into the chair across from him. She smiled at him, but Ben, who was trying to convince himself that he was imagining things, did not smile back.
“My name is Celia Lemon,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake. Ben stared at her, unmoving, but she reached down and grasped his limp hand for a moment before retracting her own. She seemed to consider him for a moment.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
Ben was unable to respond immediately. He was having a quick internal argument with himself about whether or not he should play along with whatever this girl asked of him. Maybe if he answered her questions, he decided, she’d leave him alone.
“Ben,” he barked after a long silence.
“That’s a nice name. Short for Benjamin?” He nodded. “I’ve always liked the name Benjamin. It’s nice to meet you, Ben.”
Celia Lemon paused to take a sip of her coffee. She continued to watch Ben over the rim of her cup.
“This place is lovely, isn’t it?” she said, setting her cup back on the table. “I’ve only been here once before, but I loved it so much that I just knew I had to come back. Have you been here before?” she asked. Celia Lemon seemed to be made of smiles. Ben refused to smile back in case it made her feel welcome.
“I’ve been coming almost every day for nearly a month now, since they opened. I prefer to come in the mornings and sit alone,” he said. Celia Lemon nodded in understanding and ignored the pointedness of his remark.
“So you’re a regular, then. That must be nice. Does that mean you can just march up to the counter and order ‘the usual’ every day?”
“No. They have my cup of coffee ready for me when I come in. I don’t much like talking to people,” he said, lips pressing into a thin line.
“I can see that.” Celia replied, smirking. She took another sip of coffee, closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the pleasure. Ben looked down at his own coffee with longing; he wished this girl would leave so he could drink it in peace.
“What sort of work do you do?” she asked.
“I’m retired,” he said. “I spend most of my time alone.”
Celia sat back in her chair, her brow furrowed.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” she murmured. She stared at him in silence for a moment, looking concerned. For a split second, Ben wondered whether it was him she saw sitting before her or someone else. She suddenly seemed to realize her own gloominess and brightened again. Ben stared back in stony silence.
“You should drink your coffee before it gets cold,” she suggested, sipping her own cup. It was becoming more and more obvious that Celia wasn’t going to allow him to enjoy his coffee alone, and this peeved Ben.
“What sort of work did you do before you retired?” she asked when he didn’t respond.
“I owned a local cabinetry company for fifteen years.”
“That’s exciting! How did you get into that business?”
“I worked for the previous owner for twenty years. We became good friends, and he sold me the company when he retired,” he said.
“That’s really awesome,” she replied. “I wish I could find a job doing something I loved for thirty-five years. Did you enjoy it?”
Ben stared at her for a moment, nonplussed, wondering why on earth this young woman wanted to sit here and ask him all these questions. He thought she might be trying to annoy him, that she couldn’t possibly care about the answers to her questions, but she gave the impression of being utterly fascinated by every boring reply he gave. He couldn’t understand it.
“I suppose so. It was decent work, and it paid well.”
“Where did you learn cabinetry?” she asked.
“I picked it up as I went along. That’s how I learned most things. I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a while, and I didn’t have much schooling, so I took odd jobs here and there. I ended up doing some cabinetry work for Lawrence – the guy who owned the company – and he offered me a full time position. Said I had a knack for the business. He was a good man.” Ben looked away from Celia and watched a bee buzzing against the window pane, trying to find a way back outside to the flowery field. He hadn’t thought of his old friend in years.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Celia mumbled. “I didn’t mean to bring up such a painful topic.”
Ben came back to himself.
“Lawrence died years ago. I just…I haven’t thought about it in a while is all.” Ben ran a hand over his head, lost in thought. “He died not long before Fiona, now that I think about it.”
“Fiona?” Celia prodded.
“Hmm? Oh…my second wife. She died only a year or so after Lawrence did. Nothing too horrible, just old age. She was a bit older than me.”
“I’m sure you miss her,” Celia said.
“Of course. She was my partner for forty-two years. I always miss her. Losing Fiona wasn’t nearly as hard as losing Helen, my first wife, though. She died of pneumonia while I was in Vietnam, and I didn’t find out until after the funeral. She was much too young. At least Fiona lived a long, full life. She was ready to go, unlike Helen.”
“I’m really sorry, Ben,” she said, reaching over to grasp his hand again. This time, Ben found he was grateful for the comfort she offered. “That’s really horrible. Do you have any kids, at least?”
“Two step-children,” Ben said. “Fiona’s son and daughter from her previous marriage. Lola and Ronnie.”
“That’s wonderful! At least you have the two of them for comfort.”
But Ben was shaking his eye, eyes closed as if he were in pain.
“Not exactly. You see, Ronnie and I don’t see eye to eye. He’s never been fond of me. And Lola…she…” Ben looked away as if searching for the proper words. “We lost Lola over twenty years ago.” Celia clapped a hand to her mouth. Ben sat rigid in his chair and grit his teeth, his knuckles white against the dark tabletop.
“I’m…so sorry,” Celia whispered, and the pain in her voice made Ben turn to look at her again. She looked stricken, as if she herself had undergone the great tragedies of Ben’s life. Ben no longer attempted to understand why she was talking to him. He didn’t know when he’d stopped trying to make her go away and instead started telling her his life’s woes. Something about her undivided interest brought the words and memories bubbling to the surface.
Ben took a deep breath. “It broke Fiona. She suffered from depression for a long time after that. That day…it was one of the worst days of my life. Lola was only twenty-five. She and her husband were both killed in the car accident. I…” Ben swallowed the lump in his throat. “I loved that little girl like she was my own.”
He raised the mug to his lips with shaky hands and drank down the remaining cold dregs of coffee. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, feeling suddenly hot in the crowded room.
“I’m sorry for bringing all this up,” Celia said, looking for the first time not at Ben but down into the depths of her empty cup. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore, if it’s making you sad.”
“It helps to get it all out sometimes,” he murmured.
Celia looked up at Ben again and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“How was your day before I waltzed over here and mucked it all up?” she asked.
For the first time, Ben smiled back at her. The expression felt stiff and unnatural, as though his muscles weren’t quite sure what he was asking them to do.
“A little boring, now that you mention it,” he replied, and her lips split into a more natural grin. To his own surprise, Ben realized he’d spoken the truth. He hadn’t had a decent conversation with another person in weeks, unless he counted the pleasantries he sometimes exchanged with the mailman or a supermarket cashier. He was taken aback to realize how much he’d missed the experience.
Celia leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands, elbows on the table.
“I’m glad I could help,” she said, meeting Ben’s eyes with a grin.
- - - - - - -
Ben didn’t even think to check the clock on the wall as more and more time ticked by. He and Celia were in the middle of a discussion about music, and she was trying to describe her musical tastes to a clueless Ben.
“I like music to match and enhance my moods. I like songs that feel meaningful, you know?” Ben couldn’t help being amused at her intensity as she tried to explain her passion. Her tastes varied widely, Ben had found, ranging from music Ben had loved since childhood to bands and genres that were unfamiliar to him. The only thing Celia Lemon seemed to require from her music is that it make her feel something.
“It’s the whole point of art,” she’d explained.
When Ben revealed that he used to play piano in his youth, Celia’s face lit up with enthusiasm.
“I wish there were a piano here,” she’d said. “I’d love for you to play something for me. I’ve always wanted to learn piano.”
Ben laughed.
“I couldn’t play something now if I tried. Arthritis and a poor memory for music do not a good musician make.”
“Have you tried?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“Well…no, I suppose not. But I doubt I’d be able to play anything worth listening to, so why bother?” he answered.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s nonsense. Have a little more confidence in yourself, Ben, come on,” she said with a laugh.
“I have a great deal of confidence, Celia, my dear,” Ben said with a wry smile. “I’m entirely confident that my piano-playing abilities rival those of a one-fingered monkey.” Celia snorted into her coffee.
They bickered back and forth over Ben’s piano skills until Celia happened to glance over at a clock on the opposite wall.
“Oh goodness, Ben, we’ve been sitting here for two and a half hours! Who’d have thought? Time does fly when you’re having decent conversation, I think that’s how the saying goes.”
Ben started at this news and turned around to glance at the clock. Sure enough, he’d overstayed his café time by more than an hour and a half. He turned back to Celia looking troubled.
“Anything wrong?” she asked, concerned.
“I was supposed to leave an hour and a half ago,” he said.
“Oh…I’m sorry I kept you,” she said, looking upset. “I didn’t know you needed to leave.”
“Oh no, it’s not your fault,” he said quickly, reaching forward and grasping her hand. “I just didn’t notice the time. You’re right, I was enjoying our conversation too much to realize it had been so long.” He smiled at the dark-haired girl sitting before him, wondering how his morning plans had gotten so wonderfully bungled.
“I’m sorry, but I do have to go,” he said, pushing himself out of his chair. He faltered for a moment, his knee buckling, but just before he went sprawling across the café’s gleaming wooden floor, he felt a steady hand on at his elbow.
Careful there, Ben,” she warned, lifting him back into his seat. Ben avoided her eyes, embarrassed.
“Thank you, Celia,” he said, patting the hand on his arm. “My cane…would you mind handing me my cane?”
Celia glanced around, located the cane, and handed it to Ben, who leaned on it gratefully to relieve the pressure in his throbbing knee. He turned to watch Celia gather her things from the table, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I have a question for you,” he said as she stood and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Fire away, good sir!”
Ben turned the question over in his head for a moment, wanting to word it properly. He didn’t want to sound offensive or ungrateful, but he was curious about the answer.
“What made you decide to share a table with me this morning?”
“I didn’t want you to be lonely,” she said as if this answer were obvious.
“But I wasn’t,” Ben said, confused. “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but what made you think I was lonely?”
Celia didn’t answer his question. She fumbled with the catch on her bag and didn’t meet Ben’s eyes.
“Sometimes we don’t realize we’re lonely until we’re not alone anymore,” she said quietly.
Ben opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, unsure of what to say. Celia took a deep breath and looked up at him with a sad smile.
“It’s been lovely meeting you, Benjamin. I hope we see each other again sometime.”
“Likewise, my dear. Likewise,” Ben murmured.
Ben reached out a hand, and Celia grasped it momentarily between both of her own. Then, with a slight incline of her head and a short wave, she walked to the counter and set her empty mug in the bucket supplied for dirty dishes. Then she pushed open the door with her shoulder and walked out of the café, leaving Ben to ponder her parting words and the strange emptiness her departure left in the crowded café.
- - - - - - -
Ben’s walk home took more time than it usually did, but he didn’t notice. His brain was too full of the things he and Celia had discussed to focus on something as mundane as the passage of time. He hobbled up the path and through his front door, trying to stem the emotion and memories flooding through him again.
He decided to spend a little time that afternoon working in his garden, so he shuffled outside toward the vegetable patch he kept in his backyard, swiping his gloves off the counter as he went. He longed for the blankness that obliterated his thoughts while he gardened. He didn’t have time to get any serious work done, but he thought he could do a little weeding before he needed to go inside and focus on paperwork.
It only took a few minutes for Ben to realize that this wasn’t going to work. He didn’t need his cane once he’d kneeled down, but his knee was hurting so much that this was difficult to maintain. Finally giving in after a particularly painful twinge, Ben hoisted himself to his feet and limped back inside, tossing his gloves away from him in frustration.
Ben walked back to his office without making himself lunch; he wasn’t hungry. Leaning his cane against the side of the desk, he sat down and slipped on his reading glasses. He sifted through the various bills and paperwork piled neatly on his desk, but he couldn’t concentrate. Random emotions and phrases from his conversation with Celia kept floating across his mind, and after an hour of trying to work, Ben gave in and pushed his chair back from the desk. He thought he’d spend the remaining time this evening trying to lose himself in a book to escape the peculiar and occasionally painful thread of his thoughts.
He’d forgotten about his cane. As he stood and took a step toward the office door, his knee gave out, and his leg twisted underneath him. He hit the floor with a resounding crack, and pain shot through leg. Ben tried to push himself back up, but this sent a throbbing through his leg. His panic rising, he examined himself. He thought his hip might be broken, a conclusion that didn’t make him any calmer.
I need the phone, he thought desperately. I need help. Help me.
He tried to think through the panic clouding his thoughts. There was a phone on the desk, he thought. Yes, there it was; he could see it if he strained his neck. He reached his arm up, but the phone was too far away. He looked down at his leg, trying to figure out what to do. There was nothing for it; he had to reach the phone. Using the single-minded determination he’d learned in the military so many years ago, Ben distributed his weight as much as possible and pushed himself off the floor, arm extended toward the phone on the desk. He let out a yell of pain and frustration as the pressure on his fractured hip sent a wave of agony radiating through his lower body. His hand groped around on the desk until finally, he sagged back onto the floor with a gasp, the phone clutched in his shaking hand.
- - - - - - -
It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive. By the time the paramedics burst into the office, Ben was lying on the floor with his eyes squeezed shut, drenched in a cold sweat. The paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher and carried the tense and panting Ben into the ambulance.
Several hours and x-rays after arriving at the emergency room, the attending doctor informed Ben that they would need to perform immediate surgery on his hip. Ben filled out and signed stacks of forms without any real awareness of what he was doing. He nodded his head at everything the doctor said, and his surgery was scheduled for half an hour later. Ben lay back on his hospital bed and tried not to think or feel.
Half an hour later, Ben lay on a gurney surrounded by masked surgeons. He felt nervous, and he wished they would hurry and put him to sleep so he didn’t have to consider what was about to happen to him.
