John Krickett had written a number of eulogies in his life.
He'd written one for his brother, one for his boyfriend, he'd even written a small thing for Polly, but wrtiing something for Boris...that just felt wrong. Sitting at his desk at the church, he just couldn't bring himself to come up with words to describe Boris, and especially their weird relationship. He heard someone knock on his door and he looked up to see Sister Jenn coming in in her street clothes - hip hugging jeans and a mustard yellow turtleneck - approaching his desk cautiously, almost as if he were a wild animal she didn't want to spook. "How's it goin'?" she asked. "Well, for it to be going well, it'd have to be going at all, so," Father Krickett said, making Jenn laugh. "Do you want some help?" she asked. "Nah, this is far too personal," Father Krickett said, "but thanks for offering, I appeciate it." "Well, everything is finished here for the day, so I think I'm gonna go, if that's okay," Jenn said, "I have a date." As she turned to leave, Father Krickett set his pen back down and called after her, causing her to stop and look back at him. He cleared his throat and shifted nervously in his chair. "...how..." he started, "...how do you...process something like this? It's weird, because...because, whether it's my brother of my boyfriend, I spent considerable time with both of them, but...but some reason it's different with Boris. We have a much deeper relationship, somehow, and I don't know how to sum that up in an eulogy. A eulogy is supposed to be short, sweet, to the point. But that isn't what a relationship with someone is, whether it's platonic or romantic, so how do you process this and make it poignant?" "Well," Sister Jenn said, "I guess, maybe, just focus on what you've managed to teach one another, shaped eachother into who you are now. I think that's the best approach, honestly. Because that's what the takeaway from any relationship, platonic or romantic, is, right? How you change one another. How has Boris changed you?" Father Krickett chewed his lip. That was a good question, how had Boris changed him? He knew he had, but he couldn't quite place his finger on it. He nodded, and with a wave of his hand, dismissed Sister Jenn, who turned on her heel and exited swiftly, excited to get to the apartment and pick Whittle up for their date night. However, Whittle, at the moment, was a tad preoccupied with watching Boris and Melody talk as she prepared for her night out. Boris was sitting on the couch beside Melody, both eating honey roasted peanuts from a container and talking quietly, almost as if to not be overheard. Whittle pulled her compact from her purse and looked at herself in its mirror, checking her makeup one final time when the front door opened and Sister Jenn trotted happily in. She walked right up to Whittle in the kitchen and, leaning up on her tip toes, kissed her, making Whittle smirk. "...are you okay with leaving them here alone, together?" Jenn asked, and Whittle shrugged. "Can't give up my whole life just for the sake of others, right?" Whittle asked. "...you're a nurse." "Right, probably not the best example," Whittle said, the both of them laughing. Whittle took Jenn's hand in her own, their fingers entwined, and said goodbye as they exited the apartment. Once the door was shut, Boris groaned and stood up. "Finally, I thought she'd never leave," he said, going into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of Whiskey and two glasses, bringing them back to the living room and pouring them each a glass before sitting back down on the couch beside Melody. "You know," Melody said, her voice less hoarse than before now, gaining some of its volume back, "I wasn't drunk when I decided to try to kill myself. I think far too many people assume suicide is often attempted while drunk, but I rarely drink. I hate the assumption that one can't just want to die without the help of intoxication. That life simply can't be that painful." "I agree, it's laughable," Boris replied, sipping his slowly, "I used to drink a bit, but not much anymore, but now I'm wondering why not. I've got a time limit. Might as well enjoy what time I've got left, right? At this point, vices can't hurt me anymore than I'm already hurtin'." Melody snickered and nodded in agreement. She took another handful of peanuts and dumped them into her mouth, chewing for a bit before getting a sad look on her face. "What?" Boris asked. "The thing is..." Melody said, "I don't even know that I wanted to die. I just...didn't want to live. I wish there were some sort of middle ground, you know? Some sort of plane in between where you don't have be alive or dead. I guess a coma might constitute that, but even still. I just wanna go back to what it must've been like before I was born, whatever that might have been." Boris nodded, listening, as Melody continued. "It infuriates me that people just assume that life is a good thing for any and everyone, regardless of their situation or feelings on the matter," Melody continued, "They simply can't comprehend the idea that, for some people, existence isn't a good thing. That they didn't have good families, that...that no matter how hard they try, or how long they try for, it won't get better. That being alive is simply being in pain. We grant that sort of understanding to the terminally ill, but if you have a lifelong mental illness, aren't you also terminally ill? Why validate one then ignore another?" "I have to admit, you bring up an excellent point," Boris said, "but the fact of the matter remains that it's their narrow minded tunnel vision of life that gives them that perception. They can't see from the shoes of another, because they can only experience their own. Even at their lowest, they can't fathom there being something lower. Now, some can, certainly. Some are capable of tremendous empathy to the level that, yes, they'll recognize that for some people, being alive, ill or not, is painful and not worthwhile. But those people are rare, it seems. Ultimately, I agree with you, that one should be allowed to take their own life in their own hands regardless of the passive aggressive manipulative 'what about your loved ones' mentality, especially when most of the people who feel this way might not even have loved ones to consider." "And if their loved ones cared so much, why don't they help more?" Melody asked, and Boris nodded, pointing at her. "Exactly. Talk is cheap. It costs nothing to say 'I'll be there for you' but when the time comes, when the chips are down, rarely do they follow through because that takes commitment, action. People don't like putting their money where their mouth is because it forces them reckon with the acknowledgement that they might not actually be as good as people as they'd always considered themselves to be and who wants to downplay their own morality?" Melody smiled softly, nodding as she ate more peanuts. For all the folks in the world she could've been saved by, it just happened to be the one who really understood her. There was some kind of sick irony in that, she thought. *** John, his legs up on his desk as he smoked a cigar, couldn't come up with what he wanted to say because, quite frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to say anything at all. Why share something so personal, and make it everyones business? He should keep it close to his chest. This was something he and Boris shared, not something Boris shared with everyone else. John and Boris had been through the mill together, so why, at the very end, should he allow that history to be viewed by others when it was rightfully just theirs? He exhaled smoke and sat upright. Still...he thought...still there was the matter that Boris had other people in his life. Others who could speak for him, speak of him. Surely John wasn't the only one tasked with writing something for the eventual funeral. Carol had to be going through the same motions. Maybe even Burt, or Whittle. He thought back to Polly. He wondered what Polly might have to say, had it been Boris who'd died that night instead of her. Surely she'd have done what he ultimately did, and make it into a joke, because that was the sort of relationship they'd had. John sighed and stood upright, beginning to pace, one hand in his coat pocket as he smoked his cigar. Maybe Jenn was right, maybe he should just focus on how they changed one another because, for all things considered, both John and Boris - and both had acknowledged this regularly - were not the same people they were when they had met. John had let some of his barriers to connection down, while Boris had grown to take responsibility for his actions, both present and past. They'd truly helped one another turn new leaves, and grow as human beings, and that was something that only really deep friendships managed to achieve. What had John really taken from their relationship? The ability to truly care for another person again, that was for sure. Before Boris, John was coasting on his skills as a preist to care about others, without getting too attached. But now...now he was truly capable of being attached to another person. But the thing was...could he manage to be attached to another person that wasn't Boris? That was the real question, because while he'd gained new worldviews by being involved with Boris, could he truly take that and apply it to another person? He loved the old man more than he was willing to openly state, and he was worried that that wouldn't transfer to being close to anyone else. What could one say about a man who managed to help you feel anything at all again? That was the question he had to answer. *** Jenn and Whittle were sitting on a small wooden balcony outside of a seafood restaurant, waiting for their food to arrive. Underneath the table, Jenn was running her foot up against Whittle's leg, making the both of them chuckle. Whittle raised her wine glass to her lips and took a very long drink, while Jenn batted her eyes at her, making Whittle blush. "You're so damn cute," Whittle said as she set her glass down, "...it's nice to be able to openly say that. I stayed with my boyfriend for so long cause I was scared of trying anything else, and being bisexual seems to net you a rather negative reception more often than not, people wanting you to choose a side for some reason like sexuality is a sports team, but it's nice to be able to just say, now, that you're so damn cute and not feel embarrassed about admitting it." "I understand," Jenn said, playing with her utensils absentmindedly as she looked at the table while she spoke; "I pushed myself so far into religion to avoid the things I felt, that when I started to feel something for you, something I could not ignore no matter how hard I tried, I knew I was screwed. But that was kind of the whole point John and I had about making a new church. A place where you can be yourself, and God loves you regardless. Hopefully it'll be finished before Boris...well..." "Yeah," Whittle mumbled, trying not to think about the unavoidable inevitability that was heading straight for them. "What do we do, when, ya know, that time comes?" Jenn asked. "You could move in," Whittle said, "and we could turn his room into a kind of religious study if you want." "You don't think his ghost would take offense at that? Haunt us for it?" Jenn asked, the both of them snickering. "No, I think he'd find the whole thing very moving," Whittle said, "...the thing I've learned about Boris during the tenure of our friendship is that...he might not believe something himself, but he'll never shame you for believing in it. Hell, he'll even openly defend your beliefs against others who might agree with him initially in his disbelief. That's true friendship. He'd think it's beautiful to see us move forward, utilizing the space for something new and good." Jenn nodded, thinking about what it would take, emotionally and otherwise, to make that a reality. She sighed and ran her hands through her hair. "When I was a little girl, well not little little but you know, like a tween," Jenn said, "I remember being in Sunday School and learning about Joan of Arc, and instead of thinking what a hero she was, albeit perhaps not in the traditional sense, how pretty I found her. I disclosed this to one of the girls I was friends with there, who then shared it with everyone else, and I was kicked out of that particular Sunday School class. My mother never understood why because, thankfully, nobody told her, but I learned to keep that to myself after that moment." Jenn's eyes rose, meeting Whittle's again, and she smiled warmly as she reached across the table and held Whittle's hand. "But I don't like being hidden anymore," she continued, "and getting to know Boris, knowing that he hid himself from the world as well...I don't wanna be like that. I want to be happy and out and proud, maybe not super vocally but on some sort of level, you know? I used to lay in bed and fantasize about what it would be like to have a really milquetoast life with you, just doing ordinary, mundane domesticity. Shopping for furniture and...and stuff like that. Cause the house I grew up in was so damn bleak, emotionally distant, that I didn't have that experience and I want that warmth." Whittle blushed and Jenn looked away again, almost as if embarrassed. "...I am so in love with you," Jenn said in a hushed voice, "in...in ways I didn't know I could be, and that makes me so happy." "Yet again, you're so damn cute," Whittle replied, picking up Jenn's hand and kissing it softly. Whittle had to admit, she'd never seen herself giving into her bisexuality, and allowing herself to be with a woman, but Jenn...Jenn was so comforting, so soft and caring, how could she not fall for that? Especially in times such as these, where the future was fraught with such uncertainty, where her oldest, best friend was preparing for the end...how could she somehow ignore the gentle kindness that was right in front of her, willing to smother her in affection? She was glad she caved, because she couldn't see herself with anyone else now. Soon their plates arrived, and they spent the night sharing seafood with one another, at times feeding eachother playfully from across the table, and Whittle realized now what she'd been missing the entire time she worked at the hospice. That place, as one would expect, was so steralized that it had infected the whole of her being. And she didn't want to live a sterile life anymore. *** Melody and Boris had, at some point, finished the bottle of Whiskey and Boris was now laying on the floor against the front of the couch while Melody stretched out across it fully. Neither one was speaking, but it wasn't like they had to. They each knew what the other was thinking. That was the small comfort they shared, was the ability to feel the same way about the biggest things. "I used to have this little book," Melody said, "of daily affirmations. These stupid little phrases that you repeat throughout the day, one for each day, as if a few words were going to make life more bearable. They didn't help. I mean, I tricked myself into believing they might, but the moment I lost my book, that's when I realized I was lying to myself." Boris nodded, listening, as she continued. "If you have to lie to yourself every single day to keep through it," Melody said, "then maybe it's better to face the facts that you're just incapable of being happy. I'm just incapable of being happy. All I feel is fear and sadness and anger. I've never once felt happiness. I've lied, and said I do, or played pretend so as not to upset others around me, but the fact of the matter is that I cannot feel joy." "Joy is overrated," Boris said, "joy is only reserved for specific situations. Birthdays. Graduations. Weddings. The moments that it's socially unacceptable to be unhappy for, regardless of how sad you actually are. Which is hilarious because each one of those things...they come with abject sadness attached to them. You celebrate a birthday but you hate getting older. You celebrate a graduation but now your childhood is over. You celebrate a wedding, fully acknowledging it'll likely never happen to you. Yet we're supposed to feel joy over these things? Laughable." Melody nodded, digging into the container for more nuts, scooping what was left into her palm. "And what's worse," Boris continued, "is that the singular moment you might feel relief, even joy, is your own death. The release from all the pain. And yet you can't even feel it cause you're fuckin' dead. The universe is just an enormous joke on those of us capable of seeing it for what it is." Melody nodded again and finished chewing, clearing her throat. "I'm not a bad person for trying," she said. "Not at all. If anything, you're brave. That doesn't mean it's for everyone," Boris said, "but it is for some people." "My parents...they used to take me to church sometimes, mostly for holidays, and I always remember being told God loved me, but only if I lived by his rules. If I killed myself, somehow I was sinning, even though it's what was best for me. How can God be all loving, then turn around and be judgemental for something that's right for me? Is there even a reason to believe in anything?" "...I think there is," Boris said, surprising her as he added, "but not for the reasons you might think. If God wanted us to live by rigid rules, he wouldn't have given us free will. So take the comfort that there's something out there that loves you unconditionally, and it makes the universe a lot less hopeless." Melody slowly nodded, taking this in. She hadn't expected this misery fest to devolve into a religious debate, but she had to acknowledge that Boris's statement had some logic to it. If she ended her life, and there was some kind of afterlife, would she arrive before God and be welcomed with open arms? Would he be understanding? She wanted to think so. Was that preferable to the nothing that death likely actually was? Yes, in some ways. Peace was peace, regardless of how it was perceived. "I just wanna stop being in pain," Melody said. "Amen to that," Boris remarked. *** Whittle and Jenn were laying on Jenn's couch, Whittle on top of her, holding her face, kissing her deeply and warmly, gently. Jenn couldn't contain herself, letting out soft moans and squeaks of happiness at this intimacy. Whittle pulled away for a moment, and rested her forehead against Jenn's, their fingers laced together. Jenn breathed heavily, trying to catch her breath, and in the dim light of her living room, Jenn finally understood what she'd been missing all these years by denying herself her truth. "I guess it's true what they say," Whittle said quietly, "you treat a girl to a nice dinner and she will put out." Jenn cackled, which made Whittle laugh a bit as she continued to kiss down Jenn's soft neck. Both had opened themselves up to the world again, and found solace within one another. This was the exact thing Father Krickett was trying to grapple with himself in his office still, sitting at his desk, pen in hand, cigar stubbed out in the ashtray beside him, as he tried to put into words what Boris meant to him. He bit his lip, chewed for a moment, then started writing. He only wrote one line, but he felt like that one line was enough, at least for a time being. Boris, being a writer, would understand how hard it could be to find the right words to explain something. "Boris Wachowski was here," he'd written, and frankly, what else needed to be said. Sure it sounded like something a teenager would write on a bathroom stall, but...sometimes flowery language wasn't needed. Sometimes bluntness got the job done. And with that, John Krickett got up and left his office. He'd return tomorrow, likely work on it more because one sentence didn't equate an entire eulogy, but hell, it was a start, and a start was better than nothing. Even God, he thought to himself, when creating the universe, had to start somewhere.
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"Do you actually believe in the afterlife? Does belief come from being associated with the church, or is it a personal thing? One might assume that you might be swayed by the surroundings and imagery of your workspace to believe in something if you normally wouldn't," Boris asked.
