How Do We Tell Them All?

There’s not a lot I learned from my Dad. He was gone a lot. Work, he said it was, when he even bothered to explain. What I did learn, however, is an impeccable method of observing strangers. We would sit on a park bench, eating a bare bagel with frozen fingers and just look at people. This small thing, this insignificant way of spending time together, meant the world to me back then, and for right measure. He and mum were the only people I saw, the only people I truly knew. And I hated them. So much. I considered my mum vulgar and disgusting, but I hugged her with passion. I would nurse the frostbite on my cheeks to the warm back on her hand, smelling like cleaning supplies and hard alcohol. When my Dad lay passed out on the couch I would climb in with him and cuddle in his arms, absorbing the warmth from his body. He smelled like cigarettes and gasoline, and the smell made me sick. but whenever he woke up and pushed me away, I sat on the floor near the luke-warm fireplace and smell his hands on my blazer, nursing and loving the smell.

I am now 25 years of age, but I still notice every face I see. I look at their eyes, their hair, and their hands. I imagine every stranger’s hand stroking my hair as if I was 8 years old again. Every time a stranger gets off the train or the bus I feel like I lost a good friend. My heart aches for every one of them. I want to sit down next to them, take them by the hand, and just listen to them. Listen to the story they have. Everyone has a story to tell, they are all worth listening to. Yet I keep standing. I keep observing from afar, silent tears rolling down my cheeks sometimes when the bus doors close and I see them for the last time.

I shielded the coffee from the rain as I walked, careful not to spill any. The hot coffee burned my hands as I held it tight, but I didn’t lessen my grip on it. I looked slightly down at my feet and hopped over a puddle in the cobblestone, careful not to wet my shoes. They were new. The first pair of nice leather office shoes. With hard soles and a soft leather inside. The best shoes I ever had, by far. But even as I walked, I still observed people. I looked intently at their faces, at each of them, as they walked by me. A young girl with her Grandpa. She raised an admiring face towards him, and he looked down at her with a loving face. But something was wrong. Her Mum. She was walking behind them, looking at her daughter with a hopeless sort of sadness. The Grandpa was using the daughter to take revenge on the Mum. I turned my head as the walked away, seeing the Mum try to take the daughter’s hand, but Grandpa placed another bit of candy in it. A teenage couple looking lovingly at each other, walking arm in arm. The girl looked happy. The boy looked happy. Love. Shared between two human beings. The most basic event, yet the most precious. The best sort of event. Another couple, middle-aged. The man held his umbrella in one leather gloved hand and the other hand in his coat pocket. No consideration for his wife, who was walking through the rain. She didn’t even seem to mind the rain. His face was hard and stern, with no seeming trace of love for his wife.The woman had soft, delicate features on her face. Loving eyebrows, a cute nose and soft lips. She was occasionally glancing up at her husband, with the same look that the mother was giving her daughter. Another form of love, the same pain. I knew that pain so well. It was the pain of wanting someone to love you, to return all the love you send their way. I know how it ends though. It never gets returned. But you still keep sending it, just hoping and hoping that maybe they’ll return. That maybe they give you a smile, or hold your hand and stroke it, and you get to lean against them and just feel loved. A bottle of milk rolled towards my feet out of nowhere, startling me. I bent down carefully and picked it up, muddy water dripping off of it. A voice, thin and stained with age, rang out from somewhere below. A stooped old woman was reaching a hand toward the bottle.

—Excuse me!? She snappily took the bottle out of my hands and shoved it in an over-sized shopping bag.

—Well, you’re welcome, I guess. I froze for a second. Do you need help with anything else?

She blinked slowly and looked towards me, as if surprised by my kindness.

—What time do you get off work? she asked after a moment’s consideration.

—Umm, five, I guess? Well, five thirty, after I clean up.

—Be here at six, then. Apartment 46. I need help moving a couch. She stared at me sternly for a couple seconds, then dragged her bag inside. I closed the door after her and continued walking home. A successful human interaction. Good. Progress.

That day I could barely keep my mind on my work. Even as I nodded through the manager’s instructions, I was still thinking of something else. All I could think about was that old woman, and her funny bag and stern look. I hadn’t even hesitated offering help. I looked forward to it, in fact. Luckily for me, it was my first day, so they probably chalked my poor performance up to nerves. My job was assistant at a prestigious tailor shop, measuring clients, fetching material, and making myself useful, staying busy. That I was good at, making myself useful. It was instilled in me early on that I have to do that, or I might get tossed aside by people.

One way or another, I finished the day’s work. Of course I had to stay after work to clean up. I needed to show I was a willing worker, that sort of thing. By the time I reached the old lady’s house, it was already after the arranged hour. While I was hurriedly jumping over two stairs at once all the way to apartment 46, I felt like a child knowing he will be in trouble. I was slightly afraid of what she would say as I knocked on the door.

She opened it, her eyes slowly descending from mine to her small silver watch. I notice they were strangely red, as if she had been crying.

—21 minutes late, are we?

I gave her a puzzled look. What sort of question was that? I’m one person.

