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.
- - - - - - -
