Through Thick and Thin

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? That dark night when you stormed off and left her in that shabby old apartment is long forgotten in your mind, no doubt. The next morning you went out for brunch with your friends and laughed the loudest at the dirty jokes made at the expense of her. 

“Too bad you still have to deal with her. Does she umm… you know… leak?” someone giggled. Everyone smirked and stifled a laugh. 

You rolled your eyes and sighed a dramatic breath before saying “Yeah…”

The whole table roared and any bystander would’ve thought a pack of hyenas were laughing. 

“Girl, mine’s already dead!” someone shouted.

“I feel bad for the bedsheets that are drenched in her piss!” another howled.

Another round of laughing broke into the air. 

“That’s hilarious. Oh, you’re paying, right?” the shouting girl said.

Smiling, you nodded your head. You cackled with them, you spit poison with them, and you wished her dead with them. 

While you were out, I bet you didn’t realize she was waiting for you to return back to her. I bet you didn’t think that she was wetting herself with no way of changing her saturated pants because her legs had become a mangled mess. I bet you didn’t care that she was shedding tears with no one to wipe them. 

Days passed before you paid for a harsh-looking caregiver you found on a cheap website. It was less expensive than a room in a nursing home. You sighed a breath of relief and thought your troubles were over. During the day you would hesitate in making major corporate decisions and attend fancy meetings with the board, but during the night you would lie in bed and wonder how you could improve the company culture as the CEO. You would sleep like a baby in your lavish apartment.

Did you ever check on the woman you left at the rough hands of the caregiver? Maybe every half a year or so you would trudge your way to the side of the city that wasn’t as glittery as the side that you lived in. Of course you would bring a basket of fruits for the caregiver, but nothing for the frail woman in the wheelchair. 

Why was that? You’d nod your head and tuck the payment into the caregiver’s hands and give it a little shake.

“Thank you, oh, thank you for taking care of her,” you’d gush.

Perhaps you did so because you were grateful that you didn’t have to deal with her. 

You would leave without a goodbye or even a glance in her direction. You would return back to the glittery side of the city.

It’ll be awhile before you’ll have to return and make sure that things are running smoothly with her and that caregiver. Even if something goes wrong, you can just find another caregiver, right? 

Your life is moving along so well. You’re a CEO, you’re as successful as can be, and you have more friends than you can count. What can you possibly be missing?

You’re a little distracted. Is that cute college classmate of yours dominating your thoughts? He’s been texting you and supporting you and understanding you. He even understands your thoughts on her. Soon enough, you two are meeting up and then he’s proposing and then you two are sealing your ties. And then comes the beautiful honeymoon: a one week escape to paradise where you’ve never felt happier or more stress-free. But did you forget about the monthly visit to the ugly side of the city? Yes, it’s that time again! The caregiver will want her monthly payment! 

An annoyance fills you up and your face turns sour. You hate her for ruining your honeymoon and making your life that much more difficult. Whatever happens, happens. This honeymoon is a once in a lifetime moment and you won’t cut it short for anything. 

Upon your return home, you schedule a visit to pay the caregiver. It was a wonderful vocation, but all good things come to an end. You knock on the rickety door of the poor apartment. A ticked-off, bitter caregiver greets you with a nasty glare.

“You’re supposed to pay me monthly. It’s Tuesday today and the payment is late by two days,” she spits. You fumble in your leather handbag for the crisp, neat, white envelope with the hundred dollar bills inside it.

“Here,” you say, handing her the payment.

“My apologies about the lateness of your monthly salary.”

Turning on your heels, you leave and don’t glance back. If you had, you would’ve noticed the bruised and swollen body of the woman sitting in the wheelchair just to the side of the door. You might have even noticed the snide smirk spreading on the caregiver’s face. 

Back to the glittery city you go. The next time you visit here again will be in December. Too bad the caregiver doesn’t have a bank account that you can just deposit her pay in. 

You’re a very busy woman, after all. There’s always business to get done. There are meetings to attend and ideas to propose and a husband to spend time with. Speaking of which, he’s been asking for a lot, don’t you think? While you’ve been working, he’s…  well, what has he been doing besides spending your money and having fun? 

Your relationship with your cute college classmate isn’t doing so well. You arrive home after a late night at your company and find your husband drinking with his snobby friends. What do you do? You kick his rotten friends out of course! 

“What are you doing? I was just spending some time with my friends!” he yells.

“I have diligently worked just to free up some time to spend with you and what do I find? I find you goofing off with your disgraceful friends! Don’t you care?” you shout. 

That’s the end of that. Divorce papers are signed and you’re left in tears. Is there anyone in the world that you thought loved you more than him? 

December rolls around and you're really not in the mood to fulfill your monthly visit. From the beginning of December to the middle of the month, you procrastinate until you realize you don’t want to spend Christmas Time in the ugly side of the city. You’ll plan a visit tomorrow.

That night, you, still suffering from heartbreak, gloomily plod to your parcel locker to retrieve the usual. Stacks and stacks of envelopes greet you when you unlock your locker. Scooping them up, you tepidly read through the thick stack while shuffling back to your apartment. Bills, meeting invitations, ads, company letters, and newspapers are piled one after the other. 

Except there’s a dirty-looking crumpled envelope at the end of the stack. It seems out of place with the other clean and crisp mail. You wouldn’t have been that bothered by the unusual envelope if not for the handwritten address label that makes the corner of your lips curl into a sneer. Your feet no longer shuffle but stay firmly planted to the ground. The simplicity and sloppiness of the label is so familiar yet so alien. Perhaps it's because you’ve almost forgotten her. 