A young woman leaned over him. A mask covered most of her face, but Ben could tell that she was smiling at him. Their eyes met, and he felt suddenly calmer. Murmuring encouragements and explanations as she moved, the young woman placed a thick, plastic mask over Ben’s face and began to count backwards from ten. Ben’s eyelids began to droop, and he reached merciful unconsciousness before she got to six.
- - - - - - -
Benjamin Watson awoke, confused and groggy, in an unfamiliar white room. It took him several moments to remember where he was and how he had gotten there, but then it all came rushing back: the fall, the ambulance, the surgery. The lone window in the room showed the shadowy outline of a tree in the inky darkness outside. A soft beeping echoed from a monitor to his right, and Ben looked down to see wires and tubes flowing from various bags and machines to his arm and chest.
A nurse strode into the room suddenly and smiled when she saw that he was awake.
“Good evening, Mr. Watson,” she said as she checked the bags and machines hooked to him. “How are you feeling tonight?”
“Terrible,” he replied, raising a hand to his head. “I feel numb. Is that normal?”
“Yes sir, you’ll feel that way for a little while as the anesthetic wears off,” she said. She turned to face him. “Your surgery went well, and Dr. Camp will be coming by in the morning to give you some information on what comes next, okay? Now, he doesn’t want you eating much tonight, but if you’re hungry, I can get a little something for you to munch on, if you’d like.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Ben, his stomach lurching at the mere thought of food.
“Okay, then. If you change your mind, just let me know.”
The next morning, Dr. Camp did indeed appear to talk to Ben about his surgery. He explained the seriousness of a hip fracture and the physical therapy that would be necessary for Ben to be able to walk again. Ben listened and nodded where appropriate but didn’t say anything to the doctor, not even when the man asked if he had any questions. The nurse from the night before came in as the doctor left and brought Ben a small tray of food. He didn’t much feel like eating, but the nurse told him he needed to eat on doctor’s orders, so Ben reluctantly began to spoon squishy peas into his mouth.
After he finished his lunch, a thickset woman with curly black hair flowing down her back entered the room. Her name was Lisa, and she explained to Ben that she was his physical therapist and would be spending the next several weeks helping him learn to walk again.
“How long will this take?” Ben asked.
“It’ll probably be about two to three weeks,” she answered. “We don’t want to put pressure on the hip immediately, so we’ll start with a few exercises that you can do while sitting down to get the hip used to movement again. Then we’ll progress to putting full pressure on the hip, then walking first with a walker, then with crutches, and finally with a cane.”
“How will I get to the bathroom?” he asked, his apprehension growing.
“Either I or a nurse will have to help you with that for a while. That’s something we’re going to practice, getting to and from the bathroom. Soon, you’ll be able to do that on your own again.”
She smiled at him, but Ben didn’t smile back. The idea of being stuck in the hospital for several weeks, needing the help of nurses and therapists even to get to the bathroom, was one that left him feeling dismayed and embarrassed. How had this happened? Why did he have to fall and break his hip?
His emotions must have shown on his face, because the therapist gave him a knowing look.
“I know it’s hard to hear that you’ll be an invalid for several weeks, but I promise it’ll be okay. Just relax and concentrate on healing, and you’ll be better and walking around before you know it.” She reached out and patted his shoulder, but Ben flinched away from her touch. She didn’t look offended, but her smile disappeared.
“Just know that I and the nurses and doctors here care about you. We want to help you get better, Ben, okay?” She took a deep breath. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back in the morning to start your exercises.”
Lisa stood and left the room. Ben didn’t turn to look until he heard the door click shut behind her. He felt a sudden, desperate despair as he leaned back in his hospital bed and contemplated the weeks he was facing in the hospital. He’d always taken care of himself, and now he couldn’t even walk to the bathroom without help.
Trying to suppress the hopelessness he felt squeezing his heart, Ben, clicked off the television, rolled over, and attempted to lose himself in unconsciousness.
- - - - - - -
“Come on, Ben, I know you can do it,” Lisa said.
Ben stood in front of her, clutching a rolling metal walker for support. It had been two weeks since his surgery, and he’d just started learning to move unassisted with the walker. His body sagged a bit as he stood on his own. His pressed down on the walker, trying to take some of the weight off his aching hip.
“Just two more steps, Ben. That’s all. Then we can take a break. I just need two steps,” Lisa said, beckoning him toward her. She stood a step or two away from him, close enough to offer help if he needed it but too far away for him to reach out to her for support.
Ben grit his teeth and pushed himself, attempting to move his left foot forward. He managed to lift it a centimeter and force his leg forward.
“Excellent, Ben! Now give me one more. One more step, Ben, come on,” she chanted, her incessant encouragements billowing over him like confetti: annoying and useless.
Ben concentrated, doing his best to tune out Lisa’s chattering. He wished she would just shut up and let him think. After several moments of straining, Ben lifted his right foot off the floor. He pushed his leg forward through sheer force of will, his foot dragging on the ground as he moved forward several inches.
Lisa let out a cheer and beamed at him, but Ben refused to look at her. He was tired of her reassurances and cheerful mood. Ben felt anything but cheerful. It had been two weeks since he’d broken his hip, and he could still hardly walk by himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile falter, and she let out a long sigh before telling him he could take the promised break. She picked up his arm and draped it around her neck, then helped him limp over to his usual chair. Ben preferred sitting in a chair to lying in bed all day; it made him feel like more of a human being. Lisa lowered him down into the chair, then offered him his cup of water. Ben took it without thanking her and took a sip.
“Would you like anything to eat, Ben? I’m starving,” she said. Ben shook his head without lifting his eyes. She didn’t move or respond, and he glanced up to see her staring at him with a slight frown. He looked away, trying to stem his feeling of guilt. It was nothing personal; he couldn’t pretend he was happy to be here, and he didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop pretending.
Lisa left the room, leaving Ben mercifully alone. She seemed nice, and he knew she was trying her best to help him, but it just wasn’t working. She annoyed him at best and depressed him at worst, and though he knew he needed her if he was going to walk again anytime soon, he much preferred the days when she didn’t appear to force him into painful and often humiliating situations in the name of physical therapy.
Ben leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine he was at home, sitting outside in his garden, but the ever-present antiseptic smell of the hospital prevented him from properly indulging in that fantasy. No matter how long he was in the hospital, he never got used to the smell of sterilized sickness. It gave him headaches.
Lisa was back much too quickly for Ben’s liking. Judging by the water bottle and bag of chips she carried, she’d only gone to the snack machine down the hall.
“I’m back!” she proclaimed, refilling the room with her annoying smile. Ben didn’t believe this needed any acknowledgement, so he stayed still and silent. Lisa plopped down on the couch opposite him and ripped open her bag of chips. Ben looked away from her as she ate. Though she was clearly trying to keep from making a mess, she still managed to drop crumbs all down her shirt. Ben made a mental note to avoid sitting on that couch.
After she finished her lunch, Lisa forced Ben to try the walker again. After a little more practice, he was more successful, managing to move himself forward five steps before Lisa’s cheering told him he could stop. After another hour of shuffling back and forth with the walker, Lisa finally allowed Ben to rest. She helped him into his bed, then turned the television to a random channel that Ben had lied was his favorite when she’d once asked him.
“You’re progressing wonderfully, Ben,” she told him once he was settled. “I think you’ll be ready to try walking with the cane early next week or maybe even later this week, if you keep working at it. We’ll have you walking again soon.”
Ben stared straight ahead at the television as she spoke. She gave the same spiel, or something like it, after every one of their sessions. He didn’t want to hear that he’d be walking again soon; he wanted to walk now.
Lisa informed him of what time she would be arriving the following day and gave him an overview of what they’d be doing. It came as no surprise to Ben that they would be doing much the same thing tomorrow as they had done today. He was used to this kind of repetition, the bastardized wisp of routine that was all he had left to cling to.
Lisa bade him goodbye and left him alone. Ben leaned his head back on the bed and closed his eyes. He didn’t like to admit it, but these sessions with Lisa exhausted him. Ben felt his spirits sinking lower and tried to distract himself. He stared at the television screen, attempting to empty his mind of everything but what he saw there. The young, healthy individuals striding back and forth across the screen did not make him feel any better.
- - - - - - -
Ronnie came to visit him the next day. Ben was surprised to see his stepson walk through the door to his hospital room, and he wondered for a moment if he was imagining things.
“Ronnie,” he managed to say. “What are you doing here?”
Ronnie stood several feet from the hospital bed looking uncomfortable and like he was wondering the same thing.
“I heard you were hurt, and I had to come make sure you were okay,” Ronnie replied.
“It’s good to see you, Ron,” Ben said. Ronnie let out a long sigh and wouldn’t meet Ben’s eyes.
“Look, Ben, I have to be straight with you. It’s looking like you’re not going to be able to go back home.”
Ben felt his heart rate speed up.
“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to swallow his fear.
Ronnie ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the couch Lisa normally occupied during their breaks from therapy. He leaned forward, tensed, as if ready to spring from the room at any moment. Ben could tell he didn’t want to be there.
“What do I mean?” Ronnie looked straight at Ben. “Hell, Ben, look at you. You can’t walk. You can hardly stand. You can’t even use the bathroom on your own, for God’s sake.” Ronnie stood up again and began pacing slowly back and forth.
“The fact of the matter is, you can’t take care of yourself, Ben. And Penny and I aren’t close enough to help, Ben, we’re five hours away.”
Ben closed his eyes, unable to look at his stepson any longer. He had a strong suspicion he knew was Ronnie was going to say, and the thought of it went through him like knives.
“What are you saying, Ronnie?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice from shaking.
“What I’m saying, Ben, is that we have to put you in a home.” Ben took a slow, deep breath. He heard Ronnie’s footsteps stop. Though Ronnie was by no means a small man, when Ben opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the fiery boy of twelve he’d first met forty years ago. He blinked, and Ronnie was suddenly a man again, one who was giving Ben a look that said he’d already made up his mind.
“I’m sorry, Ben, but it’s the only way,” he said.
“What’ll happen to the house?” Ben asked.
“It’ll have to be sold. You don’t have a lot of money, and Penny and I can’t afford to pay for all your medical bills and the care you’re going to need. The house will help pay for all that.”
Ben looked at Ronnie, really looked at him long and hard. The two men’s eyes met, and Ben knew there was nothing he could say or do to change his stepson’s mind. He’d had a lurking fear in the back of his mind for quite some time that this might happen, but now that it had, he felt a desperate sense of panic and futility.
“I just needed to let you know that this is how it has to be,” Ronnie said. “I didn’t want to keep you in the dark. The place we’ve found is nice. I think you’ll like it there. Penny’s heard nothing but good things about it.”
He walked over to Ben and grasped the old man’s shoulder for a moment but let go quickly.
“We just want to make sure you’re taken care of, Ben. We don’t want anything like this to happen again. You understand, right?”
“Sure, Ronnie,” Ben said. “I understand.”
“Good, good,” Ronnie said, almost to himself. “Well, I’d better get going. It’s not a short drive home. I came down to sort everything out, and I thought I’d stop by to make sure you were okay and talk to you about all this. I’ll be back when the hospital releases you to help you move into your new home.” He met Ben’s eyes again. “You’ll like it there, Ben. I’m sure you will.”
Ben looked up at his stepson and saw the same desperation he felt reflected in Ronnie’s eyes. Ben knew that Ronnie wasn’t trying to be cruel, that he was trying to take care of his stepfather in the only way he knew how, but Ben found himself unable to appreciate the gesture. He looked down at his hands.
“I guess so, Ronnie,” Ben said quietly.
Ronnie gave a jerky nod and turned toward the door.
“I’m glad you understand, Ben. We’re trying to take care of you.”
Ben mumbled his assent.
“Well, it was good to see you, Ben.”
“You too, Ronnie. Take care.”
“Will do, Ben. Be seeing you.” And with a short wave, Ronnie walked out the door.
Once he heard the door click shut, Ben blinked and finally allowed his tears to fall.
- - - - - - -
Ben woke up in a cold sweat, wondering where he was. The lights were off, and it took him a second to remember that he was still in the hospital. He blinked, and the image of his stepdaughter swam before him once more.
It was just a nightmare, he told himself.
It had been so vivid…Lola throwing her arms around his neck…the sudden glare of blinding headlights as some invisible force wrenched Lola away from him…her terrified screams and Ben, handicapped by his walker, unable to help…the semi careening into Lola as Ben screamed in horror…
Ben shook his head, trying to rid himself of the painful images. He tried to think of something different, but Lola’s screaming echoed in his ears. He turned on the television to distract himself, but he still couldn’t get the sight of her out of his mind. It was unbearable. He couldn’t take it.
He glanced around the room for something, anything, that could help him get the nightmare out of his head. His eyes fell upon the hated walker, which only served to reinforce his memories of the horror he’d just witnessed. He turned away.
An idea took hold of him, and he turned back to the walker. His heart picked up its pace as he stared at the walker, turning his crazy idea over in his mind. As Lola’s terrified face flashed before his eyes once more, Ben made up his mind.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. The walker was several feet away from him, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. Gingerly, he placed his feet on the ground, careful not to put too much weight on his right leg. He gripped the edge of the bed and hauled himself onto his feet. He swayed and grabbed hold of his rolling table for extra support. Using the table and bed as leverage, he was able to shuffle and limp until he reached the walker. Grasping hold of the metal railings, he tested his steps, feeling more secure in his mobility.
He shuffled forward, trying to find a rhythm to this once-familiar movement that felt so foreign to him now. It took him several awkward steps before he could find a pace that felt natural, and he plunged forward with desperate confidence.