Boris and Father Krickett were sitting at their favorite local diner, in their usual booth, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee. Par for the course for their general daily luncheon. "First of all," Father Krickett said, wiping his mouth on his napkin and then folding his hands on the table, "I don't really like calling what I do 'work'. It kind of devalues it. I like to think that I serve a higher purpose. I'm not in an office somewhere filing papers. There's a real calling to what I do, and I'm capable of actually helping people with it." "You just insulted every secretary throughout history," Boris scoffed as he lifted his coffee to his lips. "But, I think your assumption is correct, sure, one could be convinced if one were in the right headspace and the right place, but you have to remember, I decided willingly to go into this field. I wasn't raised in a particularly religious household. I mean we went to church on occasion, but only when it was deemed societally expected, like Christmas mass, stuff like that. Otherwise my folks were pretty distanced from the idea of any kind of religious thinking. They didn't shun it, but it wasn't the basis for their morals." "You're not answering my question, you're doing that thing where you just ramble about semantics only remotely adjacent to it, without answering it. You really like to hear yourself talk, you should get a radio show," Boris said, making Father Krickett chuckle. "Yes, Boris, I believe in an afterlife," Father Krickett finally said, "but I have to admit that that belief may come at the expense of having survived severe trauma. Belief in the afterlife is, and I hate to admit this but, more often than not a coping mechanism for peoples grief. They can't fathom the concept that those they loved so dearly are no longer of this plane of existence, and so it helps them to think that maybe they're somewhere else, safe, taken care of, still able to see us. Me personally, I think it's pretty fifty fifty in my case. Certainly some of it is a direct response to what happened to me, around me, but some of it - in fact most of it I'd even willing to say - is just a genuine belief in a higher power of sorts." Boris finished drinking his coffee and nodded, listening. He sighed and picked up his sandwich. "Do me a favor," Boris said, "if I die before you, which is very likely considering the age difference between us, please give my eulogy. You speak beautifully." "Will do," Father Krickett replied, laughing, "what about you? You believe in anything?" A moment passed as the waitress stopped by and refilled Boris's coffee mug. He took a bite from his sandwich, chewed for a bit, swallowed and then finally sighed. "I think, when you reach my age, you start to believe in it whether you want to or not, because the idea of nonexistence is so goddamn terrifying that, really, the alternative is worse. So you cling to whatever hope you can get of there being something after death simply to spare yourself the pain of there likely not being anything after death. Sometimes that can lead to true belief, but most deathbed conversions are, in my opinion, the brain simply trying to grant itself some relief. Do I personally? Probably not. I think it's very unlikely. I'm not saying it's not possible, but I'd be surprised if it turns out to be true." "If it does, please try and give me some kind of sign from the other side," Father Krickett said. "God, even dead you won't stop giving me busywork," Boris remarked, the both of them chuckling. This conversation had taken place shortly after Polly's death. Neither had any idea how relevent it would become. *** Boris pushed the door to the apartment open while Sister Jenn Whittle helped carry the woman from the car inside. They laid her out on the couch, as Boris came over to the couch and sat down on an ottoman, watching her closely with Sister Jenn while Whittle went to call the hospital. Boris glanced over at Jenn, who was holding a rosary between her hands, clearly praying, and he smirked. "I haven't done that in years," he said. "I don't do it for myself," Jenn admitted, "but I do it for those in need, or who I care about. I just...I don't understand what could drive a young woman to want to end her own life. I understand why some people might do it. The terminally ill, for example-" This made Boris feel a bit more comfortable around Jenn, hearing her say this, considering his recent interest in the topic. "-but," she continued, "at first glance, she doesn't seem sick. She doesn't seem terminally ill, anyway. Course invisible disabilities exist, but...it's just so sad. I need something to drink, do you want something?" "No, I'm okay, thanks," Boris said, as Jenn got up and headed to the kitchen. He continued to think about what he'd been doing the moment before this woman had run into the wall beside his apartment. He himself had almost attempted to do the very same thing, albeit in a less violent manner, and then he thought about the car accident. After all these years, here was another car accident, and this time he'd managed to actually get this girl out before any long term damage could be done. He clasped his hands together, elbows posted on his knees, as he hung his head and just listened to the deafening silence surrounding him. Suddenly he felt something gripping his wrist, and he looked up, the woman on the couch looking at him with one eye half open. "Don't...call anyone...please," she begged, and Boris felt his heart race. "But...but you might need serious medical attention, you might-" "They'll put me under supervision," she said, "I can't...I can't have that." Just then Whittle entered the room, on hold on the phone with the hospital. Boris looked over at her, and she looked over at him, their eyes locked. Boris looked back at the woman, her one good eye pleading with him as much as an eye can plead. He sighed, stood up and walked to Whittle, took the phone from her and hung up. Both Whittle and Jenn stood there, completely surprised by his actions. "...nobody calls anybody," Boris said, "you're a nurse, you watch over her, we'll take shifts." "Jesus, Boris, she might-" "This is what she wants," Boris said, looking back towards her and adding in a low whisper, "and after a lifetime of denying women what they want, I wanna give one what they want." *** Carol was sitting at her desk when the door opened and Burt came in, reading through the mail. As he reached the desk, plopping it down, Carol stood up and went to the nearby coffee machine in the office, pouring herself a cup. Burt sat down and sighed, scratching his head. "Ya know, nobody tells you this, but running a business is just 90% paying bills," Burt said, "why is all of life just revolving around paying bills of one kind or another? I swear to god if I die and go to heaven and I have to pay bills, I'm going to punch God right in his stupid bearded face." "What do you care, they're not even your bills," Carol said, chuckling as she sipped her coffee. "I'm mad on your account," Burt said, "God forbid a man show righteous anger for the right reasons for once." Carol laughed loudly, heading back to the desk, sitting down and setting her mug down before picking up the mail and going through it one by one. After a few moments of silence, the door to the office opened again, and this time Boris walked in. Carol smiled upon seeing him, as he high fived Burt. Boris walked right to the coffee machine and poured himself some before looking at Carol. "To what do I owe this sudden arrival?" Carol asked. "A woman tried to kill herself in front of me last night," Boris said, sipping from the mug. "Yeah but that's par for the course for you, right?" Burt asked, smirking, making Boris chuckle. "She drove her car directly into the wall near my apartment," Boris said, continuing, "now she's just resting in Chrissy's...in the guest room. I wanted to take her to a hospital, but she insisted on not going. Said they'd commit her for observation." "Well, she did try and kill herself," Carol replied, "Seems only justified that that's the action they'd take." "Well, I'm of the belief that one shouldn't be punished for doing what they feel is right for them," Boris said, "You're brought into this world without your consent, but you have no say in when you leave it? What's the point in having supposed 'freedom' if you can't even act for yourself in a manner befitting of you, so long as it isn't hurting others. And one could make the argument, I suppose, that your suicide would hurt those who love you, but death is inevitable, you're gonna die anyway, so all you're doing by not helping yourself is putting off their pain to a later date. Anyway, I didn't call the hospital." Carol looked at Burt, nodding. Burt understood, stood up and exited the office, shutting the door behind him as he went. Carol sighed, stood up and smoothed out her dress, then walked around the desk, hands behind her back, thinking. After a moment, she stopped at a window and looked out at the garden for Larry and his wife. "Boris," she said, "I know your perception on the futility of existence is a tad...warped, at the moment, considering your terminal status, but are you sure you're doing what's in her best interest? I know she asked you not to call anyone, but...maybe she needs that level of help." "Are you doubting me?" Boris asked. "Someone has to, eventually," Carol said, "Whittle, Krickett, Polly...everyone else has always just gone along with your beliefs, always giving in to how you think. Even on the occasions you have disagreements, they eventually find a mututal understanding in how you feel. But therein is the difference. Those are about things that affect YOU and YOU alone. I'm thinking about her. I'm thinking about what could be best for this poor woman in your care." "Listen, Whittle's a nurse," Boris said, "she's got more than enough experience to help take care of her for the time being. From what we can tell, she doesn't have any internal bleeding or anything serious. Just some minor scrapes, cuts, bruises, stuff of that nature. I'm just doing what she asked me to do. I thought you of all people would understand." Boris slammed his coffee mug down on the desk, turning and heading for the door. As his hand wrapped around the knob, he turned and looked back at Carol. "And for what it's worth," he continued, "you're wrong. Polly, Krickett, Whittle, they've all fought me on various things. Just because you want to act noble, don't disparage others who you think haven't done the same." And with that, Boris exited the premises, leaving Carol to think about what he'd said. *** "I brought you something to drink and a sandwich," Jenn said, sitting down on the ottoman by the couch, putting a small TV tray beside it and placing a paper plate with a sandwich on it and a glass of orange juice alongside it. The woman nodded weakly, sitting up best she could and reaching for the food. As she picked it up and took a large bite, chewing, Jenn watched her with wide, happy eyes. "You know," Jenn continued, "when I worked at the church, we would have homeless drives. People would come in off the streets, be given food, shelter, help getting them back on their feet. I'm not calling you homeless, for what it's worth, I'm just saying this reminds me of that. It's nice to help people. It's been so long since I've been able to help anyone." "I appreciate it," the woman replied meekly, voice still hoarse, as she chewed; while she swallowed, she glanced around at the apartment, then asked, "do you live here?" "No, my friend Boris and my girlfriend share this place," Jenn said, then realizing for the first time she'd called Whittle her girlfriend, and it felt good. It felt right. She blushed at this realization; Jenn cleared her throat, then asked, "why did you do it?" "...I'm tired," the woman said, "So exhausted from fighting my own thoughts all the time. Everything is so hopeless. Nothing ever improves, no matter what I try and do, or how long I try and do it for. Everything just seems so...so stuck. I just didn't know what to do anymore. It feels like the right thing to do, to just take an early exit. I know that's frowned upon in your belief system, but-" "Actually, for what it's worth," Jenn said, interrupting her, "I am part of a new church that's all about autonomy. The priest I work with, he's always seen the church as far too restrictive on aspects of ones life that have no bearing on the faith. So, he and I started a new church that's all about simply being there for others when they need guidance, and is accepting of anyone, regardless of their belief system." The woman nodded solemnly, smiling weakly. "So, as far as what we think of suicide...even if we don't personally agree with it, we would never tell someone else they can't do what they think might benefit them best," Jenn said, "besides, isn't the whole point of going to Heaven to be reunited with God again? Why wouldn't he be happy you got there sooner?" The woman laughed a little, coughing as she did, making Jenn chuckle a little as well. "I guess you have a point," the woman said. "What's your name?" Jenn asked. "Melody," she replied. "Melody, I'm Jenn," Jenn said, "and you are among friends here. You are safe." And Jenn wasn't just saying this to make Melody feel better. This was really what Krickett and Jenn believed in. There was no point in shaming anyone for the things they did that they felt was best for themselves. So long as they weren't actively harming others, what was the real damage? Far too often priests and those within the church felt like they knew what God would really want from people, but the truth was in fact nobody knew what God would want, and to claim they did was just as blasphemous as sinning outright was claimed to be. The best thing they could really do was guide others to the best of their ability. Regardless of where that meant the people they helped wound up. *** Polly's stone was the cleanest in the cemetery, thanks to Boris coming by regularly and wiping it down. On his knees, doing just that at this very moment, he dropped the washclothe on the bucket lip and ran his hand down the smooth, grey and black fleckled marble, smiling at the sun glinting off the top of it. "Fancy meeting you here," Father Krickett said from behind him. Boris turned and looked behind himself at John, then held his hand out so John could help him up, which he did. Once standing, Boris wiped his pants off. "Yeah, well, might as well get used to being here," Boris said, "gonna be here for eternity, after all." "Solid reasoning," John remarked. "How did you even know I was here?" Boris asked. "Because you always come here at this time every three days," John said, "walk with me." Boris nodded, picked up the bucket, and together the two men started walking through the cemetery in silence. It was late afternoon, and the trees overhead were rustling gently in the wind as they walked beneath them. John smiled as they passed by some very old marble statuette graves, reaching out and touching one in particular as they did. "I've always found cemeteries to be peaceful," John said, "I know to most people they're just an uncomfortable reminder of what's to come. Most people don't like being reminded of their mortality, instead opting to ignore the inevitable, but I find some sort of comfort in it. The idea that life is finite, that there's an end to it all, like a good book has an epilogue. Everything comes to an end." "No matter how painful life is, eventually the pain stops?" Boris asked. "Okay, well now you're making it depressing," John replied, both men chuckling; John then asked, "Are you doing okay?" John, nor anyone else, knew about his near suicide attempt the night previous. John didn't even know about the girl in the car. Boris contemplated telling him about it all, but opted instead to play his cards close to his chest and avoid anything serious for the time being. There'd be plenty of time for serious things soon enough. So instead, Boris simply shrugged, and cleared his throat, pounding his fist gently on his chest. "About as okay as can be, I suppose," Boris said, "So, tell me then, John, do you think you'll go to Heaven? You think you're comfortable with the concept of your own non existence? I only ask since you've had so much experience around the subject, between your brother, your boyfriend, what have you." Father Krickett looked up at the trees and thought. They walked in silence for a few moments, before they stopped near a large tombstone, and John reached out, planting his hand on the top, just gently rubbing it. "I'd be a hypocrite to say I don't believe in Heaven when I preach about it," John said, "but the fact of the matter is, yes, I do, and yes I don't. It's outright ignorant to look around at the world and not believe there's not some kind of greater force at work here. Everything at a base levels works too well together. But does that mean I believe in the kind of Heaven and God the religions teach? Not necessarily. A power, of some sort, certainly, but not in the ways one might expect. I do look forward to the moment, but I'm also not hoping it comes any sooner than it should." Boris nodded, listening. "Polly wasn't scared," Boris whispered, "I hope I can show that same level of conviction in my final moments. That sort of fearlessness." "Just because someone doesn't show it doesn't mean they weren't scared," John said, "and there's nothing wrong with fear. Fear is natural. Ignoring it isn't. Come on, I'll buy dinner." With that, Boris and Father Krickett continued towards the parking lot. The entire time, until they were sitting down to eat, Boris couldn't get his mind off the woman from the car, and what her reasonings could possibly be for wanting to do the very same thing that Boris himself had wanted to do. He knew, in due time, he'd come to those answers. In due time, he and this woman would have ample understanding of one another, and in due time, perhaps, even mutual respect. The problem was...Boris no longer had due time. "Another day, another lunch I could've gotten elsewhere," Burt said, dragging his fork through his bowl of stew as he sat across from Carol in the cafeteria. Carol shrugged and continued eating her own.