When you return to your apartment, you chuck all your mail onto the floor except that crinkled envelope. What could she possibly have to write to you besides an apology for being such an inconvenience? Gingerly, you open the envelope so as not to further crinkle the poor thing. 

As you read the first sentence of the letter, your mouth drops open and your eyes widen to the size of saucers. How long have you waited for this day to come? 

I’ll be dead by next week. 

Nothing in the world could give you more joy than those six words. Hastily, you continue to read the chicken scratch on the paper, but your animated smile soon turns into a deep scowl. Her letter is stirring up the memory of that starry night, isn’t it? 

You were irritated and sour. Her slow and feeble movements were provoking your ire and driving you mad. You had had an incredibly successful board meeting earlier in the day and had planned to celebrate in the evening. Instead, you were stuck in the ugly side of the city changing urine drenched bed sheets and spoon feeding mushy oatmeal. She tried to mumble a few words to you, but you silenced her with a withering glare. 

“Open your mouth,” you said to her when feeding her the oatmeal in bed. 

She obeyed, but her mouth wasn’t open quite big enough and you spilled the oatmeal on her chin, where it dripped in chunks onto the fresh pajamas you had just dressed her in. A hot rage boiled inside you to the point that you slammed the oatmeal bowl on the nightstand and gathered your coat and stormed off into the night. 

You never looked back. You went out with your friends for a brunch celebration the next day and forgot all about the look on her face when you left. All you remembered was looking up at the star splattered sky when you left and wondering why someone so bothersome had to exist in your near perfect life. 

Now the letter in your hands explains it all. Her chicken scratch explains how her heart shattered to see you leave her behind, how she had struggled by herself to provide you with as many opportunities as possible after your father left, and how she would love you unconditionally more than any man ever could.

What about you? What would you do for her?

A single fat teardrop escapes from your eye because you already know the answer. Her words bring you back to a less glittery time when you were still young. You were still living in the ugly side of the city and had not discovered the magic of the glittering city yet, but you were mesmerized by its tall skyscrapers and vibrant cars and buses on a poster hanging from a street vendor cart. The cart was parked on the side of a busy street filled with bicyclists and old, worn cars.  

You twisted your hand from hers and ran. You sprinted into that busy street, eyes glued on that magnificent poster, and was not one bit bothered by the dangers around you. A zooming car was headed straight towards you and you didn’t even notice. One second you were running on your feet and the next second you were on your scraped elbows and knees. Even so, you still got up and ran towards that poster, undeterred by the car that had almost killed you and untroubled by the street vendor’s disturbed expression and his bony finger pointed towards the disaster you had caused behind you. 

Your little hands grasped the poster and you looked longingly at the beautiful scene in the picture. A stranger seized the scruff of your shirt and his spit flew onto your face when he yelled at you. 

“Little girl, don’t you know not to run into a busy street? Look what you did!”

You turned around and the beautiful poster fell from your hands and landed softly at your feet. 

You remembered loudness and covering your ears. An ambulance transported you to a white, massive, complex hospital. You sat by yourself looking at your hands and glancing once every so often at rushing nurses and other waiting patients. You feared for her life at that moment more than you had ever feared anything before. 

What happened to you? How come you don’t fear for her life now? 

The surgery was costly even for your successful self now. You and her were only able to come through because of generous donations, sold furniture, and some support from your grandparents. Although she plastered a smile on her face for you when she was free to leave the hospital, she never fully recovered from the accident. Her legs had become immoblie and useless and your father was no longer interested in the family. Still, she was determined to provide for you.

On your birthday, she scraped up all the extra money she could and surprised you with the poster of the glittering city. Do you recall how wide your smile was to receive such a gift? You cherished that poster with all your heart and even now you still have it tucked away somewhere in your large apartment. 

Her letter shakes in your trembling hands as you look through teary eyes at your enormous closet. That beautiful poster was probably buried under luxurious blazers, satin dresses, and brand-name shoes. The glittering city scene on the poster was your dream when you were little. Now, it’s a reality for you. But how could you have forgotten who had gotten you here?

You return your attention to the letter and read on. 

Her words describe her pride the moment you got your taste at company success and her empathetic sadness when you suffered your share of hardships. She stirs the memories of the times you cried uncontrollably on her aching shoulder and soaked her shirt. You were a frustrated, hopeless, doubtful mess. In spite of your unstable state, she offered you a cup of tea and soft words of advice. She hugged you until your heart felt full and your lips spread into a smile again. 

“I’ll be there through thick and thin,” she promised fiercely. 

If she suffered with you during your worst, didn’t she deserve to celebrate with you during your best?

 You choke on your own tears as the weight of a sudden realization crushes your chest. That cute college classmate and your countless friends played you like a toy. They never deserved a lick of your pie of success, and yet you fed them to be fat and full. 

“Arghhh!!” you cry and clench your head.

She had sacrificed it all: her education, her body, and her comfort for you, and you had taken her for granted. You had played her when you never deserved such a good soul in your life. And good things never last. 

You’re on your knees and bawling like when you were a little girl. Faintly, you can feel her presence in your apartment. The soft weight of a hand rests on your hunched shoulder. You raise your puffy, red eyes to look into her ghostly bruised eyes. Her cracked lips form a small smile and the wrinkles in her face crease deeper. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! ” you croak and bow your head.

Tenderly, she lifts your chin and caresses your cheek. For a split second, a deep cheerlessness flashes across her gentle face. Then, she was gone.

Even in death, she never leaves without saying goodbye.