Ben made it into the hall without much trouble. Holding the heavy door open had given him pause, but he’d managed it after a try or two. He glanced over at the nurse’s desk to see that the night nurse was busy somewhere else, perhaps taking a break or helping another patient. He hobbled down the hall with no particular destination in mind, fueled only by a desire to escape the imprisoning confines of his hospital room.
The end of the hallway opened into a large gathering area, a place that allowed the more mobile patients to get out of their rooms for a while and socialize with other patients. Ben had only been here once before when Lisa had tried to get him to walk longer distances. The room looked different at night. It wasn’t dark at all; the hospital kept most of its lights on at night in case of an emergency. The room was filled with benches all surrounded by plants and greenery. Ben felt a twinge of longing for his garden. He figured these plants were probably fake; the hospital staff would be too busy keeping the patients alive to worry about the plant life.
Ben didn’t want to stop in this room, but his hip was starting to throb, so he decided to take a short break. There was a large fountain in the center of the room, and Ben shuffled toward this to sit down. He wanted to trail his fingers in the water, to feel the insubstantial coolness. As he approached the fountain, however, something else caught his eye, something he hadn’t noticed the first time he visited the room.
To one side of the fountain, looking lonely in the unnatural florescent light, sat an old upright piano. Ben faltered for a moment, then changed direction, hobbling toward the piano instead. He didn’t know why he was approaching the piano, but something about the old instrument drew him in.
Ben approached the piano and slid onto the bench. He lifted the cover and stared down at the old, scratched keys. For the first time since he’d entered the hospital two and a half weeks previously, he didn’t smell the antiseptic cleanliness of the hospital. Instead, he inhaled the rich smell of old wood. He set his fingers lightly on the yellowed keys and moved them into position, ignoring the arthritis pain flaring in his joints as his fingers flexed and formed a chord. He pressed down.
The piano was slightly out of tune, but the haunting chord still rang out in the silence. Ben smiled, pleased with himself. His thoughts fluttered unexpectedly to Celia Lemon, the girl who so loved piano. He wondered what she would say if she could see him sitting here like this.
“Play me something.” Her voice came from behind him, and he turned around to see her standing there, looking the same as the first time he saw her.
He was suddenly nervous.
“I don’t know if I can,” he said, looking down at the keys in concern.
“Sure you can,” she said, grinning. She walked over to the piano with an ease that Benjamin envied and slid onto the bench next to him.
“Here, I’ll start, okay? Just join in when you feel comfortable,” she said, placing her small hand on the higher keys.
She played an airy note that flowed easily into the next, plinking out a simple tune that sounded familiar to Ben, though he couldn’t quite place it. He listened closer, watching her hands, and it came to him: “You Are My Sunshine.” He looked down at his fingers, uncertain, then glanced over at Celia, who nodded and flashed him an encouraging smile. Without thinking, Ben let his fingers stretch and form the chord. He pressed down the keys, and Celia sang along in a quiet voice that Ben found soothing.
They played through the first verse, then another, and another after that, gaining confidence with each run. Suddenly – he didn’t know when it had happened – Ben realized he was playing Celia’s part as well as his own as she continued to sing. His playing wasn’t perfect, and he missed a few notes here and there, but Ben didn’t care. He smiled wider than he had in weeks as he brought the song to a close with a tinkling flourish. Celia stopped singing, and they both began to laugh for the sheer pleasure of it, as though they’d never quite known how before that moment. It was several minutes before they were able to stop.
“I used to play that with my stepdaughter, Lola,” Ben said, smiling fondly at the memory. “It was the only thing she knew how to play.”
“It’s a lovely song. It has real meaning,” she said.
Ben turned to her, and for one small second, he saw Lola. He blinked, and Celia sat grinning at him again, her elbows resting on the keys.
“What meaning is that?” he asked.
“You know.”
“I don’t, though, Celia. I really don’t,” Ben replied, searching her face for an answer. “Please tell me.”
“Oh, Ben,” she said, giggling. “I can only tell you what it means to me. You have to decide for yourself what it means to you.”
Ben stared at her, thinking over her words.
“You’ll figure it out, Ben, I know you will.” She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling.
“What if it doesn’t mean anything to me at all?” Ben asked. He looked down at his hands resting on the piano, his skin nearly as discolored as the keys.
“Oh, it always means something, Ben,” she said. “Sometimes you just have to keep listening and playing along, which is often the best part.” She leaned over the piano and began to play something Ben didn’t recognize, singing along softly. It was a beautiful and moving piece that struck Ben right to the core. Waves of emotion welled up in him as the chords flowed through the room, and he thought he could understand what Celia meant about searching.
“What was that?” he asked when she’d let the last note drift off into silence.
“Just something that means a lot to me that I thought you would like,” she responded. Ben frowned at her cryptic answer.
Celia closed the piano lid and turned to face Ben. He felt suddenly exhausted.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“Then go to bed,” she replied.
“Will you help me?” She nodded.
Celia helped Ben to his feet and rolled his walker over to him. It was much easier to make the long journey down the hallway with her help, and she walked with him back into his room. He climbed into bed, and she pulled up a chair next to him.
“Will you sing to me?” he asked. She smiled at him.
Ben closed his eyes as Celia’s voice washed over him. After a few minutes, he couldn’t remember if it was Celia or Lola who was singing. A few minutes more, and it might have been the wind. It was a lovely tune.
- - - - - - -
Anyway, this story is my longest one yet (my professor set the page limit at 30 this time). Erik said this is his favorite story that I've written so far, which is a wonderful thing to hear because this is the story I've been most uncertain about. I came up with the idea of telling Ben's story not long ago, and I really really like him. I've been struggling with trying to do him justice, and I hope I did okay. Celia is based on my friend Trinity, who is easily the best person I've ever met at cheering people up and making connections with people she's never even met before.
So anyway, here it is! This is the final copy I'm turning in to my class tomorrow for group critique. It doesn't have a title yet, unfortunately. I'm really nervous but also kind of proud of my story, so we'll see how it goes. I hope they don't tear it down. I don't think I could handle that. I think I'm more sensitive about this story than I normally am, and I don't know if that's a good or bad thing.
- - - - - - -
Benjamin Watson awoke, as he did every morning, at 6:30 AM. He didn't need an alarm clock; he hadn't used one in over thirty years. His brain had somehow internalized this hour as the proper time for waking. Ben pushed himself out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom to get ready for the day. Showering was the first thing he did every morning, the stuttering start to his daily routine. He stepped carefully into the shower, trying to avoid using the handrail he'd had installed three years previously. The steaming water was a tad too hot, and he reveled in the sensation, the tingling of nerve endings.
Ben only allowed himself ten minutes to shower. He'd forgotten to grab a towel, so he slipped and slid his way across the bathroom floor and dried himself off with a thinning, ragged piece of cloth. He brushed his teeth standing naked in front of the sink, staring down at the white foam as it swirled down the drain. He dressed the same as he did every day, in a grey cotton shirt, black pants with suspenders, and argyle socks. He never altered his preferred uniform unless there was a special occasion. Ben hated special occasions. He found them disruptive.
He located his shoes in a hall closet and trudged down the hall to the kitchen to put them on. He used a small tool to help slip the backs of the shoes over his heels. Properly shoed, Ben undid the chain from his front door and stepped out onto the porch, shielding his eyes against the rays of rising sunlight blinking through the trees.
The walk down Hawthorne Street to the A.M. Café at the corner of the neighboring Harper Street was not far. Benjamin enjoyed the sensation of the morning wind brushing his bald scalp as he walked, ruffling the sparse, grey hair gathered in bunches around his protruding ears. He liked this time of morning best because there were few people up and about, and the café would not be crowded.
The wind gusted into the small café as Ben opened the door and slipped inside. A hush seemed to settle over the mostly empty room as the door swung shut behind him. Ben walked right up to the counter, hands digging in his pockets. No one greeted him, but a lone cup of coffee sat waiting, lazy tendrils of steam rising from the surface and disappearing into the cool air. Ben set two dollars and fifty-eight cents exact change onto the counter, then he wrapped his knobby fingers around the waiting cup and meandered toward his usual table in the far corner of the room.
As he sat down, Ben sent a sweeping look around the café. He’d known the first time he walked through the door that the café would become a part of his routine. The A.M. Café was beautiful, with an open and airy design that still managed to be cozy. Windows stretching from floor to ceiling lined the red brick walls, letting in large swathes of light from the rising sun. The café was split by half-walls into several alcoves, giving the impression of privacy and separation without breaking up the room. In the center of the largest alcove stood a long community table made of dark wood and surrounded by benches. Small orbs of light dangled over the table where one or two other early risers sat clustered chatting amongst themselves and munching on sandwiches or pastries. Bookshelves and smaller round tables were nestled against the walls and in corners, and a few mismatched chairs scraped against the oak floors as a young couple sat down in a corner with their steaming mugs of coffee.
Ben set the warm mug on the table and sat down in the chair facing a window that looked out over a sea of wildflowers preening in a neighboring field. He leaned back and took a long, slow sip of dark coffee. Coffee was his vice, his one addiction that he would never willingly kick. He'd quit smoking twenty years ago at the insistence of his second wife, and he'd never been much of a drinker. Coffee, however...that was a different story. He'd enjoyed a lifelong love affair with coffee, and it was a relationship he planned to savor until the day he died.
Ben sighed deeply, his breath mixing with the coffee's rising steam in an intimate embrace. A feeling of lazy contentment stole through him along with the heat of the coffee. This, he felt, was how things should be: cup of coffee, solitary table, beautiful view, and nothing at all to disturb his peace.
- - - - - - -
The coffee never lasted through the hour that he sat in the café, but Ben never asked for a second cup. He stared out the window, swilling the dregs of coffee left in his mug with a toothpick he found sitting on the table. Sometimes he brought a book or a newspaper, but most of the time, Ben just liked to sit and think. This uninterrupted time to think was often the best part of his day. Some people thought best in the shower, some in the car, some while listening to music, some in bed at night…but Benjamin Watson thought best over a cup of coffee in a café.
A glance at the large, ornate clock hanging over the counter told Ben that his café hour was up, so he scooped up his empty mug, set it in the dish bin, and stepped out into the sunlight; there were so many windows in the café that his eyes didn’t even need to adjust to the light of the risen sun outside. He retraced his steps back toward his home, whistling an unfamiliar tune he couldn’t quite place. Only when he reached the front walk of his house did he realize he was whistling a song he’d heard in the café that morning. It was odd how those things happened.
As he reached for the latch on the front gate, Ben looked up at his house, and a familiar mixture of pride and loss flowed suddenly through him. The white painted wood of the house stood out against the deep green of the surrounding foliage. A bay window looked out over the neat lawn, and stepping stones led up to an antique wooden door with a cast iron handle. Ben had built the house for his first wife, Helen, over fifty years previously. He’d spent three years walking through the front door knowing that she was waiting on the other side, and over forty years more coming home to his second wife, Fiona, and her two kids. And here he was, so many years later, entering the place he’d built to house a wife and family, but now there was no one inside waiting for him. He shook his head at the bitter thoughts and stepped into the house, trying hard to think of something more cheerful. He’d never been very good at that.
- - - - - - -
Each day when he returned home from the café, Ben liked to work in his garden. He'd picked up gardening many years before while working a few landscaping jobs. To his surprise, he’d discovered that his thumb was much greener than he’d ever realized. He relished the physical labor as well as the artistry of gardening: weeding and digging, pushing his hands deep into the soil and drawing out life. He wasn't able to do as much in his old age, but gardening was one of his hobbies that he could still keep up with. Unlike his time in the café, Ben did not think while he tended the garden. The physicality of the process pushed all thoughts from his mind, and he was able to exist for a little while as pure movement and concentration.
Perhaps due to his thoughts about the house before, Ben found it difficult to lose himself in gardening that day. His mind wandered from the plants before him to other places that he would rather avoid. He nearly cut his wrist with his garden shears in his distraction, and he did cut himself on a piece of glass he hadn’t noticed embedded in the soil. He examined the piece, trying to figure out where it had come from. An image came to him: his stepson, Ronnie, shouting and flinging a mug across the yard the last time he had visited. Ben frowned; the memory cut deeper than the glass. He shook his head and tossed the glass into the rubbish sack next to him, wishing he could discard the painful images just as easily.
- - - - - - -
Though Ben reserved a few hours after gardening for lunch and any paperwork or errands he might need to attend to, the majority of his afternoon and evening was spent reading. Ben liked to read. Reading was his escape. It was difficult for him to lead an exciting and interesting life at 82 years old, and books supplied that which was lacking in his reality. He liked adventure stories best. More often than not, Ben awoke in the morning still wearing his reading glasses and clutching a half-finished book to his chest.
Ben did, in fact, wake up in this manner several days later. He opened his eyes to the golden glow of the lamp and the discomfort of his reading glasses pressing painful indentions into the side of his face. Ben stretched and stood up from the bed, but his knee suddenly gave out. His stomach slammed into the bedpost as he caught himself. Wheezing slightly. he tried to stand again, but the leg wouldn’t support him. Ben sat down again on the bed and closed his eyes, massaging his temples. After a moment, he sighed, opened his eyes, and reached for the gnarled, wooden cane he kept near his bed. He showered as usual, forced by his bad knee to use the hated handrail for support, and then dressed himself for his short walk to the café. As he strolled slowly down the street that morning, hindered by the use of his cane, Ben couldn’t help feeling as though something was off. Nothing looked different, as far as he could tell, but there was definitely something wrong. It was louder, he thought. Yes, that must be it. The world seemed louder and busier than he usually found it at this time of morning.