"Nobody is forcing you to stay in and eat this," she replied, "you're free to leave and obtain your own lunch anywhere outside this domicile. You're not chained in here." "Not yet I'm not, but once you hire someone to install chains," Burt muttered as Larry sat down beside him. Larry groaned as he scooted his chair in and started digging his fork into his stew, chewing while Burt and Carol went back and forth. He wasn't really listening, he wasn't really interested in whatever it was they had to say to be honest. He was primarily focused on his lunch. After he had eaten a little, he stopped and looked at Burt, then at Carol, before glancing around the room at everyone else. He looked down at his hand resting on the table, which was shaking now, tapping his fork on the bowl. "...fuck," Larry whispered, before grasping at his chest and falling face first into his bowl. *** "We're going to be late!" Whittle shouted as she slipped on her heels, turning to find Jenn coming out of the bathroom putting in her pearl earrings. Jenn approached and kissed Whittle on the cheek before opening the door. Whittle stopped and turned, glancing at Boris, who was sitting on the couch, writing something on a piece of paper. "You sure you don't wanna come with us?" Jenn asked. "No, that's fine," Boris replied, waving his hand at them, "thanks for the offer, but I'm not feeling up to it tonight. You two go ahead and have fun, let me know what the place is like so maybe I can have my last meal there." Whittle chuckled, then shut the door as she and Jenn exited. Now standing in the hall, Whittle sighed and shook her head, as Jenn picked up one of her hands and, lifting it to her lips, kissed it gently a few times, making her blush. "I hate it when he says things like that," Whittle said. "I know," Jenn replied, "I know, it's...not comforting in the slightest. But people who are faced with their own mortality should embrace it instead of denying it. You of all people, given your profession, should know that." Whittle exhaled and nodded. As Jenn took her hand in hers and started to tug her along down the hall, Whittle couldn't help but glance back at the apartment door over her shoulder. She had a bad feeling about tonight, and she just didn't know why. Boris, on the other hand, couldn't feel any more the opposite if he tried. He had a great feeling about tonight. Because tonight was the night he would finally kill himself. Boris had always said he didn't want to die slow and painfully, and that's basically what his diagnosis ensured. At least this way, he figured, he could go out on his own terms, with his dignity in tact. Seated on the couch drinking a cherry soda, he continued to scribble onto the pad of paper. Why could he write published poetry but never write a good suicide note? Boris tapped his pen against his legal pad and chewed on his lower lip. The phone rang, and he reached over, answering it. "Hello?" he asked, before smiling at Carol's voice, "hey, how are-" He didn't even get to finish the question. *** Boris was sitting in Larry's room, still absolutely coated in bouquets. He was staring at a photo on the bedside table of Larry and his wife gardening together when Burt entered the room. Carol hadn't come in yet, she was still dealing with the people in the home who'd been in the cafeteria when it happened. Burt stopped and pulled one of his hands from his pockets, running it through his good head of hair. "...he just dropped, man," Burt said softly, "he just dropped. He said 'fuck' and then he just dropped. Face first into his stew. Would've been funny if it hadn't been so sad." "That's how I feel about most of my life," Boris remarked, making Burt smirk. "...I can't...it's so weird. He was just here. Two minutes ago he was just here, and now he's not," Burt said, walking in more and sitting on the bed beside Boris, adding, "But that has to be the ideal way to go, right? To just drop, and not wait around? Suddenly it's just over. That has to be the ideal way to end things. I couldn't imagine knowing I was going to die and then just having to wait out the clock." "You're preachin' to the choir," Boris said. The door opened and they saw Carol standing there. She looked at both of them, before entering further and shutting the door behind her. She picked up one of the white roses from a nearby vase and smiled as she turned it over between her fingers by the stem. "I hope my last word is something as perfect as 'fuck'," she said, "that seemed right on the money." "Feels rather appropriate, all things considered in the moment," Burt said. "What's gonna happen to his stuff?" Boris asked, and Carol shrugged. "No idea. He had no children. We could divvy it up, or donate it. Depends. I think we each personally should take a memento," Carol said, "He's got lots of little trinkets." Carol walked to the desk and started looking around, sliding drawers open while Burt and Boris started rooting through the nearby closet. As she looked, she pulled out a very old tattered journal, and opened it. Inside was Larry's handwriting, page after page, and she started to skim it. Some of it was mundane. Just general vague day to day things. Some of it was even just grocery lists from 25 years ago. And then, smack dab in the middle, she stopped and found something. She started reading aloud. "Petunia took me to see a sunset today. I must've seen a million sunsets, but this sunset was different. She told me she knew just the right spot, and that I'd never see a better sunset. But I'm sure that will turn out not to be true. Any sunset with her would be amazing, because she is as blazing as the sun itself. Fiery and full of life. She is the light that gives my planet life, and she'll never know how much that means to me, because words alone could never explain it. Petunia took me to see a sunset today, but the whole time...I just looked at her," Carol read. "...fuck," Boris mumbled, as Burt put his hand over his mouth and started crying, Boris rubbing his back. "I think we should memorialize him. Put a sign up where that garden is, the one we made for his wife, and that way they can be together forever. We'll even transplant all these flowers he got accidentally into it," Carol said, "I can call in some contractors tomorrow or-" "No, we'll do it," Burt said through his weak crying, "we...we do it. Nobody else." Carol smiled as Boris shrugged, still rubbing Burt's back. "What the man says goes," Boris remarked, making Carol chuckle. After a bit of discussion in regards to how to arrange things, Boris exited the room only to find Father Krickett in his vestments leaning against the wall across from Larry's room. Boris stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets, the two men staring at one another momentarily, until Krickett smiled. "Walk with me," he said, and Boris nodded following; John continued as they headed down the hall, "you know...you and I have seen a lot of death together." "That sounds worse than you mean it to, but sure," Boris said, making John chuckle. "In fact, we met because I was here to give someone else their last rites," John said, "but there was Polly, and now Larry, and soon..." John stopped and looked at Boris, Boris doing the same. The two men stared at one another, and Boris noticed the tears welling up in John's eyes. John finally started to cry and leaned into Boris, who patted his back, holding him for a bit. "...please don't go," John said. "...I won't," Boris said. But he was lying. He was going tonight. He just didn't see any reason to make his best friends day any harder than it already was. *** Whittle couldn't concentrate on dinner. Try as she might, she just couldn't bring herself to focus on anything other than Boris. She'd known this man for literally years now, and had lived with him for a while, and to think that one day, likely very soon, she might come home and he would no longer be there...it terrified her. She recalled her grandfather dying, and how hard that was on her. How much she missed him, even now. She looked up finally and noticed Jenn was sitting across from her, just playing with the bracelet on her right wrist. "...do you know where I got this?" Jenn asked, smiling and holding up her wrist once she realized Whittle was watching her; Jenn licked her lips and continued, "I actually got it from an old woman who was on her deathbed. Well, not really, she wasn't lying in bed. But she was preparing to die, and she gave me this for talking her through her fears about it." "What were her fears?" Whittle asked. "Turns out she didn't really have any," Jenn replied, "she told me 'you know, it's funny, you spend your whole life being terrified of the nothing, only to welcome it once it's here'. I never really understood what she meant, but I think I kind of do now. I think she means that once you've lived long enough, done what you want to do, then the idea of non existence isn't as frightening, because you've lived a full life." Whittle nodded, admiring the bracelet from afar, chin resting on her fist, elbow posted on the table. "What about the people who don't get to finish what it is they want to do?" Whittle asked softly, and Jenn shrugged. "I'm not a mind reader, Reggie, I don't know," she said, chuckling, which calmed Whittle's nerves a bit; she continued, "but I can only think that, when facing down the reality of the inevitable whatever, they try to find whatever closure they can. After all, it's really all we can do." Whittle smirked and cocked her head. "The inevitable whatever?" she asked, chuckling. "That's what I always called it because who am I to say what comes next?" Jenn said, shrugging as she sipped her drink, "I mean, some people believe in nothing, some people believe in Heaven, and all ideas are valid so long as they bring you some kind of comfort. So I've always called it the inevitable whatever, cause you just never know what it's going to be, but whatever it's going to be, you know two things for sure: the first is that it is inevitable, and the second is that it can be whatever you want it to be." Whittle laughed and nodded. Jenn had such a way of calming her nerves, and she loved her for it. Her thoughts turned back to Boris, and of his poetry book. He had accomplished his life goal, really, so maybe he was okay with this being the end. Perhaps he was genuinely okay with it. She hadn't seen him worry or cry, except when telling Whittle, and even then it only seemed as though he cried because he didn't like seeing her upset. She sighed and picked up her menu, beginning to look through it. Whatever came next, she thought, they would each face it down in their own way. Boris would face down the inevitable whatever and as for Whittle, well...at least she had Jenn by her side. Who knew that the person she'd find peace in was a nun, and not for the typical reasons one generally finds solace in nuns. *** John Krickett took a long bath, dressed in his robe and then cooked himself some dinner. Some Salmon and fried rice and then sat down at the coffee table in his living room. Stabbing at his food absentmindedly with his fork, he couldn't help but think of his rosary, and began to get annoyed once more. Where the fuck could they be? He felt like he'd searched everywhere. He sighed and put his fork down, then got up, got dressed and got in his car. When he arrived at the apartment, he went up the stairs to the right floor, and knocked on the door. Boris opened it after a moment, and smiled upon seeing the priest. "It's late," Boris said, "what are you doing out?" "Just needed to talk," John said, shrugging, making his way past Boris and into the apartment, "considering we didn't really get much of a chance at discussion earlier, you know? What with...well...Larry and everything. Kinda hectic. I want to apologize for crying on you, that was extremely-" "Unlike you?" "Unprofessional," John said, chuckling, "not that we've had anything closely resembling a professional relationship, but that's beside the point. I just wanted to come by and see how you were holding up. Losing a friend, especially at your age, can be particularly hard. Considering the fact you're already facing mortality on your own, I was just curious if this had shaken anything loose." Boris sighed and started walking back to the couch, scratching the back of his head and shrugging. "Not really?" he said, "look, John, I appreciate the concern, I do, but...this is what happens, right? People age, they get old, they die. Sometimes its sudden and random, like Larry, and sometimes its drawn out and painful, like what I'm looking at for myself. In either way it doesn't make things any easier, does it? It's still the same thing, just a different means to an end. Yeah, Larry dying sucks. It sucks losing friends. But it's also just...life. To claim it's unfair would be ludicrous, because it's been happening for millennia. All of a sudden cause it happens to you it's unfair? No. It's just what happens. We learn to deal with it, or we don't." John nodded, crossing his arms and sighing. He looked at his shoes and thought. How could he tell the old man all the things he thought? All the small realizations that ran through his head. How much he'd miss him. How much he'd be there for him until that moment came. How much he'd meant to him. How much he'd changed his life for the better. Words couldn't do his feelings justice. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked back up to see Boris standing beside him, smiling warmly, patting his arm. "...we each do to the best of our abilities what we can with what we have wherever we are in the moment," Boris said, "whether you're going to college or you're terminally ill. All I've ever done my whole life is run. But I can't run from this. I ran from my romantic feelings for men, I ran from being a published poet, I ran from my family after the accident. All these things I saw as faults in myself, and I didn't want to face them. But death? That's something that everyone is hit by. Something nobody can run from. So I'm taking solace in the fact that it's something one cannot avoid. It's time t stop running, and instead, face something." John nodded, then put his arms around the old man and hugged him tightly, making him laugh. Boris patted his back and held John back, the two of them - each from an entirely different generation - just grateful to have existed even just momentarily at the same time as eachother. "I should go," John whispered, "it's getting late. I'll come get you in the morning, we'll have breakfast, my treat." Boris sighed. John didn't know he was making plans for a man not about to be here, but he didn't have the heart to tell him. John turned and opened the front door, stepping back out into the hall. As he walked away, disappearing down the stairs, Boris wanted to catch up to him, yell out and tell him he loved him, but he didn't have the heart. He figured this was the best exit he could get. Boris shut the apartment door, locked it, then went to his bedroom. He gathered the rope he'd bought earlier and strung it to the ceiling, then got a stool. He pinned his note to his shirt, then sighed. Funny, he thought. He'd stopped trying to kill himself when he met Chrissy. And now that she was no longer here, here he was again, back at it. Life sure was disgustingly circular, wasn't it? Boris sighed and stepped on the stool, pulling the noose around his neck. He shut his eyes, trying not to cry. Images of Larry and Carol and Burt, of Whittle and Jenn, of Chrissy, of Ellen and Lorraine...they all shot through his mind at rapid fire. He put one foot off the stool and exhaled, finally ready to take that final plunge. And then he heard the screech of tires. Boris stopped, his eyes snapping open, and he pulled the noose off him and stepped down from the stool. He pulled back the curtains on his window and saw a car had smashed directly into the wall near his apartment building, and the lights inside were flickering. Boris thought for a moment, then looked down at the note pinned to his chest. "Goddammit," he mumbled, before heading out of the apartment and down the stairs. As Boris reached the outside, he headed across the street and he grabbed the door handle, tugging at it furiously until the door lunged open outwards, and a young woman slid out from the car, groaning. A note was also pinned to her shirt. Boris hesitated, then grabbed the note and stuffed it into his own pocket, before kneeling beside her and looking at her. This was her. This was the girl from the doctors office. The one who'd left her little book of daily affirmations. He was shocked. Then he felt blinded by the lights approaching, and saw Whittle and Jenn pulling up and climbing out of the car, stumbling. "Call an ambulance," Boris said sternly, and Jenn nodded, heading inside to the phone as Whittle leaned down beside Boris as he cradled Melody's head in his hands and felt tears well up in his eyes, whispering, "you're gonna be okay. You're gonna...I'm not gonna walk away." A girl in a car accident had ruined his life. And now a girl in a car accident had saved it. Yes, he thought...life sure was disgustingly cyclical. What had happened to her little book of daily affirmations?
Melody swore that she had put it back into her purse before she went in to see the doctor that day, but she couldn't for the life of her find it. This also meant that she'd gone without her daily affirmations for a week now, and she was beginning to feel sick and stressed and scared. The little burst of comfort those gave her were a big part of what kept her so steadily mentally healthy. Now, without them, she didn't know how to handle all the negative thoughts flooding her mind. The reality of the loss of her affirmations book also proved something else to Melody, which was that she would never be truly well if she couldn't survive without a little book of coping. So, Melody sat down at her desk, her eyes red from crying so much, and uncapped a pen. She'd write a note. She hadn't written a note in years, but now she was relapsing, and now she would write a note. And then she would kill herself. *** "You've been avoiding me," Father Krickett said as he stopped at the usual table in the diner, where Boris was seated eating soup. Boris dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, as John took a seat in the booth across from him. "I wouldn't say 'avoiding', because that makes it feel personal, and I assure you it's not personal," Boris replied, spooning another mouthful of soup to his lips. "Feels pretty personal," John said, folding his arms. "If anything, I'm just trying to spare you having to deal with my problems," Boris said, "I'm doing it for you." "So...you're hurting my feelings by avoiding me...because you're afraid me dealing with you would also hurt me? Is there any version of this relationship where I don't get hurt, maybe?" John asked, the two men smirking at one another. Boris set his spoon down in his bowl and scooted it to the side, cupping his hands on the table in front of him and sighing. "Alright, I guess I owe you an explanation," Boris said. "You really do. Carol gave me reason to think something was wrong, so I figured I'd track you down and see what was going on. We haven't spoken in a few days, which is sort of unusual for us. I know I've been busy with getting the church in order and stuff, so it's partially my fault, but I've missed you, so-" "John," Boris said, interrupting him, his voice low, "um...I have...I have to tell you something." *** Melody used to write suicide notes regularly, even when she wasn't planning on killing herself. For a while, she did it because it allowed her to get her feelings out of her head and clear her mind for a little while at least, but she stopped doing it in earnest once she started to try and get better. Medication didn't work for her though, nor did therapy, nor did meditation, nor did most new age spiritualistic stuff, nor religion, but the one thing she did find worked for her was daily affirmations, and now...without them...she was struggling and back to writing notes. Only this time she meant it. This time it wasn't just to get feelings out of her head. This time she intended to follow through. She finished the note, then leaned back in her chair and thought about how she should go about doing this. She didn't own a gun, nor did she want one. She hated the sight of blood, so cutting anything was out of the question. Hanging or drowning sounded too terrifying before the darkness overtook her. Then she remembered an singular wall in an empty lot near an old apartment building downtown. She could drive right into it at top speed late at night and nobody would get hurt and she wouldn't even survive long enough after impact to be in pain if she did it right. Melody nodded, chewing on her nails nervously. That was it. Drive her car into the wall. That was the answer. It calmed her nerves, finally having a plan. She felt strange, wondering how her parents would react to this, but the way she saw it, if they didn't care about her while she was alive, why would they care about her after death? Sometimes a girl's just gotta take her life in her own hands. And end it. *** John opened the doors to the church and walked inside. He couldn't focus on anything, his eyes completely glazed over, his mind anywhere other than his current surroundings. He still hadn't managed to parse what Boris had told him, and he didn't know if he ever really would. He was a priest. He was used to death. He was aware of the inevitability of the end, and the comfort religion could bring himself and others during those times. But he'd also, aside from Steven and his brother (and perhaps by osmosis somewhat Polly) he'd never really had to face down the grief of losing someone he loved deeply. As he headed through, going to the space he'd sanctioned off as his office, he heard another door in the hall open and saw Sister Jenn standing there in a sweater and some black dress pants. "...are you okay?" Sister Jenn asked, and John stood there silently, unsure of how to respond. "I, uh...I don't...I don't know," he finally replied, his voice barely audible as he reached up and wiped at his forehead anxiously, "I saw Boris and...and uh..." "He told you," she whispered, leaning against the wall. "Yeah," John replied quietly, chewing on his lip, "...I don't know how to handle it." "We could discuss it if you want," Jenn said, "In fact, I was only waiting around here to see if you would show up, because I thought you mind need someone to talk to about it all." John smiled. Sister Jenn was a good person, and he appreciated her friendship. Even if she were to leave the church, he knew he'd always keep her as a friend, because she just was that nice a person. John nodded and pulled his keys from his pocket, put them into the lock on his office door and swung it open, allowing Sister Jenn to enter. He followed her in afterwards, shutting the door behind him and then, kneeling down in front of a cabinet, he opened the door and reached inside, pulling out a large glass bottle of something and set it on his desk, to which Sister Jenn glanced at with a look of surprise on her face. "You're going to drink straight gin?" she asked, "impressive." "It's disgusting, but it does calm ones nerves," John replied, standing back up now, two glasses in his hands, but Jenn shook her head, chuckling. John shrugged and set the glasses on the desk, unscrewed the lid to the bottle and poured something for himself. He swallowed it in one gulp, then exhaled deeply, wiping his mouth on his long shirt sleeve before looking at Jenn, who sat down on the chair across from him at the desk. John then slumped down into his own desk chair and looked back at her. "...how are you feeling?" Jenn asked, crossing her legs. "How do you think I'm doing?" John asked in response, sounding snippy, "my best friend is dying. You'd think a lifetime of dedicating myself to the lord would grant me some semblance of peace, but it hasn't. There's so much emotional turmoil. Oh sure, I could tell myself that he'll be fine. He'll be taken into the lords arms in a warm embrace and not be in pain anymore, physically or emotionally, but...why would I do that? I don't want him to go to Heaven. I want him to stay here." Jenn nodded and watched John pour himself another shot as she chewed nervously on her lip. "...besides," John said after throwing the 2nd shot back, "what's the point in making claims when I have no evidence to back them up." This statement surprised Jenn, and she raised an eyebrow. "What are you saying?" she asked. "I'm saying that I don't even know if I believe in anything anymore," he whispered, starting to cry, "so it's not enough to lose my best friend, but to lose my faith in the process? That's indescribable terror." *** Boris and Ellen were sitting at a cafe having coffee. Ellen had actually insisted on this meeting, as she'd spoken with her mother that morning and now wanted to bring her father up to speed, and, frankly, Boris was pleased as punch that she had wanted to meet with him of her own accord and made it happen. If nothing else, at least he had this to