A Percentage of Silence

It should have raised a cacophony; the end of over ninety-eight percent of human life in one day. Instead, it was like a swirling windstorm in a parking lot lane with leaves and dust lifted into a jumbled mixture of panic before settling to rest as still as the concrete underneath. It was a phenomenon only noteworthy if you happened to be present in that exact spot when it occurred.

What few researchers remain dubbed the horrific incident inexplicable. How could any lingering mind explain so many lives, from young to terminal to wise and everything in between, snuffed out as suddenly as they were?

An airborne contaminant able to circumvent the vast globe at light speed? Bacteria working its way into the water supply or common food, into our bodies, and detonating at once?

Less than two percent of the planet’s population possessed the immunity required to survive. I am lucky enough, or cursed enough to be among them. My husband died in front of me, mid-conversation. An everyday menial comment about dinner plans. Then, he was gone.

The setting sun kisses and soothes my aches as I sit in my treasured spot with its pristine view of rolling waves. This place was once a grand draw for locals and travelers. Gulls cry overhead, relishing the lack of shooing hands and rushing bicycles. I must wonder if the animal world takes notice of the sand void of footprints and absent bits and crumbs of unfinished meals.

I rub my hands around each other; a new nervous habit. The constancy of the sea soothes me on a level nothing else can, but my mind still drifts in wistful circles. When I was younger, I would play in those waters, run along the sand at first light before breakfast with my family. 

No one plays or jogs here now. Always empty, just the way I wished it was when I was content to be left to my thoughts and familiar faces without strangers spoiling the ambiance. What a wretched thought in hindsight.

The metal on my wheelchair creaks as I attempt to navigate farther down the ramp without losing control or getting hung. Roots and other flora have worked their way through the weathered planks. 

My attendant waits in the car—awaits my death. It’s alright. Her delightful little boy needs nourishment, and I promised to leave them everything I have on top of sheltering them both and paying her salary with the dwindling funds left by my husband. The payment is still good at one of the nearby food distributors.

Again, perhaps I was lucky.

What I detest most about the intelligent world now is the survival instinct that reigns over any obsolete traits such as love and compassion. Living this way, in this dank new normal has dragged me down to a level I swore never to allow myself to traverse.

I now think ill of others. Each person prowls for an opportunity to better meet their most basic needs. If someone is kind to me, I wonder if they plan to kill me for whatever food I may conceal in my bag; which is none. Ten years ago, I would have given my last energy bar willingly to a hungry vagrant along with my pocket change.

Death crosses my mind like a ghost drifting in and out of vision. Would ending this perpetual loneliness be the worst outcome? At my age, my hands are the only part of my body that seems to remember how to function before tragedy shut down my spirit.

No more family—my friends all gone. All, but perhaps one. Dare I hope for a true friend?

A high-pitched squawk reaches my ears, turning my head to the left. Only a gull disturbed from foraging makes that sound. A cat? Larger bird?

No.

It’s him. Slightly hunched, but moving closer. His eyes are still good. He sees me, and I wait. My hands pause their ringing to smooth my tattered skirt from where the breeze folded it over my lap.

Justin. That’s his name. He knows mine, too. Even if he means me harm, my concern for myself has diminished in hopes that he comes near because he still carries those fleeting pieces of integrity within his lanky shell.

He has reached the end of the ramp, gnarled knuckles gripping the one sturdy rail. I smile and lift a pale, freckled hand in a gradual wave. How many times have we met? Has it been years as it has felt, or am I simply so starved for connection that a handful of encounters stretches on as a lifetime?

His tight gray curls are unbothered by the wind. I’m mesmerized by his motion; that he still steps toward me with an irresolute gait—as if I could somehow bolt from my chair like a spooked deer. An hour at most is what we have. His daughter misses him then; wary as I am, as anyone should be, of strangers.

The wind subsides.

He says, “I missed you yestahday.” 

He means it. His eyes are smiling; bright pools shining atop ebony cheeks. Never has he touched me, and yet, today is different. I can feel his longing for contact every bit as strong as my own. What triggered it?

“Marissa couldn't find gas for the car until this morning.”

“Ah yes,” he said, “more scarce than ever, I hee-ya.”

I simply nod. We both know small talk is not why we meet. I allow a full breath of air, cleaner each day pollution recedes, to enter and exit my lungs. “What number were we on?”

“Seventy-something?”

“Okay,” I say, “then my seventy-ninth reason to rejoice is for the exuberance I feel upon finding a can of peaches no more than five years expired.”

Justin turns his thin frame to the side, leaning over the rail in front of my chair. All I can focus on is the wrinkle underneath his whiskers; indicating a smile so pure and relatable that it fills me until I reciprocate.

“Then my seventy-ninth is watching my daughtah frown when I insist on walking alone ta see you.”

My hands grip my knees. “I know she worries. Rightly so.”

“Give it ta me straight, Elise. If you meant ta kill me for my uniform, you’da done so bah now.” His grin widens, showing a missing tooth on the bottom row as he turns his empty, ripped pockets inside out. “Wouldn’t fit you much.”

In between our joined laughter, so fleeting and rare, I found myself saying, “And you’d have snatched my bag to find no remnants of any goodies of old.”

To punctuate my point, I turned the scuffed red bag upside down to dump nothing of import onto the walkway. What good was my compact? My dried lipstick and expired pain medication? Had I used either in years? Even the feel of them in my grip was lost to me.

Tears rained down our cheeks from our shared moment. 

His eyes met mine, glistening and genuine. “Brenda’s all I have, Elise.”

As wicked as it sounds, a shot of jealousy impales my heart when he speaks of his daughter. Could I not have been left even one member of my family? I don’t let my hidden turmoil show; my face a mask of pleasant acceptance.

“More than many, Justin. Cherish her.”

“I do, always. But you?”

My mind answered, “What about me?” but I waited for him to clarify. 

“One hundred and thirty-eight meetings on this ‘ere ramp. I can envision that number but can’t recall the date we began our ‘reasons’ chat.”

I couldn’t be sure what expression took hold of my features, but it must have been some mixture of grief and joy culminating between my brows.

“Thirty-eight days ago,” I whispered, though the breeze may have taken it away.

“Elise,” he said, reaching for my hand. I let him take it in his calloused fingers; the roughness of one who may still toil long hours passing the time until death frees him from a melancholy life. “Can I share this laughter with my Brenda? I can’t recall the last time I heard joy outta her.”

Any prudent reasons to decline were lost in his hopeful expression. I knew then, and perhaps long before. I had grown to love his spirit. Our encounters were the only true joy I had left.

“Am I to burden you and Brenda with my…”

I couldn’t finish, so I swept a hand down at my crippled legs. His eyes followed, but he brought his other hand to his lips. A kiss was planted on his fingers. My breath froze when he lowered his blessed hand to alight once on each knee. My body could feel nothing, but my heart responded as if his touch encouraged it instead.

“Brenda already knows. All about you. You’re all I say much about these days. She wants you ta come every bit as much as I do. Please?”

I could feel myself nodding. Justin’s eyes glittered with joy I hadn’t witnessed on another human’s face since my husband last kissed me goodnight. 

Marissa would be here soon to help retrieve me and my chair from the ruined ramp—cursing all the while under her breath at the effort.

This time, I wouldn’t be here.

“Of course I will.”