When he pushed open the door and stepped into the chilly air of the café, Ben’s feeling of wrongness increased. There were more people than usual crowding around the tables of the café, and he even had to wait line before he could retrieve his coffee. According to a chalk sign near the counter, the café was having some sort of promotion. Wonderful. Ben grimaced and he gripped his cane a bit tighter as he meandered toward his usual table in the corner.
Normally, his corner was deserted. The regulars who came to the café knew that Ben liked his privacy and solitude. None of these newcomers, however, seemed to know or respect this status quo, and Ben sat down in a self-righteous huff as his usual peace and quiet was disturbed by the noisome chatter of the invading patrons. He felt a painful twinge in his knee as he sat down, which only served to worsen his mood.
As Ben turned his attention to the window and took his first, glorious sip of morning coffee, one voice carried over the general babble of the surrounding crowd.
“Excuse me, sir, would you mind if I joined you?”
Ben didn’t consider for a moment that this comment might be directed toward him. He turned to see who the person was speaking to and made eye contact with a young woman who looked to be in her early twenties. She wore a knee-length patterned skirt, a t-shirt advertising a band he’d never heard of before, and pale blue sneakers. Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and draped over her shoulder. Her pale face was framed with chin-length bangs that were pushed behind her ears. She stared right at Ben, a question in her eyes.
Ben stared at her as though he’d never seen another human being before. She didn’t seem to be bothered by his silence; contrariwise, she must have taken his stunned lack of response for wholehearted consent, because the next thing he knew, the strange girl was tucking herself into the chair across from him. She smiled at him, but Ben, who was trying to convince himself that he was imagining things, did not smile back.
“My name is Celia Lemon,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake. Ben stared at her, unmoving, but she reached down and grasped his limp hand for a moment before retracting her own. She seemed to consider him for a moment.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
Ben was unable to respond immediately. He was having a quick internal argument with himself about whether or not he should play along with whatever this girl asked of him. Maybe if he answered her questions, he decided, she’d leave him alone.
“Ben,” he barked after a long silence.
“That’s a nice name. Short for Benjamin?” He nodded. “I’ve always liked the name Benjamin. It’s nice to meet you, Ben.”
Celia Lemon paused to take a sip of her coffee. She continued to watch Ben over the rim of her cup.
“This place is lovely, isn’t it?” she said, setting her cup back on the table. “I’ve only been here once before, but I loved it so much that I just knew I had to come back. Have you been here before?” she asked. Celia Lemon seemed to be made of smiles. Ben refused to smile back in case it made her feel welcome.
“I’ve been coming almost every day for nearly a month now, since they opened. I prefer to come in the mornings and sit alone,” he said. Celia Lemon nodded in understanding and ignored the pointedness of his remark.
“So you’re a regular, then. That must be nice. Does that mean you can just march up to the counter and order ‘the usual’ every day?”
“No. They have my cup of coffee ready for me when I come in. I don’t much like talking to people,” he said, lips pressing into a thin line.
“I can see that.” Celia replied, smirking. She took another sip of coffee, closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the pleasure. Ben looked down at his own coffee with longing; he wished this girl would leave so he could drink it in peace.
“What sort of work do you do?” she asked.
“I’m retired,” he said. “I spend most of my time alone.”
Celia sat back in her chair, her brow furrowed.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” she murmured. She stared at him in silence for a moment, looking concerned. For a split second, Ben wondered whether it was him she saw sitting before her or someone else. She suddenly seemed to realize her own gloominess and brightened again. Ben stared back in stony silence.
“You should drink your coffee before it gets cold,” she suggested, sipping her own cup. It was becoming more and more obvious that Celia wasn’t going to allow him to enjoy his coffee alone, and this peeved Ben.
“What sort of work did you do before you retired?” she asked when he didn’t respond.
“I owned a local cabinetry company for fifteen years.”
“That’s exciting! How did you get into that business?”
“I worked for the previous owner for twenty years. We became good friends, and he sold me the company when he retired,” he said.
“That’s really awesome,” she replied. “I wish I could find a job doing something I loved for thirty-five years. Did you enjoy it?”
Ben stared at her for a moment, nonplussed, wondering why on earth this young woman wanted to sit here and ask him all these questions. He thought she might be trying to annoy him, that she couldn’t possibly care about the answers to her questions, but she gave the impression of being utterly fascinated by every boring reply he gave. He couldn’t understand it.
“I suppose so. It was decent work, and it paid well.”
“Where did you learn cabinetry?” she asked.
“I picked it up as I went along. That’s how I learned most things. I didn’t know what I wanted to do for a while, and I didn’t have much schooling, so I took odd jobs here and there. I ended up doing some cabinetry work for Lawrence – the guy who owned the company – and he offered me a full time position. Said I had a knack for the business. He was a good man.” Ben looked away from Celia and watched a bee buzzing against the window pane, trying to find a way back outside to the flowery field. He hadn’t thought of his old friend in years.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Celia mumbled. “I didn’t mean to bring up such a painful topic.”
Ben came back to himself.
“Lawrence died years ago. I just…I haven’t thought about it in a while is all.” Ben ran a hand over his head, lost in thought. “He died not long before Fiona, now that I think about it.”
“Fiona?” Celia prodded.
“Hmm? Oh…my second wife. She died only a year or so after Lawrence did. Nothing too horrible, just old age. She was a bit older than me.”
“I’m sure you miss her,” Celia said.
“Of course. She was my partner for forty-two years. I always miss her. Losing Fiona wasn’t nearly as hard as losing Helen, my first wife, though. She died of pneumonia while I was in Vietnam, and I didn’t find out until after the funeral. She was much too young. At least Fiona lived a long, full life. She was ready to go, unlike Helen.”
“I’m really sorry, Ben,” she said, reaching over to grasp his hand again. This time, Ben found he was grateful for the comfort she offered. “That’s really horrible. Do you have any kids, at least?”
“Two step-children,” Ben said. “Fiona’s son and daughter from her previous marriage. Lola and Ronnie.”
“That’s wonderful! At least you have the two of them for comfort.”
But Ben was shaking his eye, eyes closed as if he were in pain.
“Not exactly. You see, Ronnie and I don’t see eye to eye. He’s never been fond of me. And Lola…she…” Ben looked away as if searching for the proper words. “We lost Lola over twenty years ago.” Celia clapped a hand to her mouth. Ben sat rigid in his chair and grit his teeth, his knuckles white against the dark tabletop.
“I’m…so sorry,” Celia whispered, and the pain in her voice made Ben turn to look at her again. She looked stricken, as if she herself had undergone the great tragedies of Ben’s life. Ben no longer attempted to understand why she was talking to him. He didn’t know when he’d stopped trying to make her go away and instead started telling her his life’s woes. Something about her undivided interest brought the words and memories bubbling to the surface.
Ben took a deep breath. “It broke Fiona. She suffered from depression for a long time after that. That day…it was one of the worst days of my life. Lola was only twenty-five. She and her husband were both killed in the car accident. I…” Ben swallowed the lump in his throat. “I loved that little girl like she was my own.”
He raised the mug to his lips with shaky hands and drank down the remaining cold dregs of coffee. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, feeling suddenly hot in the crowded room.
“I’m sorry for bringing all this up,” Celia said, looking for the first time not at Ben but down into the depths of her empty cup. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore, if it’s making you sad.”
“It helps to get it all out sometimes,” he murmured.
Celia looked up at Ben again and forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“How was your day before I waltzed over here and mucked it all up?” she asked.
For the first time, Ben smiled back at her. The expression felt stiff and unnatural, as though his muscles weren’t quite sure what he was asking them to do.
“A little boring, now that you mention it,” he replied, and her lips split into a more natural grin. To his own surprise, Ben realized he’d spoken the truth. He hadn’t had a decent conversation with another person in weeks, unless he counted the pleasantries he sometimes exchanged with the mailman or a supermarket cashier. He was taken aback to realize how much he’d missed the experience.
Celia leaned forward and rested her chin in her hands, elbows on the table.
“I’m glad I could help,” she said, meeting Ben’s eyes with a grin.
- - - - - - -
Ben didn’t even think to check the clock on the wall as more and more time ticked by. He and Celia were in the middle of a discussion about music, and she was trying to describe her musical tastes to a clueless Ben.
“I like music to match and enhance my moods. I like songs that feel meaningful, you know?” Ben couldn’t help being amused at her intensity as she tried to explain her passion. Her tastes varied widely, Ben had found, ranging from music Ben had loved since childhood to bands and genres that were unfamiliar to him. The only thing Celia Lemon seemed to require from her music is that it make her feel something.
“It’s the whole point of art,” she’d explained.
When Ben revealed that he used to play piano in his youth, Celia’s face lit up with enthusiasm.
“I wish there were a piano here,” she’d said. “I’d love for you to play something for me. I’ve always wanted to learn piano.”
Ben laughed.
“I couldn’t play something now if I tried. Arthritis and a poor memory for music do not a good musician make.”
“Have you tried?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“Well…no, I suppose not. But I doubt I’d be able to play anything worth listening to, so why bother?” he answered.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s nonsense. Have a little more confidence in yourself, Ben, come on,” she said with a laugh.
“I have a great deal of confidence, Celia, my dear,” Ben said with a wry smile. “I’m entirely confident that my piano-playing abilities rival those of a one-fingered monkey.” Celia snorted into her coffee.
They bickered back and forth over Ben’s piano skills until Celia happened to glance over at a clock on the opposite wall.
“Oh goodness, Ben, we’ve been sitting here for two and a half hours! Who’d have thought? Time does fly when you’re having decent conversation, I think that’s how the saying goes.”
Ben started at this news and turned around to glance at the clock. Sure enough, he’d overstayed his café time by more than an hour and a half. He turned back to Celia looking troubled.
“Anything wrong?” she asked, concerned.
“I was supposed to leave an hour and a half ago,” he said.
“Oh…I’m sorry I kept you,” she said, looking upset. “I didn’t know you needed to leave.”
“Oh no, it’s not your fault,” he said quickly, reaching forward and grasping her hand. “I just didn’t notice the time. You’re right, I was enjoying our conversation too much to realize it had been so long.” He smiled at the dark-haired girl sitting before him, wondering how his morning plans had gotten so wonderfully bungled.
“I’m sorry, but I do have to go,” he said, pushing himself out of his chair. He faltered for a moment, his knee buckling, but just before he went sprawling across the café’s gleaming wooden floor, he felt a steady hand on at his elbow.
Careful there, Ben,” she warned, lifting him back into his seat. Ben avoided her eyes, embarrassed.
“Thank you, Celia,” he said, patting the hand on his arm. “My cane…would you mind handing me my cane?”
Celia glanced around, located the cane, and handed it to Ben, who leaned on it gratefully to relieve the pressure in his throbbing knee. He turned to watch Celia gather her things from the table, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I have a question for you,” he said as she stood and slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Fire away, good sir!”
Ben turned the question over in his head for a moment, wanting to word it properly. He didn’t want to sound offensive or ungrateful, but he was curious about the answer.
“What made you decide to share a table with me this morning?”
“I didn’t want you to be lonely,” she said as if this answer were obvious.
“But I wasn’t,” Ben said, confused. “Not that I’m complaining, of course, but what made you think I was lonely?”
Celia didn’t answer his question. She fumbled with the catch on her bag and didn’t meet Ben’s eyes.
“Sometimes we don’t realize we’re lonely until we’re not alone anymore,” she said quietly.
Ben opened his mouth to speak but closed it again, unsure of what to say. Celia took a deep breath and looked up at him with a sad smile.
“It’s been lovely meeting you, Benjamin. I hope we see each other again sometime.”
“Likewise, my dear. Likewise,” Ben murmured.
Ben reached out a hand, and Celia grasped it momentarily between both of her own. Then, with a slight incline of her head and a short wave, she walked to the counter and set her empty mug in the bucket supplied for dirty dishes. Then she pushed open the door with her shoulder and walked out of the café, leaving Ben to ponder her parting words and the strange emptiness her departure left in the crowded café.
- - - - - - -
Ben’s walk home took more time than it usually did, but he didn’t notice. His brain was too full of the things he and Celia had discussed to focus on something as mundane as the passage of time. He hobbled up the path and through his front door, trying to stem the emotion and memories flooding through him again.
He decided to spend a little time that afternoon working in his garden, so he shuffled outside toward the vegetable patch he kept in his backyard, swiping his gloves off the counter as he went. He longed for the blankness that obliterated his thoughts while he gardened. He didn’t have time to get any serious work done, but he thought he could do a little weeding before he needed to go inside and focus on paperwork.
It only took a few minutes for Ben to realize that this wasn’t going to work. He didn’t need his cane once he’d kneeled down, but his knee was hurting so much that this was difficult to maintain. Finally giving in after a particularly painful twinge, Ben hoisted himself to his feet and limped back inside, tossing his gloves away from him in frustration.
Ben walked back to his office without making himself lunch; he wasn’t hungry. Leaning his cane against the side of the desk, he sat down and slipped on his reading glasses. He sifted through the various bills and paperwork piled neatly on his desk, but he couldn’t concentrate. Random emotions and phrases from his conversation with Celia kept floating across his mind, and after an hour of trying to work, Ben gave in and pushed his chair back from the desk. He thought he’d spend the remaining time this evening trying to lose himself in a book to escape the peculiar and occasionally painful thread of his thoughts.
He’d forgotten about his cane. As he stood and took a step toward the office door, his knee gave out, and his leg twisted underneath him. He hit the floor with a resounding crack, and pain shot through leg. Ben tried to push himself back up, but this sent a throbbing through his leg. His panic rising, he examined himself. He thought his hip might be broken, a conclusion that didn’t make him any calmer.