look forward to today he thought. Sitting across from his daughter while she sipped her coffee and he bit into a muffin, he couldn't help but notice how happy she seemed. She finished taking a long sip and then set her cup down, looking across the table at her father. "This is so sudden," Boris said, "pardon for being, uh...a parent, but hah. It definitely seemed to come out of nowhere. Who even is this person you're marrying?" "Actually," Ellen said, looking down at her cup and blushing, "um, they're my physical therapist. After waking up and needing to learn how to walk, I was placed with a physical therapist and we had meetings three times a week. Then, after a few weeks, we just started having lunch together and stuff. So it's actually not that sudden, it's been going on for a while, I just didn't say anything about it. I just wanted to make sure it was something serious first before getting everyone all excited, you know?" "Understandable," Boris said, chewing his muffin, "...when's this wedding?" "Actually, that's the thing...it's not for a year at least," Ellen said, sounding nervous. "...I don't even know if I'll be here for it," Boris whispered, and Ellen nodded. "I know, but I didn't know you were sick." "Neither did I," Boris replied, chuckling, which put Ellen back at ease; Boris continued, taking another bite of his muffin and adding, "well, I'm just happy knowing you'll be taken care of once I'm gone, not that you haven't done a great job taking care of yourself your whole life. If nothing else, I at least know I raised a self sufficient kid. Course, I also didn't leave you much choice, I 'spose, given how I bailed." Ellen looked back down at her cup and sighed. "Dad I have to tell you something else," she said. "You're not pregnant are you?" Boris asked, and she laughed, shaking her head. "No no no, nothing like that, no. In fact, I don't know that I even want children, so," Ellen remarked, "um...my physical therapist, my fiance, uh...well...they..." Just then a woman approached the table. She had long reddish brown hair and was wearing a collared button down shirt and jeans. She looked a few years older than Ellen, and took a seat beside her, pulling her helmet off her head, letting her hair fall over her shoulders entirely. She set the helmet down on her lap and then looked at Ellen and kissed her cheek. "I'm so sorry," she said, "I had a session that ran long and, given my profession which is all about patience in recovery, I couldn't exactly cut out early. Is everything okay?" "Dad, this is Miranda," Ellen said, "this is...my physical therapist." That's when it hit him. He smiled and, setting his muffin down on the table, he leaned forward and cleared his throat. "You know," he started, "one of my best friends was a woman named Polly. She was...amazing. She was vicious, funny, but genuinely caring even if she didn't always show it. Polly and I had known one another since I'd moved into the home, but we'd never really spent the time or taken the effort to become friends, at least until a certain point, and once our friendship was inevitable, I came to realize what a wonderful person she actually was. And she really was a wonderful person. Maybe the best person I've ever known aside from your mother and yourself. She was also the strongest person I've ever known outside of you, Ellen. She went through tremendous loss, and lived a life that, especially in our lifetime, most people didn't accept." Ellen's eyes widened, nodding as she understood. Boris cleared his throat and continued. "When Polly died, I realized how lucky I was to know her. To know someone who'd endured such indifference just to her personhood, and yet she still persevered. She wasn't gonna let others stop her from being happy. I see that same strength in you, Ellen, and if this woman makes you happy, and makes you feel loved, then god bless her. I'm happy for you. I just want you to be happy and safe and appreciated. You deserve it." Ellen put her hand to her mouth, wanting to cry. Miranda pulled her head towards her and planted a kiss on it, smiling at Boris. He leaned back in his chair and continued eating his muffin, shrugging. "You don't live a whole lifetime without growing as a person, and if you didn't grow, then you probably didn't live," Boris said, making the girls laugh. *** "Every single day I'd stand up there at the podium and I'd exclaim notions of peace and love, of miracles, but the thing is...peace isn't truly attainable, love is sadly most often a weapon and miracles? Please. I have never once seen a miracle," John said, putting his feet up on his desk and sighing. "Are you saying you don't believe in things just because you haven't seen them happen? Isn't this entire profession based on faith? I mean, how can you stay in a line of work you don't even believe in?" "Politicians do it," John replied, shrugging. "Yes, but you're not a politician." "We're both as crooked, Jenn, don't pretend like the church and the government are any different when it comes to morality," John said, sitting upright again and leaning on the desk, "because look at how often one strokes the other. We're just as corrupt, we just aren't as open about it. We like to pretend we're not, and I can do everything in my power to change that, but in the end, there's only so much one man can do to change public opinion in regards to an establishment older than time itself." Jenn stood up and put her hands on the table, leaning across it and glaring at him. "Now you listen to me," she snarled, "you say you don't believe in miracles, but miracles don't have to be amazing to be miracles! They can be as mundane as simply meeting someone you never expected to meet, to feel a connection to someone twice your age, someone who...someone who makes you realize that you were lying to yourself and it's time to be yourself. That's a miracle. Opening your own church? That's a miracle! Falling in love? That's definitely a miracle!" John looked in her eyes, swelling with tears, and he nodded slowly, listening. "So yes, it isn't fair, and yes the church is corrupt, but that doesn't mean everyone inside of it is, and that doesn't mean miracles can't happen," Jenn said, pulling away from the desk, adding as she wiped her eyes on her sweater sleeves, "because...because yes it hurts to lose someone you love, but it doesn't mean the time you had with them was any less important. Their absence doesn't negate the things you felt. If anything, it should only make them stronger. I have a date to get to, and, honestly John, I don't think you should drink." Jenn turned and exited his office, leaving the priest alone. He looked at the bottle and nodded, capping it and putting it back into the cabinet before standing in his office, feeling oddly enlightened. He looked at the door and smiled weakly. He was pretty thankful for Sister Jenn. Her companionship, well, one could call it a miracle, he supposed. *** Melody was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her note was written, her affairs were in order, her outfit was chosen, and tomorrow night was the night. She'd been putting off her suicide for far too long now anyhow, and nobody would really be surprised as it was. As she lay there, thinking about what came after death - the moment of impact and how swift it would be - she couldn't help but think back to her little book of daily affirmations. Amazing, she thought, how easily it was to make a person crumble. Just remove the one thing they truly loved from their life, the one thing they desperately needed to keep going, and watch them fall like a house of cards. And she wasn't wrong, because sitting in Polly's Gremlin right outside his apartment, Boris was thinking the same thing. His daughter was going to get married - something he wouldn't even get to see - and his roommate had fallen in love and Chrissy had been returned to her family, and he was going to have to face the end alone. He started to cry. He didn't want it to be painful. He didn't want to face down the end slowly, terrifyingly. He wanted it over now. Boris started the car and decided to go to the hardware store. He'd buy some rope, he'd finally finish what he'd started when he met Chrissy so long ago, and he'd end his life on his own terms tomorrow night. Polly went on her own terms. It only seemed fair, he thought. He had always been the jealous type. "You're quite the lucky man," Dr. Learner said as he took the blood pressure wrap off Boris's arm and chuckled, "you live with a nurse. That's going to make things much easier on your part. Granted, she probably won't be very happy with the situation, but hey, you'll be dead soon enough, so at least she won't have to deal with it for too long."
"You're real charming, you know that?" Boris asked, rubbing his arm and making Dr. Learner laugh. After he'd hung the machine back on the wall, he took a seat on the little spinning stool and looked at Boris, who continued massaging his arm where it'd just been slightly squished by the machine. "How are you feeling? Have you told anyone what's happening yet?" Dr. Learner asked. "...I have not. Well, I told my friend Carol, but nobody else. I don't really know how to break this kind of news to people. As for how I'm feeling personally, uh, I could be better but I'm walking again so the joy of that kinda supersedes anything else, doesn't it?" he finished, shrugging, "besides, how does one break news like that? You said it yourself, there's no card for this sort of situation." "Weird isn't it? There's cards for it from the opposite end. My condolences for your loss, etc etc, but nothing from the person dying to give the ones they'll leave behind. 'Sorry for your impending grief' or something akin to that," Dr. Learner said as he stood up and started to gather his things, prepared to end this little follow up; he chuckled and shook his head as he gathered his charts, adding, "I tell ya, they say the worst part of this job is telling people they're going to die, and it's right up there, I won't deny, but in actuality the worst part of this job is being unable to help them get better. Sooner or later we're all gonna die, but I'm in a profession that seeks to extend that lifespan wherever possible, so to be unable to do just that, even if for a bit longer...it stings." Boris smiled weakly, appreciating Alan's candor. Dr. Learner shook Boris's hand, then, charts under arm, exited the examining room, leaving Boris alone on the table. He sighed and stood up, pulling his jacket back on over his short sleeved button down shirt and readjusting his tie. Boris knew he had to start telling people eventually, but he was hoping to get away with that as slowly as possible. He didn't want grief surrounding him while he was still here, after all. Still, he was going to need Whittle's help, considering she was a nurse, but when Boris arrived back at the apartment, Whittle was nowhere to be found. Instead she'd left a note, which simply read: "Running an errand, be back soon." *** "Is that the right house?" Jenn asked, sitting in the passenger seat of the car, wearing a pale yellow turtleneck and brown slacks. Whittle, in the drivers seat, was watching a house across the street from where they'd parked in a nice upscale neighborhood. Whittle, dressed in a brown button down short sleeved shirt and black jeans, nodded in response to the question. "This isn't weird, right? I'm not weird," Whittle said, glancing at Jenn, who just smiled back at her and patted her leg. "It's sweet how considerate you are," Jenn replied, "you lived with and took care of her for a good while, I think she'll be touched by how much you care." "I don't wanna stalk a tween," Whittle said, making Jenn chuckle as she added, "that's not a good look." Just then they saw two adults exit the house, a man and woman - presumably Chrissy's parents - and kiss before getting into their respective cars and driving off. Whittle and Jenn waited a moment, before getting out of the car and heading across the street. This felt so wrong, Whittle thought, but she just couldn't imagine how Chrissy was doing, and she had to know she was alright. As they approached the house, Whittle began looking through the windows, until finally she heard Jenn whistle quietly and came to her. Jenn pointed at the window she was in front of, well towards the back of the house, and Whittle glanced through, spotting Chrissy sitting on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing. Whittle tapped on the glass, and Chrissy sprung up, glancing around. When she caught sight of Whittle, she beamed, and quickly got off the bed and threw open the window, lunging herself out of it and throwing her arms around Whittle's neck. "Hey hey, hah, hi!" Whittle said, surprised by the surprising amount of affection. "You came for me," Chrissy cried into Whittle's neck, and this broke her heart. Whittle raised her hands and rubbed Chrissy's back, nodding. "I did," she said, "I'm here. It's okay. You're okay now." Jenn stepped back and smiled, watching this adorable interaction. This, she thought, was the kind of miracle God allows. *** Lorraine dropped a few ice cubes into the glass and handed it to Boris as she walked back towards the couch in the den. Once seated, she lit a cigarette and took a puff, watching Boris sip his drink cautiously before seating himself on the nearby love seat. "I'm surprised by this little visit," Lorraine said, "certainly not put off, but surprised. Usually you call first. It's rare you just drop on by." "I had to see you," Boris said, "I had to...see you." "Well that's sweet, if not a tad ominous," Lorraine said, chuckling, "I saw your book in a store the other day! Just right out there, in front, next to all the other newish releases. Was pretty vindicating to be able to see your name and think 'hey, I know him, I'm married to him!'. I'm proud of you." "I'm dying," Boris said, flatly, and Lorraine's face changed instantly. She dabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray beside the couch and then leaned forward, smoothing out her skirt over her knees and exhaling. She took a moment, ran her hands through her medium length bobbed haircut and then, finally, looked Boris in the face. "You want to repeat that?" she asked, "because I swear I thought you said-" "I'm dying," Boris said, "...yeah...and uh...I felt like you needed to know before some other people, considering, ya know, you're my wife and the mother of my child. Where is Ellen anyway? I thought she was going to be here today. Said she had something she wanted to show us. Well, either way, you had to hear this. They say it could only take a few months. They've run further tests, and it...there's nothing they can do about it. I just have what time I have left, which could be a few months to a year maybe. Totally uncertain. Regardless, it's terminal." Lorraine nodded, taking it all in before standing up and walking over to the loveseat and sitting next to Boris, putting her hand on his shoulder and looking at him. Boris, embarrassed, looked up from his feet to Lorraine, their eyes meeting, as she smiled and gently stroked his cheek. "To get to know someone as much as I've gotten to know you, to spend an entire lifetime with someone, even if we aren't together always, was such an interesting experience that I feel humbled for being given," Lorraine whispered, resting her forehead against his, tears rolling down her cheeks, "I'm just sorry we wasted so much time." "That's my fault, you shouldn't apologize for it. I was the one who walked away. I just couldn't live with myself after the accident, and I felt like my presence just hurt you both more because you'd never be able to forgive me, when in reality, I was the only one not able to forgive me," Boris said, "so you have nothing to apologize for. I wasted our time. I wasted everyone's time. And I'm going to regret it more now that I'm running out of time to make up for it with." They sat there like that for a few minutes, foreheads pressed against one another, both silently crying. "I'm scared," Boris whispered, stuttering, his voice shaky. "I believe you." "I don't want to leave yet." "You aren't," Lorraine said back, gently kissing his forehead, "not yet." Just then the front door and Ellen entered, wearing a plain pink dress and smiling from ear to ear, only for that smile to fade the second she saw her parents. Lorraine and Boris looked up at Ellen, who slowly approached them and held out her left hand, showing off a pretty, small ring snugly tucked onto her ring finger. Boris looked at the ring, then at Lorraine and then they both looked back up at Ellen. "I'm getting married," she said, "...what's going on? I hope I didn't interrupt something." *** Carol, seated at her desk in her office while Burt read a book in a chair nearby, groaned as she put her pen down and looked around the office. Just then the door opened and, of all people, Father John Krickett entered, shutting the door behind him. Carol perked right up, sitting up straight again from her slouch and smiling politely as he approached the desk, putting down a folder with papers inside it. "This is from the bank from today," he said, "this is, um, current cost estimates. I need you to go over them, sign off on them, then get them back to me. I really need to start doing furnishings." Carol pulled the folder towards her with her fingertip, nodding. "I can do that," she said, "uh, how are you?" "Today? Uh, hasn't been particularly bad I suppose, all things considered. Hectic, overwhelming at times, but not bad outright, so that's a plus," John said, chuckling, "I mean, I did have to spend some time at the bank, and that's never fun, but you know. It is what it is." "I meant more like with Boris. How are you holding up?" Carol asked, and John looked at her, raising one eyebrow, seemingly confused. "...what do you mean?" he asked, and that's when it dawned on Carol that Boris likely still hadn't said anything to him yet. She started to attempt to backpeddle. "Oh, uh, I'm sorry, I was thinking of something else. Sometime you two were mad at one another. sorry. Old age, father, it really can screw up your cognitive faculties," Carol said, laughing nervously, "you know how it is. One day you've got a photographic memory and the next you can't remember your own name." "...what's my name again?" Burt asked, looking up from his book. "Shut up Burt," Carol snapped at him, uninterested at his humor at this particular moment, before turning her focus back to the priest and adding through a thinly veiled smile, "anyway, please forgive me. I'm not good at remembering what's going on between two people, but yes, I can get this done for you quickly! Definitely! When exactly do you need them by?" "...anytime tomorrow is fine," John said, now suspicious, "...thanks." Father Krickett turned and headed out into the hall, unsure of what exactly to make of the interaction he'd just had, when he thought about stopping at the apartment on his way home that night, just to see if everything was alright. Carol had inadvertently planted a seed of doubt into his mind, and now he had to see it through. *** "It's not too bad," Chrissy said. She, Jenn and Whittle had now entered her bedroom fully through the window and were now seated on the floor as Chrissy explained to them her new living situation back home with her parents. "I mean, they're definitely better than they were, that's for sure," Chrissy said, "they don't yell nearly as much, some days not at all, and when they do start they stop and instead try to talk about things calmly for my benefit. They still have lots of issues, but they've definitely gotten better at managing it, especially in front of me." "That's so good to hear," Whittle said, "we miss you at the apartment." "...why did she come?" Chrissy asked, glancing at Jenn, who just smirked at the question. "I wanted company," Whittle said, "I didn't want to come here alone, in case there was some kind of problem. Not that I think a nun would be of much help in terms of defense, but you never know. She could secretly know karate or something." Chrissy looked at Jenny, eyes a little wide. "DO you know karate?" Chrissy asked, her voice low. "Make me mad and find out," Jenny said, the three girls laughing. Whittle had been blindsided by just how much she'd missed Chrissy once she was no longer a daily staple in her life. Once her room was empty, and she no longer resided within the apartment, Whittle felt liker her life was now so much emptier as a result, and this both surprised and bothered her. On one hand, she was surprised by how attached she'd become, always claiming she didn't want to be a mother but then growing to feel like one. On the other hand, she was bothered by how upsetting this loss actually was. She always knew that at some point Chrissy could leave. Chrissy could be taken home. But it just...it had been so long now, it just seemed like an impossible thing. The reality now sinking in saddened Whittle. "How's Boris?" Chrissy asked, and Whittle shrugged. "I actually haven't talked to him much lately, despite sharing a living space," she said, "he's been kind of off in his own little world lately. If I do get the chance to talk to him, I'll ask him how he's doing, and I'll tell him you asked. So you're doing okay though, right?" Chrissy hesitated, then nodded, smiling warmly, which made Whittle feel better. Which was nice, because her night would not end on a good note. *** Whittle plopped her keys on the table by the door as she and Jenn entered the apartment, giggling to themselves. After meeting with Chrissy, they'd stopped off and had dinner somewhere, then necked for a while in the car before deciding to come back to the apartment, expecting to be alone, and surprised when they flicked on the kitchenette lights only to discover Boris sitting at the table. Boris was sipping from a glass of wine, while Whittle and Jenn came around the table and looked at him. He finally glanced up at them and smiled weakly. "...you never drink wine," Whittle said. "It's true," Boris said, yawning, "but at this point, why not go for everything?" Whittle seated herself slowly, Jenn standing behind her, arms over Whittle's shoulders. "What...what does that mean?" Whittle asked as Boris finished his glass, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and leaned forward a little. "...I need your help, Regina," Boris said, "I...I need your help. I can't go to the hospital, I don't wanna go back to the home, and I need to...I need someone to help me figure out how to approach end of life plans and get my affairs in order and-" "Boris Boris whoa, what...what the hell are you talking about?" Whittle asked. "...I'm dying, Regina," Boris said, watching her put her hand to her mouth, her eyes squinting with sadness, almost instant tears; Boris nodded and continue, "um...I didn't want to tell you, but I need your help. You're the most talented and compassionate person I've ever met involved in the medical field, and right now, I need your expertise and kindness. I'm scared. I need your help." Whittle nodded slowly, hand still over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. She felt Jenny massaging her shoulders, and was so grateful she had come home with her. Staring at his old face, Whittle started to feel like they'd gone so long without loss, and now loss was making a massive comeback. First the stroke, then Chrissy being taken away, now a terminal diagnosis...what would come next? All she knew was that she sat there and she studied his face like it were an old map she was trying to memorize a route on. Like she was afraid she'd never see it again. Because she knew, likely soon... ...she never would. "...is there more wine?" Whittle asked, and Boris, smirking, raised his glass. "Atta girl, drink up, and you, you're a nun, wine's allowed," Boris said, making Jenn smirk as she went to retrieve more glasses for them. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for tonight. Without Boris, Whittle would still be at her old job, and would still be with her old boyfriend, and she wouldn't have become close to Chrissy, she wouldn't have met Sister Jenn and fallen in love, she wouldn't be who she was today without the old man. Amazing, she thought, the way the elderly can alter the youth, even with such a simple act of kindness. And now, after all Boris had given her, inadvertently or otherwise, she intended to repay it. "You know that tone people reserve for when something terrible happens?" Boris asked, sitting across from Carol in a little nearby bistro, having lunch. He'd brought her here and then told her to order whatever it was she wanted, his treat, to which she wouldn't refuse; he continued, "that sort of sad but not actually sad tone because they reserve their true sadness for things only pertaining to them? You know, how like when you tell someone your dog died and they just sort of look at you, head cocked to the side, eyebrows doing most of the heavy emotional face lifting, and say something along the lines of 'oh, that's so unfortunate, I'm so sorry!' but you know inside they're just happy it wasn't their dog who died?"