—I had to stay late at work, I’m sorry, I mumbled, my eyes searching the floor. Why did I feel so ashamed about being late for this lady? I barely knew her!

—Well, I suppose what happened is in the past. She turned away and walked briskly towards the living room. I shut the door behind me, latched it, and took off my shoes. As I followed her through the apartment, I took in as many details as I could. Not that there were many details to even go through.

The floorboards were rough and bare. The walls also bare, save for a couple of pictures hung crookedly. The kitchen, which we passed on the way to the living room, looked clean and organize, but also empty and cold. The living room was cluttered with all sorts of suitcases, boxes and furniture, all in different stages of unpacked. I looked around the room for a couch. I spotted one. It could barely be called a couch. There was barely enough space for two people, and it looked pretty light. There was no doubt in my mind that she could have moved this by herself. I looked scrutinizingly at her. Her eyes met mine, piercing into them. I quickly lowered my eyes and picked my way through the mess of luggage and to the couch.

—Where do I put it? I asked without raising my eyes. She motioned with her head towards the corner and walked out of the room. I heard the sound of water filling a tea pot, and the clanging of the pot as it was set on the gas stove. A match was struck, then the armchair in the kitchen creaked as someone sat down. I got a strange feeling from this house. It just felt so… sad. Like someone had died, or a child was missing. An air of depression reigned among the musky smell of an unoccupied apartment.

I picked the couch up with ease, marveling at it’s lightness. It seemed to be mostly mattress. I was used to the heavy sturdy sort of couch, that takes two grown men to lift. Stepping once more through the unorganized luggage, I carefully placed the couch in its proper place, with it’s back to a wall and a large French window at its side, which opened up to a small balcony. The view of the rainy city with its lit gas lamps was quite breathtaking from here. I looked around, and there didn’t really seem to be anything left for me to do. Nothing else heavy to move, not that the couch had been heavy. Had she called me here for another reason? It was a silly thought, but it nagged at the back of my head. Not a thought of fear, but rather apprehension. Like a storm just waiting to happen, brewing in the pit of my stomach.

I walked slowly back towards the kitchen. Complete silence reigned in the whole apartment all of a sudden. The teapot was bubbling calmly, and the smell of mint tea floated from the kitchen. Dusk was fast approaching, a wintery, rainy dusk. The only light in the whole apartment was that of the gas stove, bluish and ghostly. I walked in the kitchen, and she was just sitting there, her shadow dancing on the dimly lit wall beside her. In peace, not moving. Her hands were limp in her lap, loosely holding an empty pill bottle. Her eyes were glassy and wide open, but they looked at rest.

I almost vomited on the spot. My knees were weak and hands trembling something awful. I drew back, my first instinct being to run. Just open the door and go. But I couldn’t leave her like this. I had to call someone. I looked around for a phone. The only one was at the far end of the kitchen, on the table right next to her. I drew a breath, exhaled and walked to the phone. My fingers were trembling so badly that I could barely even pick it up, never mind dialing. I looked down, on the table.

There was a piece of paper there, with a pen. Oh, God, a note. My heart sank even lower. But I understood. This note was for me. She had called me here not to move a couch. She just didn’t want to die alone, she didn’t want to be found days later, with no one knowing what happened. She wanted her death to mean something to someone.

A candle sat on the table, which I lit. It barely let off any light, but that was just as good. I had no further desire to see her more than I had to. The letter started with two words. An apology.

I’m sorry.

There were stains of tears on the paper.

I tried to hide it all, to never let you see how much you hurt me. How much I truly cared about losing you.

More tear stains. The paper was wrinkled and crinkly by this point.

But through it all, I could rest easy knowing one thing. I knew that, had everything been different, had it been easier for you, you would have loved me. Like you did when you were younger, when you looked in my eyes as I changed your clothes, and wrapped your hands around me as tight as you could.

By now the writing was almost unreadable. I drew closer to the candle.

I want you to know that even though you drove me away, you drove me to this point, I don’t resent you. Maybe it’s my fault. Perhaps I should have taught you so much better. I should have been there for you, helped you. Instead, I gave you reason to drive me away.

There were no more tears here. The handwriting grew steady. As if she had passed by the point of no return. She had made up her mind here. For her, it was as if she was already dead.

Goodbye. Be well. Love your wife, love your children. Teach them better than I taught you, don’t let them drive you away. And most of all, Love Them.

New tears appeared on the page. I noticed them and quickly shut my eyes, trying to shake them away. I felt so much more connected to her than any other person. Someone who finally understood how cold and painful it all felt, to stand alone. I started sobbing, and crouched down beside her recliner. Looking up at her glossy eyes, a loneliness like never before drew over me like a curtain. One person knew how it felt, and she was dead.

She had passed her terrible curse to me. I reached up and took her cold stiff hand in mine, trying to warm it again. Wishing it would twitch, or move, or that I would feel warm blood rushing through her veins again. The pot of tea overflowed, but I just stood there, silently crying. The overflowing water shut off the fire and gas started filling the room. I didn’t move.

I closed my eyes, and felt my father’s embrace for the last time. I will never feel the pain of leaving anyone behind again. I will not let her leave me behind.