I need the phone, he thought desperately. I need help. Help me.
He tried to think through the panic clouding his thoughts. There was a phone on the desk, he thought. Yes, there it was; he could see it if he strained his neck. He reached his arm up, but the phone was too far away. He looked down at his leg, trying to figure out what to do. There was nothing for it; he had to reach the phone. Using the single-minded determination he’d learned in the military so many years ago, Ben distributed his weight as much as possible and pushed himself off the floor, arm extended toward the phone on the desk. He let out a yell of pain and frustration as the pressure on his fractured hip sent a wave of agony radiating through his lower body. His hand groped around on the desk until finally, he sagged back onto the floor with a gasp, the phone clutched in his shaking hand.
- - - - - - -
It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive. By the time the paramedics burst into the office, Ben was lying on the floor with his eyes squeezed shut, drenched in a cold sweat. The paramedics lifted him onto a stretcher and carried the tense and panting Ben into the ambulance.
Several hours and x-rays after arriving at the emergency room, the attending doctor informed Ben that they would need to perform immediate surgery on his hip. Ben filled out and signed stacks of forms without any real awareness of what he was doing. He nodded his head at everything the doctor said, and his surgery was scheduled for half an hour later. Ben lay back on his hospital bed and tried not to think or feel.
Half an hour later, Ben lay on a gurney surrounded by masked surgeons. He felt nervous, and he wished they would hurry and put him to sleep so he didn’t have to consider what was about to happen to him.
A young woman leaned over him. A mask covered most of her face, but Ben could tell that she was smiling at him. Their eyes met, and he felt suddenly calmer. Murmuring encouragements and explanations as she moved, the young woman placed a thick, plastic mask over Ben’s face and began to count backwards from ten. Ben’s eyelids began to droop, and he reached merciful unconsciousness before she got to six.
- - - - - - -
Benjamin Watson awoke, confused and groggy, in an unfamiliar white room. It took him several moments to remember where he was and how he had gotten there, but then it all came rushing back: the fall, the ambulance, the surgery. The lone window in the room showed the shadowy outline of a tree in the inky darkness outside. A soft beeping echoed from a monitor to his right, and Ben looked down to see wires and tubes flowing from various bags and machines to his arm and chest.
A nurse strode into the room suddenly and smiled when she saw that he was awake.
“Good evening, Mr. Watson,” she said as she checked the bags and machines hooked to him. “How are you feeling tonight?”
“Terrible,” he replied, raising a hand to his head. “I feel numb. Is that normal?”
“Yes sir, you’ll feel that way for a little while as the anesthetic wears off,” she said. She turned to face him. “Your surgery went well, and Dr. Camp will be coming by in the morning to give you some information on what comes next, okay? Now, he doesn’t want you eating much tonight, but if you’re hungry, I can get a little something for you to munch on, if you’d like.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Ben, his stomach lurching at the mere thought of food.
“Okay, then. If you change your mind, just let me know.”
The next morning, Dr. Camp did indeed appear to talk to Ben about his surgery. He explained the seriousness of a hip fracture and the physical therapy that would be necessary for Ben to be able to walk again. Ben listened and nodded where appropriate but didn’t say anything to the doctor, not even when the man asked if he had any questions. The nurse from the night before came in as the doctor left and brought Ben a small tray of food. He didn’t much feel like eating, but the nurse told him he needed to eat on doctor’s orders, so Ben reluctantly began to spoon squishy peas into his mouth.
After he finished his lunch, a thickset woman with curly black hair flowing down her back entered the room. Her name was Lisa, and she explained to Ben that she was his physical therapist and would be spending the next several weeks helping him learn to walk again.
“How long will this take?” Ben asked.
“It’ll probably be about two to three weeks,” she answered. “We don’t want to put pressure on the hip immediately, so we’ll start with a few exercises that you can do while sitting down to get the hip used to movement again. Then we’ll progress to putting full pressure on the hip, then walking first with a walker, then with crutches, and finally with a cane.”
“How will I get to the bathroom?” he asked, his apprehension growing.
“Either I or a nurse will have to help you with that for a while. That’s something we’re going to practice, getting to and from the bathroom. Soon, you’ll be able to do that on your own again.”
She smiled at him, but Ben didn’t smile back. The idea of being stuck in the hospital for several weeks, needing the help of nurses and therapists even to get to the bathroom, was one that left him feeling dismayed and embarrassed. How had this happened? Why did he have to fall and break his hip?
His emotions must have shown on his face, because the therapist gave him a knowing look.
“I know it’s hard to hear that you’ll be an invalid for several weeks, but I promise it’ll be okay. Just relax and concentrate on healing, and you’ll be better and walking around before you know it.” She reached out and patted his shoulder, but Ben flinched away from her touch. She didn’t look offended, but her smile disappeared.
“Just know that I and the nurses and doctors here care about you. We want to help you get better, Ben, okay?” She took a deep breath. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be back in the morning to start your exercises.”
Lisa stood and left the room. Ben didn’t turn to look until he heard the door click shut behind her. He felt a sudden, desperate despair as he leaned back in his hospital bed and contemplated the weeks he was facing in the hospital. He’d always taken care of himself, and now he couldn’t even walk to the bathroom without help.
Trying to suppress the hopelessness he felt squeezing his heart, Ben, clicked off the television, rolled over, and attempted to lose himself in unconsciousness.
- - - - - - -
“Come on, Ben, I know you can do it,” Lisa said.
Ben stood in front of her, clutching a rolling metal walker for support. It had been two weeks since his surgery, and he’d just started learning to move unassisted with the walker. His body sagged a bit as he stood on his own. His pressed down on the walker, trying to take some of the weight off his aching hip.
“Just two more steps, Ben. That’s all. Then we can take a break. I just need two steps,” Lisa said, beckoning him toward her. She stood a step or two away from him, close enough to offer help if he needed it but too far away for him to reach out to her for support.
Ben grit his teeth and pushed himself, attempting to move his left foot forward. He managed to lift it a centimeter and force his leg forward.
“Excellent, Ben! Now give me one more. One more step, Ben, come on,” she chanted, her incessant encouragements billowing over him like confetti: annoying and useless.
Ben concentrated, doing his best to tune out Lisa’s chattering. He wished she would just shut up and let him think. After several moments of straining, Ben lifted his right foot off the floor. He pushed his leg forward through sheer force of will, his foot dragging on the ground as he moved forward several inches.
Lisa let out a cheer and beamed at him, but Ben refused to look at her. He was tired of her reassurances and cheerful mood. Ben felt anything but cheerful. It had been two weeks since he’d broken his hip, and he could still hardly walk by himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile falter, and she let out a long sigh before telling him he could take the promised break. She picked up his arm and draped it around her neck, then helped him limp over to his usual chair. Ben preferred sitting in a chair to lying in bed all day; it made him feel like more of a human being. Lisa lowered him down into the chair, then offered him his cup of water. Ben took it without thanking her and took a sip.
“Would you like anything to eat, Ben? I’m starving,” she said. Ben shook his head without lifting his eyes. She didn’t move or respond, and he glanced up to see her staring at him with a slight frown. He looked away, trying to stem his feeling of guilt. It was nothing personal; he couldn’t pretend he was happy to be here, and he didn’t understand why she couldn’t stop pretending.
Lisa left the room, leaving Ben mercifully alone. She seemed nice, and he knew she was trying her best to help him, but it just wasn’t working. She annoyed him at best and depressed him at worst, and though he knew he needed her if he was going to walk again anytime soon, he much preferred the days when she didn’t appear to force him into painful and often humiliating situations in the name of physical therapy.
Ben leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine he was at home, sitting outside in his garden, but the ever-present antiseptic smell of the hospital prevented him from properly indulging in that fantasy. No matter how long he was in the hospital, he never got used to the smell of sterilized sickness. It gave him headaches.
Lisa was back much too quickly for Ben’s liking. Judging by the water bottle and bag of chips she carried, she’d only gone to the snack machine down the hall.
“I’m back!” she proclaimed, refilling the room with her annoying smile. Ben didn’t believe this needed any acknowledgement, so he stayed still and silent. Lisa plopped down on the couch opposite him and ripped open her bag of chips. Ben looked away from her as she ate. Though she was clearly trying to keep from making a mess, she still managed to drop crumbs all down her shirt. Ben made a mental note to avoid sitting on that couch.
After she finished her lunch, Lisa forced Ben to try the walker again. After a little more practice, he was more successful, managing to move himself forward five steps before Lisa’s cheering told him he could stop. After another hour of shuffling back and forth with the walker, Lisa finally allowed Ben to rest. She helped him into his bed, then turned the television to a random channel that Ben had lied was his favorite when she’d once asked him.
“You’re progressing wonderfully, Ben,” she told him once he was settled. “I think you’ll be ready to try walking with the cane early next week or maybe even later this week, if you keep working at it. We’ll have you walking again soon.”
Ben stared straight ahead at the television as she spoke. She gave the same spiel, or something like it, after every one of their sessions. He didn’t want to hear that he’d be walking again soon; he wanted to walk now.
Lisa informed him of what time she would be arriving the following day and gave him an overview of what they’d be doing. It came as no surprise to Ben that they would be doing much the same thing tomorrow as they had done today. He was used to this kind of repetition, the bastardized wisp of routine that was all he had left to cling to.
Lisa bade him goodbye and left him alone. Ben leaned his head back on the bed and closed his eyes. He didn’t like to admit it, but these sessions with Lisa exhausted him. Ben felt his spirits sinking lower and tried to distract himself. He stared at the television screen, attempting to empty his mind of everything but what he saw there. The young, healthy individuals striding back and forth across the screen did not make him feel any better.
- - - - - - -
Ronnie came to visit him the next day. Ben was surprised to see his stepson walk through the door to his hospital room, and he wondered for a moment if he was imagining things.
“Ronnie,” he managed to say. “What are you doing here?”
Ronnie stood several feet from the hospital bed looking uncomfortable and like he was wondering the same thing.
“I heard you were hurt, and I had to come make sure you were okay,” Ronnie replied.
“It’s good to see you, Ron,” Ben said. Ronnie let out a long sigh and wouldn’t meet Ben’s eyes.
“Look, Ben, I have to be straight with you. It’s looking like you’re not going to be able to go back home.”
Ben felt his heart rate speed up.
“What do you mean?” he asked, trying to swallow his fear.
Ronnie ran a hand through his hair and sat down on the couch Lisa normally occupied during their breaks from therapy. He leaned forward, tensed, as if ready to spring from the room at any moment. Ben could tell he didn’t want to be there.
“What do I mean?” Ronnie looked straight at Ben. “Hell, Ben, look at you. You can’t walk. You can hardly stand. You can’t even use the bathroom on your own, for God’s sake.” Ronnie stood up again and began pacing slowly back and forth.
“The fact of the matter is, you can’t take care of yourself, Ben. And Penny and I aren’t close enough to help, Ben, we’re five hours away.”
Ben closed his eyes, unable to look at his stepson any longer. He had a strong suspicion he knew was Ronnie was going to say, and the thought of it went through him like knives.
“What are you saying, Ronnie?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice from shaking.
“What I’m saying, Ben, is that we have to put you in a home.” Ben took a slow, deep breath. He heard Ronnie’s footsteps stop. Though Ronnie was by no means a small man, when Ben opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the fiery boy of twelve he’d first met forty years ago. He blinked, and Ronnie was suddenly a man again, one who was giving Ben a look that said he’d already made up his mind.
“I’m sorry, Ben, but it’s the only way,” he said.
“What’ll happen to the house?” Ben asked.
“It’ll have to be sold. You don’t have a lot of money, and Penny and I can’t afford to pay for all your medical bills and the care you’re going to need. The house will help pay for all that.”
Ben looked at Ronnie, really looked at him long and hard. The two men’s eyes met, and Ben knew there was nothing he could say or do to change his stepson’s mind. He’d had a lurking fear in the back of his mind for quite some time that this might happen, but now that it had, he felt a desperate sense of panic and futility.
“I just needed to let you know that this is how it has to be,” Ronnie said. “I didn’t want to keep you in the dark. The place we’ve found is nice. I think you’ll like it there. Penny’s heard nothing but good things about it.”
He walked over to Ben and grasped the old man’s shoulder for a moment but let go quickly.
“We just want to make sure you’re taken care of, Ben. We don’t want anything like this to happen again. You understand, right?”
“Sure, Ronnie,” Ben said. “I understand.”
“Good, good,” Ronnie said, almost to himself. “Well, I’d better get going. It’s not a short drive home. I came down to sort everything out, and I thought I’d stop by to make sure you were okay and talk to you about all this. I’ll be back when the hospital releases you to help you move into your new home.” He met Ben’s eyes again. “You’ll like it there, Ben. I’m sure you will.”
Ben looked up at his stepson and saw the same desperation he felt reflected in Ronnie’s eyes. Ben knew that Ronnie wasn’t trying to be cruel, that he was trying to take care of his stepfather in the only way he knew how, but Ben found himself unable to appreciate the gesture. He looked down at his hands.
“I guess so, Ronnie,” Ben said quietly.
Ronnie gave a jerky nod and turned toward the door.
“I’m glad you understand, Ben. We’re trying to take care of you.”
Ben mumbled his assent.
“Well, it was good to see you, Ben.”
“You too, Ronnie. Take care.”
“Will do, Ben. Be seeing you.” And with a short wave, Ronnie walked out the door.
Once he heard the door click shut, Ben blinked and finally allowed his tears to fall.