"Are you telling me people aren't capable of sympathy?" Carol asked, lifting her soup spoon to her mouth and sipping broth as she added, "because I don't disagree people do that, but I don't think it's fair to lump everyone in together like that. I know some people are truly sympathetic, empathetic, it just depends on the person." "I just don't wanna be the kind of person who tells someone something and then has them act like they're sorry when I know, in reality, their life won't really change one bit," Boris said, "I want them to genuinely care." Carol looked at Boris, spoon to her lips, before she lowered it cautiously and got a concerned look on her face. "...Boris?" "I have something to tell you," Boris said, "and I'm hoping you're not gonna like it anymore than I did." 1 HOUR EARLIER Boris hated going to the doctor. Not for any particular reason, moreso just because he hated being in large public spaces filled with potentially ill people. He was already old. The last thing he needed was to be specifically susceptible to their sicknesses. Boris turned a page in the magazine he'd picked up from the table nearby and sighed as he shifted in his wheelchair. Hopefully today he'd finally be out of it and back on his feet. He was feeling much better, all things considered, and was starting to get a little frustrated at being stuck sitting down all the time. He didn't know how actual handicapped people do it. They're stronger than he was, though, that much he acknowledged. He glanced at the young lady sitting next to him, in all black with short black hair, looking through a small book. "What are you reading?" Boris asked politely, as she turned to look at him, seeming almost surprised someone was interacting with her. "Oh, it's...it's daily affirmations," she replied, "you...you know, things like, um, like telling myself I am beautiful no matter what, or that I am strong enough to get through this day, or that, if I had a bad day, tomorrow will be better." "Does that actually work?" Boris asked, sounding suspicious. "...I mean, as much as a placebo does," the woman responded, chuckling lightly, "but it's something, you know? And at least I'm the one making the conscious decision daily to try and make my day better, even if it's just by reading a stupid little sentence or proverb." "Having that sort of agency makes you feel like you do have control over your life," Boris said, "I understand that." Finally a door opened and a woman stepped out, telling Boris he could come in. Boris smiled at the woman and said goodbye, plopping the magazine down on the empty chair beside him before rolling himself through the door and following the nurse down the hall. When they reached an examination room, she let him in and told him the doctor would be with him momentarily. Boris sighed and sat in the room alone, looking around at the various tools and instruments hung from the walls or on the countertop. After a minute or two, the door opened again and a youngish man walked inside. "Hey Mr. Wachowski," the doctor said, "I'm Dr. Alan Learner, you can call me Alan or Dr. Learner, either is fine. Whatever you prefer." Dr. Learner was a lean, tall young man who looked to be in his mid thirties maybe. He sat on the little rolling stool and pulled himself across the floor over to Boris's wheelchair and smiled at him. "Is this going to take long?" Boris asked, "I'm supposed to have lunch today with someone." "Oooh, is it romantic?" "No, he's my priest," Boris replied. "Oh," Alan said, "Well now I feel weird. So Boris, have you enjoyed your time in the chair?" "Actually it was surprisingly enjoyable," Boris said, "after walking for 70 something years, it's nice to kind of finally not have to use my legs for a bit. That being said, I'm not looking to extend it and making it a permanent situation. I'm ready to get back on my own two feet. Or someone else's two feet, whatever is easier." Alan chuckled as he plucked the chart on the clipboard off the counter that the nurse had left with him and started thumbing through it, checking each page and nodding at various things. "Then again, it does make people more willing to help me," Boris said, "suddenly people who wouldn't give two shits about me in public are opening doors for me, and that'll be kind of hard to let go of. Sad, isn't it? That you have to be visually disabled in order to get any kind of decency from others? What a shit show this society is." "Uh..." Alan said, nodding, "yeah, no you're not wrong, um, I have a niece who is blind, but because people don't know she's blind they often do shitty things to her without thinking about it, and only once they learn she's blind - which isn't always something you can tell just by looking at someone - they turn their entire attitude around. It's kinda sick. Okay so, looking at this chart, these ex-rays, you're perfectly fit to stand up again. Honestly, you probably could've a few days ago." "Thank god," Boris said, "putting pants on was becoming a problem." "Uh, that being said, I have to ask...were you ever in a car accident?" Alan asked, catching Boris off guard. "...yes, um, yeah. When I was much younger, when my daughter was little, we had a car accident that disabled her legs for a good majority of her life," Boris said, "I came away rather unscathed, all things considered, but yes. Why?" Dr. Learner sighed and set the chart down on the examining table, scratching his forehead and looking at the floor. Boris became nervous immediately. "Um, do you know what Meningioma is?" Dr. Learner asked, "it's a...it's a type of brain tumor. They can often be caused by head trauma, often present in car accidents. They're type of tumor that can develop and grow in the brain and involves the meninges, which are the protective membranes that surround the spinal cord and brain. This means that a meningioma can place pressure on the blood vessels, nerves, and brain tissues and cause potential damage, though typically, in most cases, meningiomas are benign. However, some meningiomas can be malignant and potentially life-threatening." "...why are you telling me this?" Boris asked, his voice shaky. Dr. Learner stood up and put his hands in his coat pockets, pacing around the room. "I wish there were better ways to tell people these sorts of things," he said, "but there isn't. There's no card you can buy for this sort of stuff, you know? Stuff a 50 in it and then just jot down 'hey, you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you!', which is a shame, because I guarantee you it'd be a fairly lucrative market if they tried it." "What are you saying?" "I'm saying you have an inoperable brain tumor that's going to kill you, sorry I don't a card," Dr. Learner said, standing there, scratching the back of his head, neither one saying a word. Boris stared straight ahead at Alan, uncertain of what his reaction to this kind of news could be. His lip quivered, his eyes wet with tears, he finally swallowed and spoke once more. "Are...are you...sure?" he asked. "I mean we can run more tests," Dr. Learner said, shrugging, "but this thing has been in you for ages, and it's likely what resulted in your stroke. I'm sorry, Mr. Wachowski, I never like telling people these kinds of things. It's not fun. I mean, maybe if they're a dick to me then I can take some slight sick enjoyment out of it, but otherwise. Listen, we'll run some more tests, and we'll see what we can do, but the fact that this has been here so long, has developed as much as it has...the outcome doesn't look pretty." Dr. Learner picked up the chart and sighed before heading for the door. Stopping at it, his hand on the knob, he looked back at Boris. "I guess it's a good thing you're seeing your priest today," he said, joking, and making Boris chuckle a little. Dr. Learner opened the door and exited, leaving a very confused Boris sitting there. He thought back to the accident, and he could remember smashing his head into the steering wheel a number of times during the incident. He couldn't believe that after all these years, this sort of thing would come back to haunt him in the way it seemed like it was. Boris finally, reaching out and grabbing the examination table, pulled himself up from his wheelchair and exhaled deeply. What does one even do when presented with this information? How do you even live the rest of your life, knowing it is in fact the rest of your life? Boris hobbled out of the room and back down the hall, heading back towards the waiting room. As he came through the door, he noticed the young woman he'd been speaking to was gone, but she'd left her little affirmations book on the chair. Boris walked over to it and bent down, picking it up and putting it in his coat pocket. Maybe he could find her and give it back. He then turned and looked at all the little kids in the office, some reading with their parents, some playing with other kids, others clearly very sick. Boris looked at all the younger people, all looking healthy and fresh faced, none even aware of the things coming for them. He headed out of the offices and stumbled into the hallway, then headed down the hall and reached the elevator. As he got inside, he shut the doors, being the only one on board. Boris waited a moment, then stopped the elevator using the emergency button and put his hands against the wall, steadying himself, as he began screaming, finally in tears. Isn't life amazing, he had once said to John, just when you think it can't get worse, it always somehow does. *** "What's going on?" Carol asked, sounding genuinely scared, her voice low. "...I'm dying," Boris said, the words sounding unreal as they escaped his lips, "I have a brain tumor. Apparently I've had it for years. I'm dying, Carol." "...why did you invited me to lunch?" Carol asked, "it was so sudden." "Because I was supposed to have lunch with John," Boris said, wiping his eyes on his sweater sleeve, "but, uh...I felt like I needed to approach that with a different tactic, given the nature of our friendship. But you...you don't pretend to be sad, you don't act like nothing has changed. You acknowledge the elephant in the room. I needed that first and foremost. Not that I don't think John won't, but...his reaction will be far more tactful, and I don't need tactful right now, I need rawness." Carol slowly set her spoon down in her bowl and wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap. She exhaled and leaned back in her chair, unsure of how to respond to any of this. She could remember the day Boris had moved into the home, the day they had met, and how they'd instantly become friends. It was nice to know that, even at that age, you could still make friends who felt like they'd known you forever, even if they'd only know you for a brief amount of time. And yet...and yet it never seemed like Boris could die. He struck her as immortal, which was ridiculous, because nobody was immortal, and yet he always seemed like someone who would be around indefinitely. "Carol?" Boris asked, finally pulling her back into reality, her eyes snapping at him across the table. "Oh," she replied, putting a hand to her head, "um, I'm sorry. I...I think I drifted off for a moment." "You okay?" Boris asked. "...are you?" Carol responded, almost sounding accusatory, before quickly following up with, "for christ sakes, man, you're gonna die. Doesn't that terrify you? How are you so fucking calm?" "Who the fuck said I'm calm?" Boris asked, his voice cracking, tears rolling down his old face, "what ever gave you the impression that I'm calm? I'm scared fucking shitless right now, Carol. That's why I came to you. Because you're like my oldest friend, and you won't just pretend. You'll make it about you, not about me, and that's why I wanted. That realness." Carol nodded slowly, sitting back up and putting her hand on the table, Boris slowly reaching onto the table and holding it, both of them smiling at one another. "...what am I gonna do without you?" she whispered, her eyes scanning the table. "What you've always done, thrive. You didn't know me for a majority of your life, I think you'll get along just fine," Boris said, "and if all else fails, I promise to come back and haunt you." "They're doing more tests to make sure?" Carol asked. "They are, but he sounded pretty certain," Boris remarked, "either way I'll keep you updated." So they sat there for a bit in silence, hand in hand, old friends, man and woman from two entirely different lives who somehow managed to share a life together, even if only for a little while. It just didn't seem fair, Carol thought, to wait your whole life to find someone who understood you on such a primal level, and then to have to lose them, as if they never belonged in your life to begin with. How was she going to manage? How was anyone who knew him going to manage? She thought back to Polly, and now understood how broken Boris must've been from her death. "...you know," Carol said, "if you're going to die, you could've sprung for a nicer lunch." "Oh, you mean like might as well enjoy the finer things in life before I have no life?" "Exactly, because, don't get me wrong, this soup is fine and all, but some atmosphere wouldn't hurt," Carol said, making Boris truly laugh for the first time in the entire day. He picked his sandwich back up and resumed eating, while she continued eating her soup, neither one saying another word for the duration of the luncheon, but that was perfect. That was as it should be. Intimacy is at its most intimate when you are so comfortable you no longer need words to acknowledge one anothers presence. That, to Carol, was true friendship. So what if he died. Who cared if he died. He wasn't dead now. And now was all that mattered. Carol exited the cafeteria, holding a sandwich half wrapped in plastic she was biting into, with Father Krickett by her side. As they got into the hallway, they stopped and waited as Carol chewed her bite and John unwrapped his own sandwich he'd bought earlier from a gas station on the way here. After a few moments of chewing, Carol finally swallowed her food and exhaled.
