Like Clockwork

Perfect. You look down and check your watch. It says 4 PM. Every day, like clockwork, you leave your house and walk down your short driveway to check your mailbox. It’s a habit you’ve built up over the years; ever since your kids left the house to go to college, travel the world, and who knows what else, you’ve strived for a routine, not the chaotic life that your kids so effortlessly provided for you. Those days were well over fifteen years ago. You open the rusty metal mailbox, and without looking grab the stack of mail. Using the back of your hand, you close the mailbox, careful to avoid the spider that has made its way onto the handle. While walking back up the driveway, you unconsciously whistle a tune, unable to pinpoint which tune it is. You also review the small pile of mail. Electricity bill. Water bill. Grocery ad. Another grocery ad. Neighbor’s mail? Then you notice that, at the bottom of the usual stack of bills and junk mail, is a large, thick envelope. You read who it’s from and your eyes widen in shock. You almost drop the rest of the mail you're holding. Emilie Jones. Your daughter. You still remember the day she left. She had just turned 18. You brought in the mail, and in the pile was her college acceptance letter. The next day, she packed her bags and left, just like that. She even slammed the door on the way out. Never even said goodbye. You haven’t seen her since. You look back at the letter, to see where it was sent from. It reads that it’s from a hospital. A hospital. She’s sick. She’s sick. SHE’S SICK.  The world starts spinning around you, and you close your eyes to steady yourself. You run the rest of the way up the driveway, and once inside your house, you head to the living room. The couch groans as you sit down, and you toss the rest of the mail off to the side of the coffee table. With your hands shaking, you open the letter Emilie sent. A stack of medical papers lands on the table with a thunk. Oh no. Oh please... no. You take the stack of papers in your hands. You read the top paper. Diagnosis: Brain Cancer. Your eyes blur. You feel like you're about to throw up. Your daughter, your baby girl... has cancer? Unbelievable. You look at the other papers. Once. Twice. Three times. There's nothing contained in the plethora of words that contradicts the diagnosis. Brain tumor. Surgery is impossible. Only a few months left to live if not successfully treated. Chemo and radiation are possible treatments. Might be in the hospital for a w- You can't read any more of it. On the first page is a yellow sticky note with Emilie's loopy cursive on it. Dad, I'm really sorry for walking out on you that day. Please sign where it says to on these papers. I wish I were contacting you under better circumstances. I love you. Hopefully, I can see you again someday. Again, I love you, so, so much Dad. Your vision blurs as you read the letter. Before you know it, tears are streaming down your face. She loves me. She still loves me after all these years. Even though she walked out on me, left me behind. Your eyes dart around the living room, searching for a pen. After finding one, you quickly scan through all the papers again, signing where it says to sign. Dad, I'm sorry for walking out on you that day. Tears are still streaming down your face as you sign the last page, and you rush to your office to find an envelope big enough to fit the papers in. Once you finish raiding your desk drawers, you rush back to the living room, and carefully but quickly put the papers into a new envelope. You take the pen that you used earlier to sign the papers and copy down the address of the hospital word for word. Yet again, you run to your office, this time to find some stamps, and then stop in your tracks. Hopefully, I can see you again someday. You throw the stamps back onto your desk and log onto the laptop that sits in the middle of your desk. Frantically, you type flights from NYC to Chicago in the search bar. You scroll through the results and finally click on one. The airline offers a flight tomorrow, at 4 PM. You hurriedly book the flight and immediately head straight to your room to start packing. If you need to mail the papers back to her and she attached a note saying she wants to see you, you may as well take the papers to her.

The next day

You arrive at the airport, suitcase and medical papers in hand. You wait in the airport for two hours, munching on a bland sub sandwich from the airport store, and taking small sips of water you got from a vending machine. To you, it tastes too artificial. Flight 265 to Chicago is now boarding. I repeat, Flight 265 to Chicago is now boarding. When your flight is finally called, you sigh with relief. You walk through the airport quickly, discarding the rest of the sandwich and the empty water bottle. You board the plane and take a seat in the uncomfortable, claustrophobic chair. A stranger takes a seat next to you, and you do your best to avoid eye contact with him. Before the plane takes off, you take one last look at the watch you always wear on your right wrist. It reads 4 PM. You've broken your checking-the-mail-at-exactly-four habit for the first time in 15 years. Life no longer seems like the perfect clockwork routine it once was. A gear in the clock has been replaced with one that's too small. The clock's hands do not move. The clock no longer chimes. So imperfect.