- - - - - - -
Ben woke up in a cold sweat, wondering where he was. The lights were off, and it took him a second to remember that he was still in the hospital. He blinked, and the image of his stepdaughter swam before him once more.
It was just a nightmare, he told himself.
It had been so vivid…Lola throwing her arms around his neck…the sudden glare of blinding headlights as some invisible force wrenched Lola away from him…her terrified screams and Ben, handicapped by his walker, unable to help…the semi careening into Lola as Ben screamed in horror…
Ben shook his head, trying to rid himself of the painful images. He tried to think of something different, but Lola’s screaming echoed in his ears. He turned on the television to distract himself, but he still couldn’t get the sight of her out of his mind. It was unbearable. He couldn’t take it.
He glanced around the room for something, anything, that could help him get the nightmare out of his head. His eyes fell upon the hated walker, which only served to reinforce his memories of the horror he’d just witnessed. He turned away.
An idea took hold of him, and he turned back to the walker. His heart picked up its pace as he stared at the walker, turning his crazy idea over in his mind. As Lola’s terrified face flashed before his eyes once more, Ben made up his mind.
He pushed himself into a sitting position, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. The walker was several feet away from him, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. Gingerly, he placed his feet on the ground, careful not to put too much weight on his right leg. He gripped the edge of the bed and hauled himself onto his feet. He swayed and grabbed hold of his rolling table for extra support. Using the table and bed as leverage, he was able to shuffle and limp until he reached the walker. Grasping hold of the metal railings, he tested his steps, feeling more secure in his mobility.
He shuffled forward, trying to find a rhythm to this once-familiar movement that felt so foreign to him now. It took him several awkward steps before he could find a pace that felt natural, and he plunged forward with desperate confidence.
Ben made it into the hall without much trouble. Holding the heavy door open had given him pause, but he’d managed it after a try or two. He glanced over at the nurse’s desk to see that the night nurse was busy somewhere else, perhaps taking a break or helping another patient. He hobbled down the hall with no particular destination in mind, fueled only by a desire to escape the imprisoning confines of his hospital room.
The end of the hallway opened into a large gathering area, a place that allowed the more mobile patients to get out of their rooms for a while and socialize with other patients. Ben had only been here once before when Lisa had tried to get him to walk longer distances. The room looked different at night. It wasn’t dark at all; the hospital kept most of its lights on at night in case of an emergency. The room was filled with benches all surrounded by plants and greenery. Ben felt a twinge of longing for his garden. He figured these plants were probably fake; the hospital staff would be too busy keeping the patients alive to worry about the plant life.
Ben didn’t want to stop in this room, but his hip was starting to throb, so he decided to take a short break. There was a large fountain in the center of the room, and Ben shuffled toward this to sit down. He wanted to trail his fingers in the water, to feel the insubstantial coolness. As he approached the fountain, however, something else caught his eye, something he hadn’t noticed the first time he visited the room.
To one side of the fountain, looking lonely in the unnatural florescent light, sat an old upright piano. Ben faltered for a moment, then changed direction, hobbling toward the piano instead. He didn’t know why he was approaching the piano, but something about the old instrument drew him in.
Ben approached the piano and slid onto the bench. He lifted the cover and stared down at the old, scratched keys. For the first time since he’d entered the hospital two and a half weeks previously, he didn’t smell the antiseptic cleanliness of the hospital. Instead, he inhaled the rich smell of old wood. He set his fingers lightly on the yellowed keys and moved them into position, ignoring the arthritis pain flaring in his joints as his fingers flexed and formed a chord. He pressed down.
The piano was slightly out of tune, but the haunting chord still rang out in the silence. Ben smiled, pleased with himself. His thoughts fluttered unexpectedly to Celia Lemon, the girl who so loved piano. He wondered what she would say if she could see him sitting here like this.
“Play me something.” Her voice came from behind him, and he turned around to see her standing there, looking the same as the first time he saw her.
He was suddenly nervous.
“I don’t know if I can,” he said, looking down at the keys in concern.
“Sure you can,” she said, grinning. She walked over to the piano with an ease that Benjamin envied and slid onto the bench next to him.
“Here, I’ll start, okay? Just join in when you feel comfortable,” she said, placing her small hand on the higher keys.
She played an airy note that flowed easily into the next, plinking out a simple tune that sounded familiar to Ben, though he couldn’t quite place it. He listened closer, watching her hands, and it came to him: “You Are My Sunshine.” He looked down at his fingers, uncertain, then glanced over at Celia, who nodded and flashed him an encouraging smile. Without thinking, Ben let his fingers stretch and form the chord. He pressed down the keys, and Celia sang along in a quiet voice that Ben found soothing.
They played through the first verse, then another, and another after that, gaining confidence with each run. Suddenly – he didn’t know when it had happened – Ben realized he was playing Celia’s part as well as his own as she continued to sing. His playing wasn’t perfect, and he missed a few notes here and there, but Ben didn’t care. He smiled wider than he had in weeks as he brought the song to a close with a tinkling flourish. Celia stopped singing, and they both began to laugh for the sheer pleasure of it, as though they’d never quite known how before that moment. It was several minutes before they were able to stop.
“I used to play that with my stepdaughter, Lola,” Ben said, smiling fondly at the memory. “It was the only thing she knew how to play.”
“It’s a lovely song. It has real meaning,” she said.
Ben turned to her, and for one small second, he saw Lola. He blinked, and Celia sat grinning at him again, her elbows resting on the keys.
“What meaning is that?” he asked.
“You know.”
“I don’t, though, Celia. I really don’t,” Ben replied, searching her face for an answer. “Please tell me.”
“Oh, Ben,” she said, giggling. “I can only tell you what it means to me. You have to decide for yourself what it means to you.”
Ben stared at her, thinking over her words.
“You’ll figure it out, Ben, I know you will.” She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling.
“What if it doesn’t mean anything to me at all?” Ben asked. He looked down at his hands resting on the piano, his skin nearly as discolored as the keys.
“Oh, it always means something, Ben,” she said. “Sometimes you just have to keep listening and playing along, which is often the best part.” She leaned over the piano and began to play something Ben didn’t recognize, singing along softly. It was a beautiful and moving piece that struck Ben right to the core. Waves of emotion welled up in him as the chords flowed through the room, and he thought he could understand what Celia meant about searching.
“What was that?” he asked when she’d let the last note drift off into silence.
“Just something that means a lot to me that I thought you would like,” she responded. Ben frowned at her cryptic answer.
Celia closed the piano lid and turned to face Ben. He felt suddenly exhausted.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“Then go to bed,” she replied.
“Will you help me?” She nodded.
Celia helped Ben to his feet and rolled his walker over to him. It was much easier to make the long journey down the hallway with her help, and she walked with him back into his room. He climbed into bed, and she pulled up a chair next to him.
“Will you sing to me?” he asked. She smiled at him.
Ben closed his eyes as Celia’s voice washed over him. After a few minutes, he couldn’t remember if it was Celia or Lola who was singing. A few minutes more, and it might have been the wind. It was a lovely tune.
- - - - - - -
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Sonnet
I think sonnets are my favorite kind of poem. I like the structure inherent in a sonnet, and I really love reading iambic pentameter (yes, I'm a nerd). I'm terrible at poetry, and I've always admired those who could make it work for them. However I'm starting to suspect that I'm only really bad at expressive Romantic-esque poetry, because I've done something I never thought I'd be able to do.
I've written a sonnet!
This is a very big deal to me, since I 1) consider myself to be a terrible excuse for a poet and 2) have, for some time now, considered it a life goal to write a sonnet (yes, we've already established that I'm a nerd).
Life goal accomplished!
Anyway, here's the sonnet. It's a Shakespearean sonnet (of course), and it follows the traditional theme of a love sonnet (it's for my husband).
Thy love is like a tale writ in a book.
Thy kiss is like a sip of soda sweet.
Thy eyes may blaze with one amusèd look.
Thy smile doth bless whomever it does meet.
Thy teeming brain doth o'erflow with melodies.
Which through thy gentle hands doth make their play.
Thy fingers dance across the stripèd keys,
And through thy music, thoughts do have their say.
When thou do walk, mine eyes do follow thee,
For gazing on thy grace doth give me bliss.
When we are parted, wretched must I be,
Since heartache issues from a parted kiss.
And while together we two both shall live,
My heart to you do I forever give.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
My 2013 Year in Review
I’ve been doing a year in review thing for 2 years now, and it’s time for a third. Basically, I just try to write at least 2 important things that happened in my life for each month of the year. I did one for 2011, 2012, and now it’s time for 2013.
January: - Erik graduated from culinary school
-I started my 4th semester of college
February: - First annual Potter’s Anonymous Yule Ball!
-Second Annual Mardi Gras Quidditch Cup
March: - Erik turned 22
-Doctor Who Season 7.2 started
April: - Attended Quidditch World Cup VI in Orlando, FL
-I won Camp NaNoWriMo with 50,000 words
May: -My cousin, Matt, graduated from high school
-My brother-in-law, Tyler, graduated from high school
-My brother, Andrew, graduated from high school
-Doctor Who Season 7.2 finale (“Introducing JOHN HURT as THE DOCTOR”)
June: -Erik and my first wedding anniversary! (we played D&D)
-My pet puffer fish of 2 years, Chester, died
-Tyler moved in with us
July: -Erik and I made 5 years of dating
-I made 1 year working at Cavalier House Books
August: -Cut off my hair
-Started my junior year (5th semester) or college
-Bought a house!
September: -Moved into HOUSE
-Michael’s family day
October: -Splatterbeat!
-Attended the Livingston Parish Fair with my friends
November: -Alexis’s Wedding
-I turned 21!
-My brother got arrested.
-My other brother got shipped out to Afghanistan.
-Doctor Who 50th Anniversary!
December: - Finished my 5th semester of college (with a 3.25)
-Matt Smith’s last episode of Doctor Who!
-Finished 2013!!
January: - Erik graduated from culinary school
-I started my 4th semester of college
February: - First annual Potter’s Anonymous Yule Ball!
-Second Annual Mardi Gras Quidditch Cup
March: - Erik turned 22
-Doctor Who Season 7.2 started
April: - Attended Quidditch World Cup VI in Orlando, FL
-I won Camp NaNoWriMo with 50,000 words
May: -My cousin, Matt, graduated from high school
-My brother-in-law, Tyler, graduated from high school
-My brother, Andrew, graduated from high school
-Doctor Who Season 7.2 finale (“Introducing JOHN HURT as THE DOCTOR”)
June: -Erik and my first wedding anniversary! (we played D&D)
-My pet puffer fish of 2 years, Chester, died
-Tyler moved in with us
July: -Erik and I made 5 years of dating
-I made 1 year working at Cavalier House Books
August: -Cut off my hair
-Started my junior year (5th semester) or college
-Bought a house!
September: -Moved into HOUSE
-Michael’s family day
October: -Splatterbeat!
-Attended the Livingston Parish Fair with my friends
November: -Alexis’s Wedding
-I turned 21!
-My brother got arrested.
-My other brother got shipped out to Afghanistan.
-Doctor Who 50th Anniversary!
December: - Finished my 5th semester of college (with a 3.25)
-Matt Smith’s last episode of Doctor Who!
-Finished 2013!!
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Inked Impressions - Story 1 Final Revision
This is the revision of Crossing the Universe that I turned in to my professor this afternoon. I like it a lot better than my first draft. I think I'm quite happy with it, actually. It's very different, and it doubled in length. Hope you enjoy it! Comments/critiques are always appreciated. I plan to continue editing the story as long as I can get ideas and feedback.
Inked Impressions
She looked like the kind of girl Paul McCartney might have
written a song about. The thought
occurred to Will as he stood at the window, watching her sip coffee and type on
her laptop in the small café across the street.
He tried to think of the right words to describe her: graceful, lovely,
radiant…it all sounded so cheesy, like a bad Hallmark card. He was an artist, not a writer; he preferred
pictures to words.
The sound of his own name pulled Will back to reality. His boss, Josie, was telling him to get a
move on.
“Those tables won’t clean themselves, Will,” she said,
balancing a tray of food as she hurried by.
He winced at her stern gaze. He hated being reprimanded, and this wasn’t
the first time she’d caught him staring out the window. He turned back to his work; the last thing he
wanted was to get fired. He lifted the tub
of dirty plates, cups, and silverware off the table and wove his way toward the
swinging door in the back of the restaurant.
The kitchen was buzzing with life as the cooks tried to keep up with the
flurry of orders coming in for lunch.
Will ignored the shouts of “eighty-six the onions” and “order-up” as he
began scrubbing the dishes clean. As he
worked, his mind drifted across the street to the empty chair sitting across
from the girl in the busy café as the sound of music floated through the
kitchen.
“Is
there anybody going to listen to my story / All about the girl who came to
stay…"
--------------------
Will’s shift ended at 4:30, right before the dinner rush picked
up. He buttoned his coat, flipped up his
collar, and stepped out into the chilly evening. He glanced across the street to the café to
see The Girl typing away on her computer, a half-smile curling the corners of
her mouth in amusement at whatever she was writing. He entertained the idea of walking across the
street, entering the warm café, and introducing himself, but he knew he
couldn't do that. As far as he was
concerned, the one-way street that separated them every day was impassible, an
invisible wall between her world and his own.
He was an observer of her universe and nothing more, unable to reach
through the telescope to touch the distant stars. To breach that divide would destroy the
fragile link he'd forged between them as viewer and subject.
He shook the thought from his head and sat down on the
bench in front of Floyd's Pizza to wait for his sister. He shared a car with his sister, and she had
classes at the university down the street that ended after his shift. He didn’t mind the wait, even when his
fingers started to go numb from cold.