"I think, if all goes right, you could be open by next year," Carol said. "Really?" John asked. "I don't see why not," Carol said, "I can have all this paperwork whipped into tip top shape in no time, and other than that, it's just remodeling, right? Which you've already started." Carol and John turned and began heading down the hallway further, each eating as they talked. "Either way," Carol continued, taking another bite, "you also have to consider how you're going to pull people into your space. You can't exactly advertise a church." "That won't be a problem," John said, "I know plenty of people, some from the church I did work at and others not, who have been searching for a place they could practice religion without feeling persecuted by it. That's what this is all about. Creating a safe space for religious queer folk." "That's a very beautiful thought, John," Carol said, and John smiled. Just then, they heard the sound of something racing down the hall behind them, barreling towards them. Carol and John quickly stepped aside as Boris and Burt came speeding down the hallway, each in their own respective wheelchairs. As they skidded to a halt at the end of the hall, Boris threw his hands up in the air in victory. "I told you mine was the better model!" Boris said loudly as Burt rolled himself closer, looking annoyed but laughing. "I suppose I can't argue with the facts," Burt replied. "What are you two doing?" Carol asked, approaching them. "We were comparing who had the better wheelchair," Boris said, "if I'm gonna be stuck in this thing I'm at least gonna have some fun with it." "Alright, this isn't even yours," Carol said, gripping the handles of Burt's chair and wheeling him away, "You took this from Mr. Landerson." "She's not using it, she's in a coma!" Burt shouted as they headed down the hall, Boris and John chuckling as they watched them leave. John started walking beside Boris as they headed for the door that led to the back of the home, into the garden, Boris wheeling himself alongside the priest. "I take it you're feeling better," John said. "I feel like I'm doing remarkably well, all things considered," Boris replied, "but let me tell you John, it was...life changing. I didn't even know what was happening. The last thing I really recall is being in the bathroom, and...and Polly was there, but she was younger. She looked like she did when she was in her twenties, and I was so freaked out. At first I didn't even understand what was going on. I wonder if hallucinating like that is normal." "I think so," Father Krickett said, tearing a piece of his sandwich off and handing it to Boris, who graciously accepted, as he continued, "but you really shouldn't push yourself. I know you're just happy to be alive, and everyone else is too, but you really need to watch yourself for a bit, Boris. At least until you get a final report from the doctor telling you you're all good." As they strolled past Larry's flower garden, where he was busy digging into the soil, John smiled to himself. He took another bite from his sandwich as Boris finished chewing and swallowing the bit that John had given him, before John glanced back down at Boris as they stopped right in front of the gazebo. "When is your meeting for Chrissy?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris sighed, shaking his head. "Tomorrow," he said, "though I'm not sure how well it's going to go over now, what with me in this chair. I look infirm. They won't exactly be pleased about someone so old, in a wheelchair, taking care of a child, regardless of how much help he has." "Well, the wheelchair is temporary," Father Krickett said, "I'm sure it'll go fine. They'll be able to tell how much you both clearly care for her, and that's what's ultimately important. But, as always, if anything goes wrong, my confessional door is always open." "Not until you get that church up and runnin' it ain't," Boris replied, the both of them chuckling. *** "I've never bought furnishings for a church before," Whittle said, standing in the curtain aisle of a department store, running her hands down a very soft mauve curtain, she added, "do churches have curtains?" "Offices," Sister Jenn said, admiring a different set on the opposite side of the aisle right behind Whittle, "I don't particularly want the sun in my office all day. But no, traditionally, one does not adorn stained glass windows with curtains, you aren't wrong." "Isn't it kind of sexist to make the nun do the shopping? I thought this church was supposed to be progressive," Whittle said, grinning over her shoulder at Jenn, who just shook her head, chuckling. Lately, Whittle had been helping Jenn find furniture for the church, despite the church still being a ways away from being fully opened. Regardless, Father Krickett had told them that they should have it ready before its opening anyway. So, since Whittle wasn't working at the moment, and had nothing much to do when Chrissy was at school, she figured she may as well tag along on these errands. "You know," Jenn said, coming to Whittle's side and admiring the curtain she had been looking at, "I...I didn't really want to say this, because I appreciated the help, but I may not even be around to appreciate the outcome. I'm thinking about leaving the church. Nothing's final yet though, depends on a lot of factors. But at least if I do, I'll know I had a hand in making it come true, and making it look good." "Why are you gonna leave?" Whittle asked, dropping the curtain and turning to face Jenn, who pulled her habit off and ran her hands through her wheat blonde hair. "A lot of reasons," Jenn said, "some personal, some not so personal. For one thing, I'm not sure that spending my life in the church is the best way to dedicate myself to the lord. I'd rather find my own way to celebrate my relationship with them. But also, I..." Jenn stopped and bit her lip, looking at her nails before looking back at Whittle. "What?" Whittle asked. "I don't know," Jenn replied, shrugging, "just things like that, I guess." With that, Jenn turned back and headed down the aisle, Whittle jogging to catch up with her. Jenn knew if she never said anything, then she could live in her daydreams forever. The daydreams where she and Whittle were together, and happy. If she said something, and it wasn't reciprocated, that daydream was dead, and right now...well, right now she couldn't risk losing it. *** The following day, Boris, Whittle and Chrissy sat in the hallway of Chrissy's school, waiting to see the headmaster, Kevin Arnold. As they sat there, Whittle running her hands over Boris's wheelchair spokes, she couldn't help but giggle, causing him to look down at her. "What?" he asked. "You put a baseball card in here?" Chrissy asked, "Really?" "It's not a ten speed Boris," Whittle added, laughing. "How dare you, if I want to be stylish, I'm going to," Boris said, just as they heard a pair of shoes passing by them, and looking up - expecting to see Kevin Arnold - they spotted Father Krickett who stopped in front of them, hoisting a bag on his shoulder and a bible under his arm; Boris raised an eyebrow and asked, "what are you doing here?" "Teaching a class," John said, "this isn't technically a catholic school, but they do offer catholic classes. I'm just trying to pay my debt to society. Though, if truth be told, the kids don't seem all that invested in what it is I'm trying to teach them. These godless heathens." "They're children, John," Whittle said. "Yeah, demon children," John said, making Chrissy laugh as he reached out and patted her on the head before walking away, Boris rolling away after him. The two continued down the hall a bit, side by side, as John opened the flap of his bag and jammed his bible inside, saying, "I kid, but it does make me a bit sad to see so many young people outright reject religion instead of taking what parts of it work for them and using it to bring them comfort and guidance. Yes, it has its problems, and yes a lot of it is outright outdated and wrong, but there's still some good in there too." "It must be difficult to be a priest in this day and age, it's true," Boris said, "well, if you ever want to be cool and hip with the kids, you could get yourself a wheelchair like me. Then we could cruise together." "You're almost insufferable in that thing, you do realize that right?" "Almost? Was I not before?" Boris asked, the both of them laughing just as Boris stopped in front of a woman in a light blue suit standing in the hallway, who glanced down at him; he smiled up at her and tipped his hat, saying, "sorry ma'am, didn't mean to bump into you." "You're okay," she replied, smiling politely. That was when Boris realized she was talking to headmaster Kevin Arnold, who looked sour. Boris was confused. Weren't they supposed to have a meeting with him? What was he doing with this woman? Did she work for the school? She was dressed nice, she could be from the schoolboard or something. "Um," Kevin said, stepping past the woman and approaching Boris, kneeling down to eye level, his voice lowering, "I didn't want this to happen, I just hope you know that. I fought for you. But...the law's the law, and they're her legal guardians, and she...they have every right to take her home." Boris was so confused. What was he...then it hit him. Chrissy. He was talking about Chrissy. "Wait, who-" Boris said, as the woman also knelt beside Kevin and smiled weakly. "My name is Marianne Harris, I'm the social work assigned to the case," she said, "you two seem to have done a wonderful job, but her parents have been undergoing therapy, found ways to work together, and are in a much healthier place than they were before. Chrissy doesn't want to go home, but...well, she's a minor, and she doesn't really have a say, especially when the court has deemed her actual guardians competent enough to raise her again." "No, no wait a minute, I thought we were supposed to have a meeting!" Boris shouted, "what happened to the-" "Boris!" a voice screamed from down the hall, echoing off the walls, causing Boris to turn quickly in his wheelchair only to see Whittle standing there as Chrissy clung to her legs while two cops tried to gently pry her from Whittle. Boris felt his heartbeat quicken as he suddenly started racing down the hall, only to watch Chrissy be pulled apart from Chrissy and start to be led away. Suddenly Boris spilled and fell off his chair, his chair rolling onto its side. He looked up only to see Chrissy screaming and kicking as she was carried off, Whittle racing after the cops. Boris felt Marianne and Kevin help him up and back into his chair upright, and as soon as he was wheels up again he took off, racing after them again. As he got closer, he saw John pass him and wrap his arms around Whittle, pulling her back as she shrieked at the top of her lungs, kicking in the air. "You can't take her!" she screamed, "No! You can't just take her! John let me fucking go!" Boris was quickly past them, but his arms were sore, and he knew he had no recourse whatsoever even if he managed to actually catch up with them. He finally stopped, watching Chrissy and the cops disappear around a corner, as Marianna hurriedly walked past him, apologizing quietly again, trying to catch up with them as Kevin stopped, hands in his pockets, as he just shook his head dejectedly, watching their pain multiply. "It's okay," John whispered into Whittle's ear, "just calm down." "Fucking let go of me!" Whittle screamed, forcing her way out of the priests arms and then, turning and approaching Kevin, slapped him across the face, which he didn't respond to, and then Whittle turned and fell face first back against John, sobbing against his outfit. John glanced at Boris as he rubbed Whittle's back, trying to comfort her. In a literal matter of seconds, just like it'd happened so long ago with Ellen, Boris's entire world was ripped apart yet again. But this time there were so many more casualties. *** Sister Jenn was hanging curtains when she heard the front doors open and turned her head, still on the stepladder, only to see Whittle entering the building. Surprised, she quickly dismounted the stepladder and wiped her dress off, as Whittle got closer and stopped, looking at the floor. "Regina?" Jenn asked, "Reggie?" "...they took her," Whittle whispered, "they took her from us. They ripped her right from my arms. I...I couldn't do anything. They just took her." "...what?" Jenn asked, clearly confused. "I need you to tell me something, anything, to make this stop hurting. You're the nun. You're the one with belief," Whittle said, "I need to hear it from someone who genuinely believes in it that this happened for a reason or some bullshit or whatever." "Well," Jenn said, pushing some of her hair from her eyes, "uh...I won't say it happened for a reason, but...sometimes joy is temporary. You know? You were there in her time of need, and she gave you both something you needed. But...Boris has his own daughter, doesn't he? And things have gotten better with them, hasn't it?" "...but what about me?" Whittle asked, "I don't have anything." "Well, yes, you do. You have Boris. You have John and...and myself," Jenn said, "I mean, you came and sought me out specifically because you needed comfort, right? So you do have things. You have all of us." "...you are comforting," Whittle said, "whenever you come by with John, or like yesterday when we went shopping, I do feel comforted. I don't know if it's cause of your ties to the church, or...or what, but, you are comforting. Thank you. My chest hurts so much. I can't...I can't believe they just...ripped her from me. She told me she wished I were her mother, and now her bedroom is empty, and...I can't go back to the apartment. Not tonight. Not right now. Can I just sleep here, in the church?" Jenn laughed, then caught herself and apologized. "Um, well, it's not exactly situated for such a thing," Jenn said, "but I don't think avoiding things is the healthiest way to cope with them, no matter how much they may hurt. After all, from what you've told me about Boris, isn't that what his problem used to be? Maybe he's leading by example now. I don't know your entire life or history, Reggie, but...you're definitely stronger than you might feel right now. I do know that much." "But I'm good at running from things. Ever since I left my boyfriend and moved in with Boris, I've tried so hard to stay detached," Whittle said, sitting on one of the pews, Jenn seating herself beside her, listening as Whittle continued, "I mean...I've tried going on dates but they didn't work out, I tried not to feel like a mom and now I do, and all it's resulted in is hurting me." "You didn't run from this," Jenn said, "you ran to me. Not away." Whittle looked up and their eyes locking. "...um," Whittle said, stammering, "...well, yeah, cause you...I feel safe around you. I went to temple as a little girl, but, you know, I was never gung-ho about it. I never really sought comfort in religion, but...you make me feel safe. Maybe it's just cause you're easy to talk to, I don't know, but...seeing Boris with John has made me a little jealous, I admit, that he has someone that close that he can talk to. I mean, sure, you and I are closer in age than they are, but..." Jenn leaned back on the pew, cupping her hands on her lap, listening. "...I don't know how to say this," Whittle finally said, "especially in a house of God, but-" "You don't have to," Jenn said, sitting up, "I understand. It's why I'm thinking of leaving." "I don't think you should leave, I think you should stay," Whittle said, surprising her as she added, "because you're so good at what you do. You can help so many people the way you helped me. But I also...I don't think you need to live your life by the way the church thought you did. That was the old church. This is new. This is your church. You and John are creating a special place here, for people like yourselves, and so what if you're queer, or whatever, you can love people and still be involved in the church. God wouldn't want your pure dedication, and if he does, well, that's an ego I've yet to understand. But I think God would want you to be happy and comfortable, and not alone or afraid." Jenn felt her breath caught in her chest. Her face flushed. Whittle reached out and put her hand on Jenn's, squeezing it gently. "...I've...uh....never dealt with this before," Whittle said, "and maybe it's the loss speaking right now, but I need to...I need..." Whittle started to cry, and Jenn put her arms around her, pulling her into her and stroking her hair. "i need you," she whispered, and Jenn nodded. "I am here, and so is God," Jenn said. After a few moments of this, Whittle finally pulled back, her eyes soaked with tears, her hair sticking to her face, as she looked at Jenn who just stared back and smiled sweetly. After a moment of looking at her, Whittle leaned in and pressed her lips against Jenn's, surprising her. Jenn quickly felt herself being pushed onto her back on the pew, as Whittle mounted her and started kissing her harder, something Jenn took absolutely no issue with. Sure, maybe a church wasn't exactly the right place to be romantic, but tonight, they each took what they could. Meanwhile, Boris was sitting in the diner, across from John, flipping a container of creamer repeatedly while John looked through the menu. After a few minutes, John looked up and Boris noticed him. "Are you going to stop that?" John asked, grinning. "...it's funny," Boris said, "maybe not in an actual sense but more in a sick irony sort of way, that the last time I was in a situation where a little girl needed my help, it was because her legs were broken, and now here I am. Yet another little girl needs me, and I can't chase after her. The world is a disgusting place." "Everything is beautifully circular," John said, "perhaps just in the worst kinds of ways is all." The waitress stopped by the table and John ordered food for them both, along with some coffee. He had a feeling they might be here well into the night after what happened that afternoon. "I have a doctors appointment in a few days," Boris said, "hopefully get out of this chair and get back to my life." "You aren't locked out of your life cause of the chair," John said, "your daughter was in one, and look at all she managed to accomplish." Boris smiled, nodding. John always knew what to say. "...it was kind of fun racing Burt, I admit," Boris said, "maybe I'll challenge him one more time, race around the courtyard, champion of the world style." "You need to take your joy where you can get it," John said, chuckling. And nobody knew that better than Whittle and Jenn, who had wound up back at Jenn's apartment, barely able to stop kissing as they made their way inside and fell onto the couch, both breathing heavily, hands exploring every inch of one another. Whittle pressed her lips on Jenn's neck, making her gasp as she pulled her dress off over her head quickly and then felt Whittle sit up beneath her, kissing your collarbones, making Jenn's entire body red. As her eyes canned the room, they landed on a painting her mother had given her when she'd first joined the church. It was a painting of Jesus healing the sick, and she smiled. She buried her face in Whittle's hair and was happy knowing that, for at least tonight, she was healing someone as well in a way she needed. It didn't make her a saint. But it at least helped her accept who she was, and that's all that mattered. "Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine."
