I've been meaning to post this for a while, but just never got around to it. This is the revised/redrafted version of a story I wrote late last year. It was inspired by the sudden appearance of a bench on a patch of grass I walk through on my way to and from the train station every day. I hope you enjoy it.
“That was the day my heart stopped beating.”
This simple phrase grabs my attention. I had paid little notice as the woman sitting across from me, who is to me both a friend and stranger, related her life story. At least, she went on and on so much that I presumed her story could cover nothing less than the entire passage of one’s life. But now she had me; what was the day, why did her heart stop beating, and how is she still alive?
I cursed myself for not listening sooner. She had mentioned something about her past connection to the charming-yet-destitute hunk of crap just down the road that vaguely resembles a house, which I speculated will be knocked down by its new owner. But as soon as I heard those two horrible words, “I remember,” my attention politely wandered away.
For near-on five minutes now she’s been talking, but I can barely recall four minutes and fifty-five seconds of it.
She falls silent, this woman whose name I think starts with a ‘G’—or maybe it was ‘J.’ Jane? No, that's not it—but it feels close. I can never remember names—if it hadn’t been hammered in to me since birth, I’d probably forget my own. Right now, though, I wish more than anything that I could remember her name. We're months past the point where I can reasonably ask, "What's your name, again?" She'd never forgive me if I dared try.
She looks sad, staring off into the distance as though reliving “that” day. I want to say something, but the words escape me. What do you say when someone whose name you can’t recall tells you their heart stopped beating on a day they may or may not have just told you about?
Did she have a heart attack? She seems too young to have a heart attack, but I read in the news that certain people under thirty are at greater risk than others over sixty. Maybe it’s some kind of emotional hyperbole, like she lost someone—or something—that she treasured with all her heart. Or it could have been a near-death experience, or a different sort of trauma. I have to get more information.
I stammer awkwardly, barely mumbling a response, “W-What do you mean?”
She looks at me now, her beautiful grey-blue eyes glistening with emotion. My heart is breaking just to see the desolate sadness that creeps through her every vein, such that she shakes almost imperceptibly. We lock eyes for a full second before she turns away and gathers her belongings.
The sun peeking through the leaves of the tree behind us casts a pale glow on her face. She’s on the verge of crying, and I can’t help feeling I caused it. She scurries away before I can think of the right words—or any words, really—to say to make her stay.
Racked with guilt, I try everything to make the past five minutes of our one-way conversation come into my memory. Fractured, fragmented snippets flood my thoughts. “Forever...life...heart...trees...love...together...bad day...walking past...stopped...broken pots...someone...you...where...I saw...crying...better....” I’ll never figure this out. If I see her tomorrow, I’ll have to ask her—but can I bring myself to do it, when clearly I upset her?
I return the next day, Thursday, and wait for three hours. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t show—I’d be avoiding me, too. No worries; I’ll try again tomorrow. Our friendship may be an odd one, but it’s lasted two years, and we’ve helped each other through all kinds of problems—relationships, family, school, work. I know that we’ve met less frequently these past six months, but we both keep coming back to the bench—the only place we’ve ever met.
Friday comes; we almost always meet on Friday, so I head off to the bench. Alone again, I curse my disinterest in her past—just because other people tell me boring stories about their lives, and she once related a boring story about her sister, it doesn’t mean that every story people tell about their past is boring, especially if the teller is a young woman with whom I have spent countless hours over the last two years.
I’m not one to chase lost causes, but I figure I should take one last shot. So when Saturday arrives, I get up early and walk to our spot. And I sit there, waiting.
Some time after lunch I see her approaching. Her arms are crossed as she walks towards me. She looks cold; I'm sweating. This is it. Don’t fuck it up, moron.
"Hi Chuck," she says quietly. Shit! I still can't remember her name. What do I say? No time to think--"Hey, are you okay? You don't look so well." I may be trying to score brownie points, but I'm genuinely concerned. I put my hand on her forehead to check her temperature. She doesn't pull away—good sign. "You have a fever," I tell her.
"It's nothing. I needed to see you. I feel so bad about what I did to you the other day—it wasn't fair." Her response surprises me, but it’s a positive sign. My heart is racing; I have a chance to make things right. But I must choose my words carefully, or she’ll never forgive me.
“I missed you yesterday, and the day before,” I trail off almost as soon as I begin. Should I apologise, too? I’m still confused about what she said, and I’m worried she’ll figure out I wasn’t listening when she poured out her heart—about something or other—three days ago. Sometimes you gotta lie, my friends always tell me, because the truth will hurt more than the lie. But they conveniently leave out the fact that it hurts even more if the lie is uncovered later—it’s like being stabbed from both the front and the back, rather than just one or the other.
I don’t want to hurt her.
It suddenly dawns on me that we’ve been sitting in awkward silence for nearly five minutes. I guess we’re both afraid.
I look at her—a long, exploratory kind of look. She’s shaking, and trying hard—unsuccessfully—not to cry. I now feel the urge to protect her from everything. She seems so vulnerable; whatever illness is afflicting her is putting an enormous strain on her body.
I move to put my jacket around her—a small gesture, but enough to allay some of my guilt. In this instant, I glimpse the alertness in her eyes. Maybe she isn’t sick; maybe she’s just stressed and upset. So I hold her, my arm wrapped around such that my hand grips her shoulder, and I feel her body relax.
I begin to relax, too. This is nice, and, so long as we aren’t talking, I don’t have to worry about dodging any references to what she said when we last met.
I actively avoided getting close to her before today. I really liked the “strangers meeting by chance” nature of our relationship, even if it had got to the point where I only visit the bench because I want to see her. I loved that our only connection was a single place. I loved the complete lack of commitment that went hand-in-hand with only ever meeting by apparent chance at a neutral public place. I thought we had a good thing going; now I’m not so sure.
In this moment, as we sit on the bench in silence, with her head on my shoulder, I feel a moment of clarity. And I wish we could sit like this forever, where we can bask in the warmth and security of each other’s presence, where our frayed nerves can heal, and nothing is as simple as our wordless embrace.
Then the illusion shatters, and life throws a bucket of cold water on me.
“I love you,” she says faintly, almost under her breath.
My world is spinning. Did she just say that? Shit—I think my heart stopped beating.
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