Will was content to watch The Girl, enjoying the frequent bursts of
laughter that punctuated her smiles as she sat at her computer. He didn't get to see such careless happiness
very often.
Sometimes he took out his sketchbook and drew her, but only
when it was warm enough that his hand wouldn’t cramp. The first time he drew her, it hadn't been
intentional. Will liked to draw
strangers. He often drew pictures of
random people he saw walking down the street or who came into the
restaurant. He found it much easier to
draw strangers than people he knew; the image in his head wasn't muddled by the
things he knew about them. He'd never
even come close to drawing an accurate picture of himself. One afternoon after The Girl first started
coming to the café, Will found himself doodling on the back of a receipt, with
no particular image in mind. He didn't realize until he'd finished that he'd
drawn a picture of her. After that, he
couldn't seem to stop himself from drawing her again and again, even though he
knew it was a strange thing to do. He
didn't tell anyone about his drawings, but he didn't think it was a big
deal. He told himself that she was no
different from the other strangers he sketched.
He was never going to meet her, so what did it matter if he drew a few
pictures of a pretty girl in a café?
It was too cold that day to draw, so Will leaned back
against the bench and watched her. He
was a little worried that she would look up and catch him staring, but she was
much too engrossed in her typing to notice the likes of him. He was just a skinny, 18-year-old busboy with
shaggy hair and too many freckles. She
was interesting and beautiful; she looked to be somewhere close to his age,
maybe a little older. The Girl was
confident, cheerful, self-assured…everything that he wasn't. They were worlds apart, and Will felt every
inch.
The Girl had bushy black hair that fell down her back in
long, curling waves. She often wore a
ponytail or headband to keep it pulled back, but today, she didn’t seem to mind
that it was falling in her face. Every now
and then, she’d pause in her typing, pushing a hand through the curls to hold
them back for a moment as she reread what she'd written. The curls would inevitably fall forward again
when she resumed her typing and needed both hands. She wore a thick, overlarge, green sweater
that fell past her hips, jeans, and ankle boots. She had one leg tucked underneath her, and
the other one swung freely under her chair.
When she got really into whatever she was writing, she’d lean forward,
moving her face closer to the bright screen.
Her eyes would widen, and her fingers would fly across the
keyboard. He found her fascinating.
Will couldn’t help but be attracted by her. She seemed incredibly cool to him. (God, did
he just call her “cool?”) She gave off
an air of sophistication and carelessness; perhaps it had something to do with
seeing her in a café every day. She
always seemed so relaxed, like nothing in the world was more important than
typing at her computer while sipping a cup of coffee. He’d never seen her upset in any way; her
café visits were riddled with smiles and laughter. Will envied and admired her carefree
happiness; he and anxiety were close friends.
He could never let go of the idea that everyone around him was watching
and judging his every move, even if he knew that wasn’t true. The Girl didn’t seem to care who was watching
her or what they might think. It was in
the way she carried herself and the way she interacted with her
surroundings. She exuded confidence
through her every movement.
He watched, absorbed, as she closed her computer and sat
back in her chair for a moment. She
ruffled her hair and looked around the café like she was seeing it for the
first time, like she'd just woken up from a vivid dream. She shook her head a little, slipped her
computer back into her bag, and took one last sip of her coffee before tossing the
cup into a trashcan and heading for the door.
A car stopped in front of Will, startling him and blocking
his view of The Girl. His sister,
Courtney, rolled down the window a crack and shouted for him to hurry and get
in the car. As he stood to open the car
door, Will glanced over at the café window, hoping to catch one last glimpse of
her, but she was already gone. He
slipped into the car, mind wandering, as he sang along to the song on the
radio.
“Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter
box. They tumble blindly as they make
their way across the universe…”
--------------------
Will thought of it as their routine. It was a constant in his life, and the only
thing he had to look forward to. The
Girl appeared at the café early in the afternoon and generally stayed until
five or six. Will spent his shift
relishing the rare glimpses he got of her throughout the day, then he would sit
and either watch or draw her from his usual spot in front of Floyd’s until his
sister showed up. It was
well-established that The Girl never left first – she remained at the café
until Courtney picked him up. He wasn’t
sure what she did or where she went once he was gone. He’d once considered
following her to find out, but he knew that was crossing the line. Will wasn't a stalker, he was just an observer. He wasn't a threat. He didn't even want to meet her; he
just liked to watch from afar. What was
the harm in that?
It was also a given that she always spent her time in the
café by herself. In the weeks that
they’d followed this schedule, Will had never once seen anyone else sitting
with her. He figured she had a boyfriend
(she had to have a boyfriend…look at her!), but she was always
alone when he saw her. Will thought
maybe the café was her place, a place where she could be alone. He respected that, envied it, even. He felt privileged to be able to share in
this time with her, even if she didn't know he was there. It was another reason he could never speak to
her. He didn't want to ruin the magic of
her café.
A shout from downstairs startled Will out of his
daydreams. His parents were fighting
again. He couldn't hear exactly what was
being said, but he didn't need to. He'd
heard it all before, and he didn't want to listen to it again. He turned up the volume on his record player
to drown out the hostile voices. He
hummed along to the music, trying not to hear, drowning out his own tension and
dread by turning his thoughts to her.
He was sitting in his room, his sketchpad open to a series
of drawings of The Girl he’d done earlier in the week before winter had
announced its undeniable presence.
Drawing was the one thing in life that Will knew he was good
at. As long as he held a pencil in his
hand, he could forget everything else in his life: his parents, the fighting,
his own failures and mistakes. He didn't
have to think about being a busboy or not going to college like his
sister. He didn't have to worry about
the future or the aimlessness of his life.
He could put the fact of his own lifeless, stagnant existence out of his
mind and just let the images flow through his arm and onto the blank page in
front of him.
He looked through the sketches, fixing a few errors, adding
a mark or two to improve the picture. He
couldn’t help but be impressed by his own skill. He’d managed to capture the essence of The
Girl on paper, tiny details he felt sure no one but him ever noticed: the way
her hands rested on the table beside her, the way she leaned over her book or
computer whenever she was interested in what she was doing. He’d noticed how she idly tapped her fingers
or curled a lock of hair around her finger whenever she was deep in
concentration. She tilted her head to
the side when she was confused or thoughtful about something - he could tell
the difference: confusion meant a furrowed brow, but thoughtful meant looking
at the sky through the window. He felt
as though he knew her intimately.
He thought of meeting her, introducing himself, having an
actual conversation with her, but he never let that fantasy go far. He couldn't even picture himself crossing the
street, much less entering the café and speaking to her. Though his thoughts were riddled with images
that was the one thing he couldn't picture.
Looking up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in his
window. He turned to look at himself,
trying to lock his own image into his brain.
He flipped to a blank page of his sketchbook and started to draw. He could tell as soon as he started that it
was all wrong. He could get the shape of
his head, the way his ears stuck out, the look of his protruding Adam’s apple,
but his face was a blur. He couldn’t
draw himself as he actually appeared.
The true image kept getting mixed up with the image in his mind, with how
he felt he should look. His own face wasn’t clear to him.
He crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it at the
garbage can, missing by a long shot, then slid the sketchbook underneath his
mattress. He always hid it because he
was afraid of what his father would say if he found out how much time Will
spent drawing. He switched out the
records and put on a Beatles album instead, setting the needle to his favorite
song. Leaning back in his desk chair, Will
closed his eyes and pictured her: graceful, beautiful…he didn’t care how cheesy
it sounded. She moved and swayed,
dancing in his mind’s eye as he sang along to the soft sound of the music.
“Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you
see…Strawberry Fields forever…”
--------------------
Will stood at the window in shock, his rag lying forgotten
on the table he was supposed to be cleaning.
He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the empty table in the café across
the street. She wasn’t there. He craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse
of the other tables; she had to be there somewhere. She couldn’t just not be there. She was always there.
He was distracted throughout the rest of his shift. Josie yelled at him several times that he
needed to get his act together. He kept
leaving cups on tables, forgetting to wipe the table down, not rinsing dishes
and putting them in the drying rack still covered in soap. He didn’t understand why she wasn’t
there. What had happened? Had he missed something, some subconscious
sign that she was changing their routine?
Josie let him off early that day - Will hoped that wasn’t a
bad sign. He couldn’t help glancing at
her table again as he stepped out into the cold afternoon. Still empty.
Disappointment crashed over him when he realized he wouldn’t see her
today. If he couldn’t rely on their
routine, there was even a chance - he admitted it was slim and a little
overdramatic - that he’d never see her again.
The thought depressed him.
Courtney asked him what was wrong when she picked him up
half an hour later, but he avoided her question. How could he tell her he was disappointed at
the disappearance of a girl he didn't even know? She'd think he was crazy. Even worse, she might say something to their
parents. He didn’t want to deal with the
fight that would inevitably break out.
Will wasn't up for being yelled at.
The Girl didn't make an appearance for the rest of that
week and all through the next. He was
starting to give up on ever seeing her again.
Will hadn't sketched at all since he last saw her. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. When The Girl disappeared, she'd taken all
his passion and energy with her.
Things at home had gotten worse. Will and Courtney came home one night to find
their father drunk and their mother gone.
She didn't come back until the next night, and then the fighting started
again, worse than ever. Will and
Courtney didn't talk about it. They each
went to their separate rooms, turned up their music, and tried to pretend that
all hell was not breaking loose downstairs.
That was the way it had always been.
Will hated it.
Even Josie had noticed that something was wrong. His work performance was suffering. She'd tried to talk to him about it, but Will
just shrugged her off. She gave him a
few days off to gather his thoughts.
Will knew she didn't want to fire him, that he wasn't giving her much of
a choice, but he couldn't seem to shake the feeling that none of it mattered
anymore. Everything just felt like a
deep shade of grey, and he didn't want to deal with any of it. Will didn't want to think about his job, his
parents, or his own lack of purpose. Who
was he, anyway? What difference did he
make to anyone? He wished he could sleep
through the next few months or maybe even years, just to get away from the
nauseating thoughts that pierced him like knives whenever they surfaced. Even getting up in the morning took a
monumental amount of effort. Will felt
like he was moving through life in a thick haze of fog, and he was unable to
reach the other side no matter how hard he ploughed through.
He tried not to think of The Girl. He knew it was a bit strange that he missed
her so much, but he couldn't help it.
She'd brought a certain light to his life that he'd been missing ever since
she left. He’d looked forward to seeing
her every day. She inspired him and made
him feel like the world was full of endless possibility. Now that she was gone, nothing felt
worthwhile. Even drawing felt like a
chore. Sleep was the only thing that
held his interest. He didn't know what
was wrong with him. He just knew that
life felt difficult these days.
Something in him was broken, and he didn't have a clue how to fix it.
As the fighting escalated downstairs, Will put in his
headphones and tried his hardest to drown out his life.
"Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be. There's a shadow hanging over me. Oh, yesterday came suddenly…"
--------------------
His sister had class on Wednesdays, so she drove Will to
work in the morning before her early class.
Will didn't remember that Josie had given him the day off until after
Courtney had driven away. He pulled out
his phone to call her, then changed his mind.
She was already running late, and he'd just have to go to school with
her anyway. He'd much rather spend the
morning here than at the university, surrounded by people who were actually
doing something with their lives. He
didn't want to be reminded of what a total failure he was. He got enough reminding of that from his
father.
Will couldn't help glancing up at the window of the café as
he shuffled over to his normal perch in front of Floyd's. Nor could he stop the tiny bubble of hope
that bloomed inside his chest as he did so.
The disappointment was that much worse when he saw again that her table
was empty. No sign of her at all. He cursed himself for getting his hopes
up. It was just one more bitter
disappointment he could add to his growing list.
It was freezing outside, and Will started to shiver. He refused to enter Floyd's Pizzeria on
principle, so he was stuck out here sitting on this bench, freezing his ass
off. The thought occurred to him that
this was going to be a terrible day. He
shook his head. It wasn't the first, and
he was sure it wouldn't be the last.
He didn't have anything to do but stare at the café
window. He sat there in the freezing
cold, eyes glued to the empty window until he couldn't stand it anymore. He couldn't look at that damn window for
another second. He dug through his bag
and found his sketchbook. Will didn't
know what to draw, didn't feel any desire to draw at all, but he'd do just
about anything to avoid looking at that window.
He didn’t care how cold it was.
He grabbed the pen he always kept in his front pocket and
began to hack away at the page, fiercely scrawling line after line, not paying
any mind to what sort of monster was forming underneath his hand. Ink bled across the paper. His vision blurred from the icy wind, and he
felt as though his hands and face were being pierced by needles. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to. After a week of feeling nothing but grey and
fog, Will felt something different. It
was small, barely perceptible, but he felt something in the pit of his
stomach. He couldn't quite put his
finger on it. He didn't know if it was
anger, spite, or maybe even pleasure, but it felt better than what had been
there before. So he kept drawing.
After half an hour, he couldn’t move his hand. It started to sleet, and the freezing slush
chilled Will to the bone and melted onto his drawing. He tucked the sketchpad inside his coat and
looked around for a covered area to sit.
There wasn't anywhere to go but into Floyd's, but that was the last
place in the world he wanted to be. Will
looked around again, desperate to find a place to finish his drawing. The tiny bit of feeling that had crept into
him while he drew was fading away, and he clung to it, trying to hold onto it
just a little longer. He swept his eyes
around wildly, his wet hair slinging bits of ice and freezing water into his
face. Finally, his eyes lit upon the one
place where he could go, the one place he would never have considered in a
million years.