AN HOUR EARLIER "You feel okay champ?" Father Krickett asked as he and Boris stood in the back of the store while they set up the display and table for the signing. Boris glanced at John, raising an eyebrow. "Did you just call me 'champ'? I know you go by 'Father' but that doesn't mean you get to talk to me like you're my dad," Boris said, making John laugh as Boris brought his water bottle up to his lips and drank. This had been a few weeks in the making, this book signing. Boris's poetry book had actually been doing fairly well, so the next logical step was to have a a book signing. Boris was a curiosity, his publisher claimed; the public always loved when someone of his advanced age managed to come out of the blue and procure a book deal or a film deal or some kind of media. It always, as his publisher had said, 'brought out the hope that even near the end of your life, anything can be achieved'. "You're not nervous are you?" Father Krickett asked, and Boris shook his head. "Naw, I'm fine," Boris said, "I mean, it's a little surreal, certainly, but I'll manage. This is honestly something I've been looking forward to my whole life, something I never once dreamed would actually come true. So yeah, it's strange but it's also exciting." Just then, the woman who had arranged the signing at the bookstore - an intern who worked there - approached; her hair in a ponytail, her shirt tucked into her pants, and holding a clipboard. "Your table is just about set up, if you're ready to start," she said, "My name is Greta and I'll be helping you." "Thank you Greta, I'll be ready momentarily," Boris said, waiting for Greta to leave before glancing at John and saying, "Welp, here we go." Meanwhile, elsewhere in the store, Whittle and Sister Jenn were walking down an aisle, looking at various books on various shelves. Jenn stopped and slipped one of the books from the shelf with her fingertips, admiring the art on the cover until she slid it back into its nook. Whittle reached a magazine rack and pulled it, opening it and flipping through a few pages before stopping. Jenn walked over and joined her, reading from over her shoulder. "I must be old if I now read magazines about how to make an attractive yet usable kitchen," Whittle said, sighing, maybe Jenn chuckle. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting things to be nice," Jenn said, "it's only natural I feel to want your surroundings to reflect who you are as a person and what kind of energy you wish to project into the world." "That sounds suspiciously like new age talk, you better not let the church hear you speak like that," Whittle said, smirking, making Jenn giggle as Whittle continued, turning to a new page, "honestly though, I would love to modernize that kitchen we have. It's not bad by any stretch of the imagination, but I want something better. Something far more...well...modern." "You sure are good with words," Jenn said, making Whittle chuckle. "I'm a nurse, not a writer," Whittle replied. This was the kind of thing Jenn loved. These simple acts of domesticity. Cooking together, shopping together. These were the sorts of things she had begun to crave desperately since meeting Whittle. She'd always liked women, but she'd never acted on those feelings, not even remotely, but for some reason something about Whittle attracted her more than she'd ever been attracted before. Perhaps it was Whittle's interest in her nursing profession, proving she was compassionate, or perhaps it was simply that Whittle was beautiful and funny, but whatever reason it was, Jenn was going crazy imagining a life between them. "Are you proud of Boris?" Jenn asked, and Whittle set the magazine down, looking back at Jenn. "Hmm? Oh, yeah, absolutely. I always knew he was talented, and it's been great to see him finally achieve something with said talent," Whittle remarked as they continued down the aisle; "that being said", she added, "I just hope he doesn't let all this go to his head and inflate his already questionable ego." But Boris was, and Whittle knew this deep down, not the kind to be inflated. He was a fairly humble person, which was partially why she had liked him more than most of the seniors at the home. Boris was, however, feeling particularly special on this day as he seated himself at his table, Father Krickett sitting beside him, and he had every right to be, really. After all, he'd worked hard for this, and now he was appreciating the fruits of his lifelong labor. As he started practicing his signature, John opened one of the books from the table and started reading. "Have you not looked inside it until now?" Boris asked. "No, I've been so busy with getting this church started I haven't had much time to do anything other than that," John replied, "which kills me, because reading is one of my favorite hobbies." "Well, I think you'll find something in there that appeals," Boris said, making John smirk. And just that like, the signing began. People began lining up, some with copies, some without, to have Boris meet them and discuss his work and, in some instances, sign their books. John didn't interfere, he just sat quietly beside them, smiling as he watched Boris appreciate people who appreciated his writing. John flipped through a few pages and read further, impressed at Boris's literary abilities, while Whittle and Jenn came back through an aisle, heading back towards the front of the store, when Jenn stopped and looked at a book on a shelf, her eyes glued to its cover, featuring two women kissing. Her heart skipped a beat, and then skipped again when she realized Whittle was standing next to her. "You find something you like?" Whittle asked, and Jenn snapped her neck to the side, looking at Whittle, her eyes wide. "What?" she asked. Whittle smiled and picked the book up, looking at the back cover. "It sounds wholesome and cute," Whittle said, "but lord I don't read romance. Besides, not exactly my demographic." "Not exactly?" Jenn probed, trying to gain insight into this vague statement. "Well, when I was in college, doing nursing school, I did have this roommate who was also a nurse," Whittle said, sighing, "her name was Kaley, and she was nice, and she was much better than I was when it came to school. One night, at the end of the year before summer break, we were celebrating having both done well that year, which was definitely much more for my benefit considering how much worse I was than her, and we got...I don't know...we didn't sleep together. I've never slept with another woman, and generally, outside of that singular moment I never really have had any interest in doing so, but we definitely kissed and had lots of heavy petting. Course, I was drunk, which I'm sure made it easier too. I think more than anything I was simply appreciate she was there and helping me more than anything else." Jenn's heart fell. It sounded like Whittle could never be remotely romantically in her, and she looked back at the book as Whittle pushed it back onto the shelf. As she did, she turned and glanced at Jenn, who was looking at Whittle, and for one brief moment, Jenn swore she saw something in Whittle's eyes that said she could have a shot. Jenn approached, reaching out to touch Whittle, but just as she did, Burt came around the corner, and Jenn quickly instead just pushed some of Whittle's hair back over her shoulder, as if she'd meant to adjust it the whole time. "What are you doing here?" Whittle asked as she turned to face Burt. "Carol wanted to see Boris's signing, so I tagged along," he said. "Do you even read?" Whittle asked, and Burt looked hurt. "Why did you ask that as if you're assuming I'm illiterate?" he asked, making the girls laugh. Meanwhile, at the front of the store, Carol - who just straight up skipped the line and stopped at the side of the table beside Boris - was also perusing through his book like John had been while Boris signed copies and shook hands. Carol shook her head and scoffed as she shut the book and looked at the cover. "Amazing," she said. "Isn't it?" Boris asked. "No, I meant more that people would want it," Carol said, the both of them chuckling as she set that copy back on the table and, adjusting the purse hanging from her shoulder asked, "so, you sure these people are here because they're impressed, or because you're old and once an artist dies their work increases in value?" "Little column a, column b I'm sure," John said, not even looking up. "I'll have you know I'm a picture of health, thank you very much," Boris said, chuckling at John's joke, "besides, I'm a poet and this is my first published work-" "Yeah but it could be your only published work given your age," Carol said, interrupting. "-so it's not exactly like I'm high on the list of well known writers," Boris said, finishing his sentence, before clearing his throat and standing up, "I'm going to the bathroom real quick, just please let the good people know I will return momentarily." Boris stepped away from the table and headed towards the back of the store, to the bathrooms. As he passed by the shelves, filled to the brim with so much literature it made his heart melt, he couldn't believe he was finally able to have a work of his very own sitting in the very same building, on the very same shelves, next to names he'd admired his whole life. He felt like his life was finally complete. He pushed the bathroom door open and entered the bathroom. He used the facilities, then walked to the sink to wash his hands. As he finished washing his hands, he looked up and, lo and behold, he spotted a woman in the mirror behind him, and quickly turned, face to face with her. "Uh...hello," he said. "I'm so sorry," the woman said, approaching him; she was wearing jeans and a tight blouse, her hair done in one long braid as she added, "I'm so so sorry." "...what?" Boris asked, half laughing out of nervousness." The woman got closer and reached out, putting her hand on his face, and she felt cold as ice. Boris inhaled, surprised at the temperature, and then stumbled against the bathroom counter, trying to keep himself from falling over. The woman stood there and continued looking at him, and it wasn't until he recognized her eye color that he understood. It was Polly, but...but when she was young. How could this be? "Pol...Polly?" he whispered. "It's not your fault Boris," she whispered, "this isn't your fault." And then the bathroom started blurring, everything looking like it was melting. His breathing tightened in his chest and his knees gave out, as he slumped to the floor on his back, Polly kneeling beside him, keeping him company. After a few minutes, he heard the bathroom door open and realized a crowd was forming, and Whittle was right at the front, trying to give him care. Before he knew what was happening, Boris was being lugged outside on a stretcher. As he passed by, he caught a glimpse of Carol, her face twisted into tears, and he could feel John holding his hand the entire way, also crying gently. But the one thing Boris kept noticing was Polly. Polly Polly Polly. Everyfuckingwhere. In every group, every crowd, every spot his eyes managed to land on. As Boris was loaded up in the ambulance and it started speeding down the road, he could feel himself starting to lose consciousness, and it scared him. "Boris?" a voice asked, and Boris rolled his head to the side, his eyesight weak and fuzzy, his breathing shallow. Standing there, next to the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, was Polly. She was younger, like she'd looked in a photo she'd once shown him, and Boris smiled weakly as she touched his hand and smiled back, adding, "Boris, you're gonna be fine." And Boris nodded, and then everything went black. *** John Krickett was pacing in the hospital hallway, nervously chewing his nails. This was yet another moment in a series of recent moments where he wished he could find the rosary beads his ex had given him. After pacing for what felt like hours, he turned and looked at Sister Jenn, Whittle, Burt and Carol sitting in chairs nearby. "Would you sit down, you're making me nervous," Burt said, "Jeez." "...it was a stroke," Carol whispered, "I know it was. I've seen it before." "You have?" Whittle asked, and Carol nodded. "One of the first people I met in the home, her name was Virginia Beams, she had a stroke one day while we were playing a card game," Carol said, "the look on her face, I'll never forget it. It was seared into my memory. That's exactly how Boris looked. I guarantee it. He had a stroke. I just hope it was mild." John finally sat down, and cupped his hands in his lap as he stared at his shoes. He didn't say anything, he just lost himself in thought. Of course this was bound to happen eventually, how could he have been so stupid to think that what they had would last forever? Boris was old. He wasn't ancient, but he was old. He should've expected this sort of thing, and yet it never once crossed his mind. John sighed and ran one hand over his face and then up into his hair. Boris's mortality suddenly had become crystal clear to him, and the thought of him not being here in his life anymore scared the shit out of him. Carol, as well, had never really thought about it, which also didn't make sense. She spent all her time around the home, around death, how could she not expect her closest friend to eventually potentially bite it? Carol had nerves of steel, and yet this rattled her to her very core. And Whittle too. Whittle had never once considered the prospect - just like the others - that one day Boris might meet his end. He just always seemed so lively. So...unready to end. But now, all of them sitting there together, contemplating a life without Boris down the road, they realized how grateful they were to currently have him with them, and how desperately they wanted him to be okay. Suddenly the door opened, and a doctor stepped out, shutting it behind her. She turned to the group as John stood up. "He's going to be okay," she said, "he had a minor stroke, but he's going to be okay. There wasn't any real serious damage, and overall, he should be fresh as a daisy in no time, with some proper care and help." "Thank god," John said. And for the first time in a long time, he really meant that. Carol opened the door to the room, and Boris and Burt stepped inside, or as inside as they could, given that most of the rooms square footage was now filled with flowers as far as the eye could see. Boris's eyebrows raised in concern, while Burt immediately started sneezing from allergies.
"These are all for Larry?" Boris asked, "Is Larry in here?" "We'll need a machete to find him," Carol said. "I have accepted my floral fate," Larry said from somewhere in the room. "What's going on here?" Burt asked, "What's with all the flowers?" Carol pushed further into the room, Boris right behind her while Burt stayed at the door to help control his sneezing fits. "A few days ago, one bouquet came, and then they wouldn't stop coming," Carol said as Boris pushed some flowers out of his face as they moved further through the room. "Why?" Boris asked, "He's not a teen heartthrob." "That's what YOU think," Larry said, still not visible. Carol, meanwhile, pushed a small card into Boris's hands. He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, looking at the card. "Dear Larry Burkstein, we are so sorry to hear of your passing. Our condolences to your friends and remaining family in this trying time. May your afterlife welcome you with open arms," Boris read, before adding, "friends? He doesn't have friends." "He's also not dead!" Carol shouted. "Not yet, but leave him in this room for a few days and see what happens," Burt said from the door, making Boris smirk. Boris handed the card back to Carol, who slid it back into her pocket as they continued into the room, finally reaching the bed and finding Larry seated on the bed, with nothing surrounding him but flowers. "Why do people think you're dead?" Boris asked. "Like I would know," Larry said, shrugging, "maybe the computer sent out an incorrect e-mail about my demise. I don't know." "I'm surprised you even knew this many people," Carol said, glancing around at the flowers before turning her focus to the folder under her arm, tugging it out and opening it in her hands, adding, "seriously, this is a health hazard." "Only for Burt," Larry said, as Burt sneezed in the background. "Here," Carol said, writing something down and then handing the slip of paper to Larry, who took it and furrowed his brow. "You're giving me a ticket??" he asked, "Can you even DO that?" "I run this place, I can do whatever I want," Carol said, "you have 24 hours to remove these flowers from this room, or your shuffleboard privileges will be revoked." Carol turned, slapped Boris on the arm and he turned with her, and together - with Burt - they exited the room back out into the hall, as Larry shouted, "this is fascism!" behind them. Once the door was closed, Burt, nose still clogged and eyes still watery, excused himself to go in search of some allergy medicine, leaving Carol and Boris to stroll down the hall casually. "You'd think he enjoys being dead," Boris said, "given how he's reacted to the news." "He's taking the news of his death fairly well," Carol said, "better than I would, that's for sure." Boris chuckled and scratched the back of his head, adjusting his hat before asking, "...are you a religious person, Carol?" "Do I seem religious? I'm not saying I'm not spiritual in some sort of way that's as abstract and vague as religion itself, but I'm not whole hog, no. Why?" "A friend of mine is starting a church, and I thought that, you know, maybe you'd be interested in doing their bookkeeping considering you've running the home for a while now, so clearly you know how to manage a business of some kind. He's looking for someone to help with managing the finances of the organization, and frankly, I don't think anyone would question a sweet little old lady." "Sweet? Ew," Carol said, scoffing, before adding, "honestly, it could be good for me to spread my wings a little, and get some more experience under my belt. Then I can pass on whatever knowledge I accrue to whoever takes over the place once I'm gone, whenever the hell that might be." Boris and Carol stopped in the hall and looked at one another. Carol pulled her files and papers to her chest, clutching them like she was hugging a child, as Boris smiled at her. They each backed away, against the wall, as some other seniors walked past them. After they had passed, they reconvened in the center of the hall, still facing eachother. "Anyway," Carol said, "sure, have him call me or come see me. I'm definitely interested." "Well actually, we're having dinner with them tonight, if you want to come," Boris said. "For sure, that sounds like a plan. I don't think I've ever seen your place," Carol said, "I'll bring flowers. Larry's flowers." "Like hell you will," Larry muttered, passing by them, making them laugh. *** Sister Jenn, in her civilian clothes, was standing by the kitchen table, watching Father Krickett help Whittle prepare the table. That being said, what Jenny was really watching was Whittle herself. How gracefully she moved, how long her eyelashes were, how lifting her laugh was. Everytime she laughed, Jenny felt a surge of joy shoot through her heart, and this scared her. Whittle stopped and looked at the table, then looked at Jenny, who smiled at her politely, causing Whittle to smile back. "Does it look okay?" Whittle asked, "We rarely have company." "It looks wonderful," Jenny said, "what are you serving?" "Attitude," Krickett said, making the girls laugh as he blushed and stepped away from the table himself; John was wearing a beige turtleneck and green slacks, and he checked his watch as he sighed and said, "alright, well, I'm going to go pick up some kind of dessert, and then we can get dinner into the oven. We have a few hours." "That sounds like a plan," Whittle said, stepping across the kitchen to the sink and washing her hands down as Krickett headed out the door, leaving Jenny alone with Whittle. Jenny sat at the table and watched Whittle wash her hands. "Do you have OCD?" Jenny asked, and Whittle chuckled. "Yes, I do," Whittle replied, "nothing serious, but enough to be an annoyance at times. But, you know, you learn to live with these things. What gave it away, was it all the handwashing?" "I didn't wanna make assumptions, but, yes," Jenny said, "why are you guys having a fancy dinner?" "You're invited, you can stay, it's not just for us," Whittle said, wiping her hands on a dish towel and adding, "I mean, John is staying, so. Anyway, we just want to give Chrissy a taste of normalcy. She's scared because of an upcoming parent meeting with her school that we have to attend, and we want to make her feel safe and comfortable before then. Make her feel at home, cause this is her home." Jenny smiled, touched at how thoughtful Whittle was. She looked at her perfectly manicured nails and nodded. "I think it's wonderful that you give her a place to feel safe, and loved," Jenny said, "not many children get that, sadly. You're doing a beautiful and compassionate thing." "I guess when you either had shitty parents or, in Boris's case were a shitty parent, it kind of gives you a new perspective on things," Whittle said, laughing and turning back around to the counter, starting to chop potatoes and getting multiple dishes ready for dinner. Jenny stood up and approached the counter slowly, hands behind her back. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked. "You can please keep me company, and maybe help me cut these potatoes," Whittle said, sliding Jenny a knife, which she happily picked up and, pulling a handful of small red potatoes towards her, began to get to work on. Chopping through them, hearing the sound of the knives hit the cutting boards with a gentle thud, Jenny was happy to be here, dwelling in simple domesticity with a beautiful woman. Really, aside from praising the lord, that was all she'd ever wanted anyway. *** "She can ticket us??," Burt said, sitting in the lounge area with Larry; he looked concerned, then added, "jeez, I hope she never finds out about the things I do then, or I'm gonna get a lot of tickets." "Yeah, like what?" Larry asked. "Like putting my false teeth in the dishwasher in the kitchen," Burt replied, making Larry gag, just as Carol entered the lounge with Boris beside her. "Are we talking about punishable offenses?" Carol asked. "Maybe, maybe not," Burt said, shrugging, "guess you'll never know. Sucks to be you." "No, it sucks to be you, actually," Carol replied, handing Burt a ticket and then clenching her fingertips tightly into his shoulder, whispering, "I have cameras set up, Burt, I see eveeeerything. There's nothing in this facility you can get away with. I have eyes everywhere." And with that she let go of him and, with Boris, walked away. Larry and Burt exchanged a look, as Burt rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. "She's scary," Burt said, with Larry nodding in response. Boris and Carol headed down the hall, towards Carol's bedroom. Once inside, she shut the door and set her things down on her desk before pulling her closet open. Boris leaned against her desk and just watched as she pulled out a few different dresses and then, heading to her vanity mirror and using bobby pins, began putting up her hair. "So who's going to be at this dinner?" Carol asked. "Whittle, Father Krickett and his nun friend, myself, Chrissy," Boris said, shrugging, "the usual gang, you know? It's mostly to make Chrissy feel comfortable before we deal with a potentially frightening experience regarding a parent/teacher conference, but I figured since John spends so much time with us, then it would be good to invite you too so you two could hash out a deal of some kind." "You call your priest by his first name?" Carol asked, clipping on a pearl necklace an then admiring herself in the vanity, "...what's the deal with you two?" Boris thought about it, chewing his lip. He'd never exactly pursued a relationship with a man, but the thought had, on occasion, crossed his mind. Had he been born in a different time period, had things been different in any kind of way, perhaps he would've, but what he and John Krickett had definitely wasn't what one considered 'normal'. Boris certainly thought of him in a much deeper sense than just a 'friend', but he wasn't sure where he fell specifically in regards to terminology. "He's my priest, simple as that," Boris said. "Boris, people don't have their priests over for dinner on a regular basis," Carol said. "I bet the Pope does." "Well you're not the pope," Carol said, chuckling as she held up a dress against her and turned towards him, asking, "what do you think of this?" "It suits you. It sets off your eyes," Boris said, and Carol smiled. "You know you seem to know far too much about fashion for a heterosexual man of your age," Carol said, turning back to the mirror to admire her choice, and Boris nodded, smirking. If you only knew, he thought. *** "I went to a religious camp one summer," Whittle said, sitting on the counter, smoking a cigarette as Jenny continued to cut potatoes; she exhaled smoke out the window and added, "which is weird, because my folks weren't even remotely religious, but it was right after my grandma died and I think it set my mom off or something. Anyway it was weird, regardless. Not one of my most enjoyable summers." "It's not for everyone, and that's perfectly fine," Jenny said, "sometimes I think about the fact that I'm going to dedicate my life to the lord, and I wonder if it's truly what I should be doing. Would the lord be happier with me fulfilling my own desires instead, while still believing in them, or would they prefer me to solely focus my entirety on them? The second feels selfish. What kind of narcissistic God is that?" Whittle laughed, which made Jenny's heart skip, and she blushed as she continued, still chopping. "Overall, though, it's...it's something that brings me comfort. I won't go shoving it down anyone's throats, because I recognize it's not for everyone. But for me, personally, it brings me a small sense of comfort to believe that every day there is something watching out for me, wanting the best for me. In a world often fraught with people seeking to do harm unto you, it's nice to believe that there's something that only wants the opposite. I know that sounds stupid, maybe, or even childish, but-" "It doesn't, you're fine," Whittle said, "honestly, it makes a lot of sense, and it's not the first time I've heard such a thing. You can't imagine how often I dealt with patients on their deathbeds, and suddenly believing in the concept of an afterlife, simply because the concept of nonexistence was terrifying enough to warrant a conversion of belief. I personally don't find myself drawn to it, but I understand it. Especially in times of need." Jenny stopped cutting and looked down at the cutting board, exhaling. Whittle glanced over, putting her cigarette out in the ashtray on the other side of the sink, away from the food. "You okay?" she asked, scratching her nose. "...yes, I'm fine," Jenny said. Just then the doors opened, and Boris and Carol entered, along with John who they had run into in the hall. Whittle smiled at her little makeshift family, and hopped off the counter to help finish preparing dinner. Whether she was a nurse or not, she just liked taking care of people, she found. *** Later that evening, after dinner was over and a deal between Carol and the church had been struck, she was given a ride home by Boris. When she got to the home, everyone was in bed, and she herself, feeling particularly tired from having to endure social activities, also decided she could use some sleep. She headed to her room, pulling her earrings off as she entered and plopping them on her desk before turning her desk lamp and, in the vanity mirror, screaming at seeing Larry sitting in a recliner, legs crossed. "What are you, a super villain?!" she shouted, "what are you doing in here?!" "...I'm not paying this ticket," Larry said. "Seriously? That's what this is about right now? Larry, come see me tomorrow and-" "No, you don't get it, it's not because it's a ticket, I found that admittedly sort of funny," Larry said, "but I'm not the Larry they were meant for. This is a mistake. I just happen to share the same last name with another Larry who lived in this home. As a result, they were all sent to me by accident. I'm...I'm not gonna get flowers or anything when I'm gone. This is all I have. So I'm going to appreciate it, even as a mistake, and I won't let even a joke ticket take that away from me. Flowers were my wifes favorite things, and I guess getting them delivered to me kind of felt like she was still here, even if only momentarily, and even if only by accident." Carol stood there and listened, nodding. She realized that she'd put so much time and effort into the upkeep of the home, but never those who lived inside it, and she really needed to do better, especially for those she considered close friends, like Larry. Larry shrugged and headed for the door. "I just wanted you to know why I was protective of it," Larry said, "I'll get them out of my room though, and add them to her garden outside." "Larry," Carol said, snapping her fingers and holding out her hand. Larry smiled and plopped the ticket into her palm, which she promptly ripped up and smiled at him before saying, "good night." "Good night, Carol," Larry said. After Larry left, Carol undressed and got into her pajamas, then sat on the bed, where she noticed a tulip sitting on her pillow, and smiled. Maybe Larry was right, she thought. Maybe it was nice to get flowers. The last time the Wachowskis had had a family dinner was...god he couldn't even remember. Maybe when Ellen had graduated from college? Who knew. He couldn't pinpoint it. But either way it had been too long, and it seemed like it was a good way to start being a family again, after Ellen's therapy had been going so well. Boris had told Lorraine he'd pick her up, and pick her up he did. He was wearing a nice plaid button down shirt and black slacks, and Lorraine was wearing a lovely flowing dark blue dress, and had even gone to the effort of doing her hair. As she pulled open the passenger door to Polly's Gremlin, Boris couldn't help but smile at her.