He stared at the empty café window, trying to calm his
racing heart. She's not there, he
told himself. She's not there. So what does it matter? He stepped into the street and took a calming
breath. It took every ounce of
determination he had to put one foot in front of the other and keep himself
walking. He felt like he was crossing
into another universe, one where he didn't belong. He was changing the constants, altering the
equation. He had no idea what the new
answer would be.
The bell on the café door clanged as he entered. Will paused in the doorway, waiting for
something to happen. He felt like he was
crossing some invisible line, entering her café.
He'd never been inside before, but he could already tell
why The Girl would want to spend her afternoons here. The café wasn't squared off like most normal
buildings. Instead, the walls tucked and
folded in on themselves. There were
corners everywhere, creating nooks and crannies all over the place that had
been stuffed with tables and armchairs until the place was bursting at the
seams. The café was filled with
life. People were chattering at almost every
table, but the place didn't feel crowded at all. Everyone was talking to each other. The people at one table were having
conversations with people at three other tables, and those people were talking
to people at still other tables. Several
of them even smiled and waved at Will as he stepped into the café and closed
the door behind him, shutting out the howling wind. Will imagined it was like being at a large
party with group of good-natured people who all knew each other. He thought it was brilliant.
The smell of the place was intoxicating. It smelled like coffee and old books, and it
sounded like laughter. Will drank it all
in as he bought himself a small coffee, then glanced around the room, looking
for the table he'd always seen her occupy.
He found the table around the corner of a partial wall, nestled against
the window. The wall blocked out most of
the room, creating a secret refuge in the midst of the cheerful crowd in the
rest of the café.
He felt a slight ache in his chest as he stared at the
empty table. He never dreamed he'd be
standing here, taking the chair across from hers while a wintry storm raged
outside the window. But her chair was
empty. She wasn't here, but he was
instead. He smiled to himself at the
sudden reversal, surprised he remembered how to smile at all. He couldn't think of the last time he'd felt a
real smile on his face. Probably the
last day he saw her.
He pulled his sketchbook out from underneath his
jacket. The picture was a bit smudged
from the melting sleet, and the image was unclear. He wasn't sure how he was going to finish it
yet. He uncapped his pen and pressed the
tip to the page, relishing the feeling of what he recognized as excitement
swelling inside him. He arced the pen
across the page and continued drawing.
He couldn't help feeling that it was more than just ink seeping onto the
paper in front of him.
He was so lost in his drawing that he almost didn't hear
the soft “oh” of surprise from behind him.
He paused and looked up from the sketch, feeling as though he were
surfacing from the deep pool of his own mind.
It took him a moment to realize what he was looking at.
Soft eyes stared back at him from under a mess of dark,
curly hair. She held a steaming cup of
coffee in one hand and a book in the other.
Her hair and thick sweater were soaking wet, and she was dripping water
on the carpet. She'd just come in from
outside; her cheeks and nose were still pink with cold, and her eyes
shone. She lowered her eyes in
embarrassment and backed away.
"I'm so sorry," she muttered, turning to walk
away. "I didn't realize…it's just
that I usually…sorry."
Will couldn't believe she was standing in front of him,
speaking to him. He thought that
something had to be wrong with his brain to be conjuring such vivid
hallucinations. As she turned away, he
lurched to his feet.
"Don't go," he heard himself saying. "I can leave, if you like."
"No, of course not," she said, shaking her
head. "I can't let you do
that. There aren't even any other
tables. You just…just enjoy your coffee
and forget I was even here."
"No, please," he begged. "We could share if that'll make you feel
better. I promise I won't bother
you." He didn't know where this was
going, but he couldn't let it end so quickly.
She paused for a moment, considering. Will's heart thumped in his chest as he
watched her eyes skim the room for another option before she finally stepped
forward and lowered herself into the seat across from him.
"Thank you.
That's quite nice of you. I'm
Lorraine, by the way." She held out
her hand across the table.
Will's thoughts ground to a halt. Lorraine?
Was that her name? He couldn't
wrap his mind around it. All this time,
she'd been The Girl to him, and now he had a name to go with her face. Lorraine.
He thought it suited her. He couldn't
help smiling at how well the name fit the face before him. Her face reddened, and her expression changed
to one of confusion and awkwardness.
Will realized her hand was still hanging across the table, waiting for
him to take it, and he was just staring at her and smiling like an idiot.
"Sorry…sorry," he said, reaching over to grasp
her hand before she could take it away.
"Will. My name's Will. It's nice to meet you, Lorraine."
She gave him a small smile, but the blood didn't leave her
cheeks. Will cursed himself for being an
idiot. Not only had he stolen her table,
but now he'd embarrassed her as well. There's
a reason you've never crossed the street, you idiot, he told himself. You can't even hold a proper
conversation. What did you think was
going to happen?
Lorraine opened her book and buried herself in its
pages. Will turned back to his drawing
and continued mentally berating himself for his stupidity. You never should have come over here. All you've done is ruin her morning. In the back of his mind was also the terrible
thought that he couldn't ever watch her again.
He knew her name. They'd
officially met. She couldn't be a
nameless stranger to him anymore. He
felt a sinking regret. He'd ruined
everything by coming here.
He peeked up at her without moving his head and made a
decision. If he was going to ruin their
relationship as strangers, it was going to be for more than an awkward hand
shake.
"So…do you come here often?" he asked, then
realized he knew the answer already.
Lorraine glanced up at him, her eyebrows raised.
"Did you really just ask me that?" she asked
him. Will opened his mouth, confused, to
ask her what she meant. Then he realized
what she was talking about.
"Uh…yeah," he laughed. "I guess I did. I didn't even think about how bad of a line
that is. I promise I was just asking a
legitimate question." Lorraine
grinned back at him.
"Okay, then I suppose I'll answer it. Yes, I come here all the time. I take classes at the university down the
street, and it's only a short walk here.
I discovered this place at the beginning of the semester, and I've been
coming here almost every chance I’ve gotten since."
"Nice," Will responded, nodding. "It's an awesome place. This is the first time I've ever been, even
though I work across the street every day."
"At Floyd's? I
see that place every time I’m here, but I've never been. I just sit here and watch it through the
window sometimes."
"Yeah, that's it.
I'm just a busboy over there, but it's decent money. And I'm the same way, but with Floyd's. I'm always there, so I've never been
here. It's a nice place."
"I love it here," she said, beaming. "It's such a lovely space. The atmosphere is great, everyone here is
friendly. It's like an artist's
dream."
"Oh, are you an artist?" he asked her, surprised.
"Well, sort of.
I'm a writer. And while I think
writers are definitely artists, that's not what most people think of whenever
you say 'artist.' They think of people
like you," she said, gesturing to his sketchpad.
Will shrugged.
"I just like to draw things. I don't know if that's really being an
artist, but okay." Lorraine
laughed, and her eyes grew wide in disbelief.
"Are you serious?
You're an artist. Trust me on
this. I can tell, and all I've seen is
that one drawing you're working on."
Will laughed with her.
"How can you tell, then?
Just by my drawing?"
"Well, that, and you just seem like one. I spend a lot of time with writers, but I
have friends from all walks of art. I
know an artist when I see one, and especially when I talk to one. You're an artist, Will."
Will smiled at Lorraine, feeling more happy and content
than he'd been in a long time. It wasn't
even just her or how much he enjoyed talking to her. It was having a real interaction with
someone, an actual, enjoyable conversation about nothing in particular. He didn't often do this.
"I guess I'll just have to take your word for it,
then," he said.
"As you should," Lorraine said, nodding in false conceit.
"So you said you're taking classes at the
university?" Will asked, and Lorraine nodded. "What are you studying?" Lorraine, in the process of taking a sip of
coffee, held up her book so Will could see the cover. It was a copy of Charlotte Bronte's Jane
Eyre. "You're studying Jane
Eyre?" he asked, and she rolled her eyes.
"I mean, technically yes. It's one of the books I'm studying. But I meant English. I'm an English major. I’m taking creative writing for the most part,
but this is what we're reading in one of my lit classes."
"Interesting.
I've never read it. Is it
good?" Lorraine's eyes bugged out.
"'Is it good?' What is wrong with you? It's fantastic! You should read it. You should walk to the campus bookstore, buy
a copy right now, and start reading it tonight."
Will held up his hands.
"Whoa, okay. It's a great
book, and I need to read it. Got
it."
Lorraine closed her eyes for a second.
"Sorry. I go a
bit overboard with books. My friends
won't even let me talk about books anymore because they say I'm always trying
to shove my favorites down their throats.”
“Ah. I can see why
they might feel that way,” Will said, laughing.
Lorraine smirked. “So what sort
of stuff do you write?”
“Short stories, for the most part. I’m sort of working on a novel, but I haven’t
gotten very far with that. So it’s just
short stories for now.”
“That’s cool. Do you
plan on publishing anything?” he asked, and her face fell.
“Apparently not.”
Her voice sounded harsh.
Will was a bit confused, and he wondered what he’d said to
offend her. His confusion must have
shown on his face because she sighed and explained.
“Sorry. It’s just…I
just sent in a short story I finished about two weeks ago to a couple of
places, and none of them wanted it.”
“Oh,” Will responded, unsure of what to say to that. “Have you sent anything in before?”
“No, this was my first time, so it’s not like this was
unexpected. But it’s still disheartening
to be rejected.” She took a deep breath
and forced a smile onto her face. “Anyway,
that’s enough about me and my failures.
What about you? Are you in
school?"
Will couldn't help grimacing. He hated answering this question. It always made him feel like a slacker or a
failure.
"Not at the moment, no."
"Oh. Well do
you plan to?" she asked, clearly not catching onto his discomfort. "The university has a great art program,
from what I've heard."
"No, probably not," he said, his voice hard.
"Why not?"
Or maybe she did notice his discomfort and was just ignoring it.
"It’s just not something I want to do. I…didn't do very well in high school, and I
just don't think college is for me," he said, trying to close the subject.
"I think you should at least look into it," she
said, then changed the subject before he could respond. "So what are you drawing?" Will took a second to decide whether or not
he wanted to go along with her subject change.
He shrugged, figuring she could think whatever she wanted.
"I
haven't decided yet."
"It looks like a person," she said, twisting her
head to the side to get a better look.
"But you haven't done the face yet.
You just have the basic outline."
"Yeah, pretty much.
I haven't decided who it's going to be."
"You could draw me," she said, grinning and wagging
her eyebrows.
"I could," Will admitted, his heart racing. "But not for this one. I feel like this one is special."
"What, I’m not special?" she said with mock
offense. Will couldn't stop himself from
smiling.
You have no idea, he
thought.
"Oh, you're special, trust me," he said, leaning
forward and giving her a sly smile.
"I know a special person when I see one, Lorraine, and especially
when I talk to one."
Lorraine started laughing, and Will joined in, unable to
resist the sound of her mirth.
"You know what?
I like you," Lorraine said, pointing at Will and nodding her
head. "I’m an excellent judge of
character, and you seem like you're alright, Will."
"Why thank you, Lorraine,” he responded, giving her a
mock bow. “I appreciate your
approval. I think you're pretty alright
yourself," he said.
Lorraine smiled at him for a second before glancing out the
window. Will followed her gaze and saw
that the rain had stopped. She sighed.
"I should get going," she said. "I've already missed one class today,
and I should probably show up for the other one."
"Yeah, you might want to do that," Will said.
She tipped her cup back and drained the rest of her
coffee. Will did the same, then made a
face because it had gotten cold.
Lorraine rummaged through her purse, then pulled out an iPod and a set
of headphones, which she plugged into her ears.
She clicked something on the iPod, pushed her chair back, and stood up.
"Well, Will, it was nice meeting you," she told
him.
"Nice to meet you too," he said.
She waved and turned to go, pressing a button on her iPod.
"Wait, Lorraine," Will called after her. She turned back to him. He didn't know what he was going to say, but
he felt a need to say something, to let her know that she meant
something to him, even though he'd just met her an hour ago. He didn't want things to end between them
like this. He wanted this to have
meaning.
She pulled a headphone out of her ear.
"Yeah?" she asked.
Will hesitated, and the music from her headphone drifted
over to him. He could hear it blaring
from the tiny speaker dangling over Lorraine's shoulder. The words were familiar to him.
"Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to Strawberry
Fields Forever."
Will smiled to himself and shook his head. He looked back up at Lorraine, who was
waiting to hear what he had to say. The
sight of her standing this close and looking right at him struck Will
suddenly. He felt visible.
"I'll see you around, Lorraine," he said finally,
smiling at her.
"See ya, Will," she said, giving him a parting
salute. She replaced her headphone,
pulled the hood of her sweater over her head, and stepped out into the chilly
afternoon. Will watched her go and found
that he was content to be left sitting alone at her…no…their table.
When she'd turned a corner and disappeared, Will looked
back down at his drawing. He considered
it for a moment, several options running through his mind, until one idea
finally presented itself, and he knew what he wanted to do.
--------------------
When Courtney drove up several hours later, she was
surprised to find Will on the wrong side of the street. She didn't say anything about it, but she did
give him a funny look as he opened the car door and climbed in. Will just smiled back at her. He settled himself in the seat, balancing his
sketchbook on his lap, pen still in his hand.
It had taken him all afternoon to finish his drawing.
"What's that, Will?" Courtney asked.
"Just something I drew."
"You drew that?"
"Yeah. Josie
let me off today, so that's what I've been doing all day."
"Will, that's…it's excellent!" she said. "It looks just like you!"
"Yeah, I think it does," he agreed, smiling down
at his own inked reflection.
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