"You look just as beautiful as you did when I first courted you," he said. "God, you're such a romantic schmuck," Lorraine replied, chuckling, "but I appreciate it," she added as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Boris then pulled the car away from the curb and headed towards the hospice center Ellen had been staying in for a while during her recovery. When they arrived, Ellen, leaning on her cane in front of the hospice, waved at them as they pulled up. She was also wearing a dress, something unusual for her, Boris thought, but happy to see either way. He always thought his daughter looked particularly pretty in dresses. Lorraine got out of the car and opened the backdoor, helping Ellen into the back of the car. Once inside and buckled up, Boris once again pulled away and headed to the restaurant that was holding their reservation. "You look lovely, sweetheart," Lorraine said, smiling back at Ellen. "Thanks mom, so do you," Ellen said before looking at her father and asking, "Where are we going anyway?" "Someplace very very special," Boris said, "someplace you're guaranteed to love." Ellen smiled and leaned into the backseat relaxing. Lorraine slid one of her hands onto Boris's leg and made him blush. For the first time in twenty years, it felt like the Wachowski's were a family again, and they couldn't be any happier. *** Whittle was standing at the stove in the apartment, making something, when she heard the front door open. She waited, then turned to glance over her shoulder, spotting Father Krickett and Sister Jenn entering the apartment. Krickett stopped and looked around, then noticed Whittle. Whittle waved at him as she lugged the oven door open and slid a tray inside with meat wrapped in foil on top of it. "Heyo father," she said, "what's going on?" "Is Boris here?" he asked. "No, he's out tonight with his family, what's going on?" Whittle asked. "I just needed somewhere to store some things until this presentation at the bank tomorrow," Krickett said, "do you think he'd mind if we stored it in his room until tomorrow?" "I don't think he'd care, no, go ahead," Whittle said. Father Krickett took some of what Sister Jenn was holding and headed down the hallway, leaving Sister Jenn there with Whittle, anxious and awkward. Whittle whistled a little tune, then pulled a chair out from the table and Sister Jenn happily took a seat, pulling her habit from her head and letting her long shiny blonde hair free, tossing it a bit. "Would you like something to drink?" Whittle asked. "I'm not a landscaper," Sister Jenn replied, "but sure, if you're insisting." Whittle laughed and headed to the cabinet, grabbing a glass from inside and then filling it with some juice from a pitcher on the counter. She held the glass out to Sister Jenn, who took it from her, their fingers briefly touching, and Sister Jenn blushing as a result. She took the glass and sipped from it as Whittle went back to making dinner for herself and Chrissy. Sister Jenn watched from the table, occasionally casually sipping her juice. "So, um, you're a nurse?" Sister Jenn asked. "Mhm," Whittle said, "though, I have been kind of taking some time off from work to figure out what I wanna do with my life, myself. Broke up with my boyfriend, been on a few dates since then, nothing's really led to much though. Just kind of taking stock of things, you know?" "That's good," Sister Jenn replied, "it's good to look around and note what is and what isn't important to your life. To figure out what you want from it, instead of going through blindly, just...just taking everything at face value, accepting what it seems like others want from you." "Well," Whittle said, turning from cutting some potatoes and leaning on the counter, looking at Sister Jenn, "I think the real issue was that while I know I was doing something good, I wasn't...I wasn't enjoying it. It was hard, like, getting attached to people who were going to die soon. That's why I don't mind rooming with Boris, because one old person is more than enough to alleviate my guilt from abandoning so many others." Sister Jenn cackled and then apologized, but Whittle just laughed and said it was fine. Whittle turned back to the counter and continued her chopping, as Sister Jenn watched. Sister Jenn's eyes wandered, admiring Whittle's outfit. She was dressed in khaki high waisted shorts and a cropped tank top, her hair pulled up to keep it out of her face as she cooked. Sister Jenn could feel her pulse quicken, and she grimaced, hating herself for being ashamed of the way she felt. A moment later, Father Krickett rejoined them, shaking glitter from his hair. "What happened?!" Sister Jenn asked, as he took a seat at the table, causing Whittle to look at him and laugh. "I guess Boris created a glitter trap to deter entrants into his bedroom when he wasn't home," Father Krickett said. "Just be glad it wasn't a bucket of water over the door," Whittle said. "Who is he, Dennis the Menace?!" Father Krickett shouted, "this stuff is never gonna come out!" "Oh, you're fine, you're gay so it works for you," Whittle said, making Sister Jenn and Father Krickett both laugh. After a little bit of chat, Father Krickett and Sister Jenn decided to take their leave. As Krickett headed out, insisting he'd be back in the morning for their things, Sister Jenn handed Whittle the glass back and thanked her for the drink. Whittle went and put the glass in the sink, and then headed down the hallway towards Chrissy's bedroom. As she shut the apartment door, though, Sister Jenn couldn't keep her eyes off the former nurse. Lord help her. *** The restaurant in question was a nice family restaurant called Glass Door (a less appetizing name he couldn't imagine, Boris always joked). It was a little ways away from the city, and usually was the place one went when they were to celebrate something. There was always some kind of party or get together happening, and the place was regularly rented out for events even. Entering tonight, even, Boris immediately saw two twin sisters celebrating a birthday, and as his eyes scanned the interior of the eatery, it was nothing but happy families as far as the eye could see. Their hostess led them to their table and seated them, handed them their menus and then told them a waiter would be with them momentarily. "So...do you remember this place?" Boris asked, sitting next to Lorraine, but across from Ellen, who gently shook her head, chewing on her lip; Boris nodded, adding, "well, that's fine. Maybe you will eventually. In any case, it's somewhere we came often with you when you were younger." "It's very pretty and the atmosphere is very relaxed," Ellen said, glancing away from her menu, around at the decorations and furnishings. "We came here when we got engaged," Lorraine said, "god, this place is old." "You came here when you got engaged?" "Yeah. We didn't get engaged here, but we came here to celebrate the engagement when we did," Boris said, "course, it was a bit different back then. They didn't start doing this 'family' thing until a few years after that, and hell, it seems to have worked for 'em if they're still here. We also brought you here for your 10th birthday. Do you remember that?" Ellen waited a moment, thinking, then - in a surprise to both herself and her folks - nodded. "Really?" Lorraine asked. "Yeah, I...I actually do," Ellen said, shifting in her seat, "I remember it because you guys forgot it was my birthday." Boris and Lorraine exchanged a nervous glance, as their waiter arrived at the table. "What can I get you folks tonight?" he asked, chipper. *** When Whittle opened Chrissy's bedroom door, she was sitting at her vanity, trying to apply eye makeup. Whittle leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, smiling as she watched for a moment before Chrissy noticed her door had opened and turned to see Whittle. Whittle entered the room and sat on the bed, still watching. "It's hard," Whittle said, "it takes extreme hand eye coordination." "I don't really care about other makeup, like some girls I know I know wear full faces, but I DO like eye makeup, it's so pretty and makes your eyes look so nice," Chrissy said, sounding exasperated, "but...it's so hard. My hands won't stop shaking, and it all comes out looking so bad." Whittle knelt down by Chrissy in front of the desk and snapped her fingers. Chrissy turned to face Whittle and handed her the eyeliner. Whittle got to work, doing Chrissy's eye makeup, carefully, cautiously, so as not to mess up. Whittle smiled as she applied, and Chrissy looked confused. "What?" Chrissy asked. "This is just the kind of stuff I never got to do with my mom," Whittle said, "she never taught me how to do makeup or anything, I had to kinda teach myself, so it's fun to do it with you. Girls shouldn't have to learn this stuff alone. Just makes me remember being young." "You're not old," Chrissy said. "Oh, my love," Whittle said, "I appreciate that SO much." Chrissy and Whittle started laughing and Chrissy continued to sit still while Whittle worked her magic. "You know," Whittle said, clearing her throat, "when I was your age, I was asked to a school dance by this boy, and I did my makeup before going, and when I was done, I looked like someone had punched me. Just a big, black circle around my eye. Course, this was elementary school, but still. I looked like an idiot. But practice makes perfect when it comes to this kind of thing, and you only get those days once, so I appreciate even the worst examples I have." Chrissy smiled, nodding to Whittle's story. "...i wish you were my mom," Chrissy suddenly said, causing Whittle to stop and pull back, looking at her seriously. "What?" "I wish you were my mom," Chrissy said, repeating herself quietly, "You're so nice and you like to do things with me, and my mom is always too busy. She and my dad are always fighting, and they...she never has the time to do stuff with me. She made all these promises and then didn't keep them. You're just...much better at being a mom than she ever was." Whittle wanted to cry. She felt so bad for this poor young girl, but also so touched at the same time that someone could think that highly of her. Whittle held back her tears and stroked the side of Chrissy's face. "Well," Whittle said, "for the time being, just think of me that way if you want. If it makes you happy, or feel safe. I don't mind. I'd be more than willing to play pretend mom to such a good kid." Without warning, Chrissy lunged forward and hugged Whittle tightly around the neck, and Whittle, surprised as she was, hugged her back. Sometimes, and this is what most people don't seem to realize, all a child wants is to be heard. To be told that how they feel matters or means something. Raising a kid is not that hard. It's just that, like many other things in life, people often don't wanna put in the effort. *** Boris, Lorraine and Ellen had sat in silence for the majority of dinner after Ellen's statement, each simply eating their meal, their eyes never leaving their plate. Occasionally Boris would say something to Lorraine, or Lorraine would make a general statement to the table, but overall interaction between the three was minimal. After Ellen finished her steak, she sighed and looked up at her parents. "This isn't fun," she said, "I don't wanna keep doing these memory jogs if you guys aren't going to accept bad memories. They're still MY memories. I still need to remember them, regardless of how positive or negative they might be. Yeah, so you guys forgot my birthday, so what. You made up for it." Boris and Lorraine exchanged a look, then looked back at their daughter. "We did?" they asked in unison. "...you...you don't remember?" Ellen asked, "the next day you guys took me out of school, took me to a bookstore and told me to get as much as I wanted. No restrictions at all. And not just books, anything they had. Then you guys took me to a little bakery somewhere downtown, and you guys got me the fanciest cake I could find, and we ate the whole thing right there in the bakery together." "...I...I had forgotten about that," Boris said softly, "fuck, am I really that old?" "I had forgotten about it too, and I'm in MUCH better shape mentally than you, so don't feel bad," Lorraine said, touching his shoulder, making Ellen laugh. "You guys screwed up, like...a lot, to be honest, but the one thing you guys always did that other bad parents didn't do, the thing that separates you, is you always acknowledged it, and made up for it in spades, and not because of guilt, but because you genuinely cared," Ellen said, "...you guys are better parents when I'm an adult than you were when I was a kid, but the effort matters nonetheless. But, if we're gonna keep doing this, you guys need to start being okay with the fact that a lot of these memories are gonna be bad, and that that's okay, cause now we can make new better ones." Boris wanted to hug his daughter so badly. How had she gotten so smart? When had she become so wise? How'd he miss this? He could remember when she was a little girl, asking typical childish questions about things everyone should know but, when you're a kid, you don't, and now here she was, more intelligent and emotionally stable than either of her own folks. "I'm so proud of you," Boris said, "I hope you know that. I was proud of you then, and I'm proud of you now." "We love you, honey," Lorraine said, "and we'll try to do better next time." "That's all I ask," Ellen replied, smiling, "...so...do they have dessert here, or?" Boris chuckled. She was, deep down, still just a kid it seemed. *** Father Krickett pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck as he headed for the door. Sister Jenn was seated at a small desk, doing some paperwork for their bank presentation tomorrow. He stopped and glanced at her, and she smiled back at him as he pulled on his gloves. "You gonna be okay here for tonight by yourself?" Father Krickett asked. "Eh, it'll only be an hour or so, then I can go home," Sister Jenn said, "...father, can I ask you a question? When we first met, when I first approached you about creating this new church, um...you told me if I was having doubts about my commitment to the lord that I should run and never look back. That...that if I thought I could truly be happier with a woman than with God, that I should do that." "I recall, yes," Father Krickett said, "Why?" "I just..." Sister Jenn said, her mind thinking back to Whittle, and her beautiful legs, her soft fingers, that smile, god that smile; she continued, "I just...I'm worried I am not strong enough to resist these urges. That my love for women far outpaces my love for God. Not that I don't love God, but-" "Let me stop you right there," Father Krickett said, "only you can make this decision. It's a deeply personal thing, and you're the only one who can cement in, and anyone else who would give you advice would only be giving you their lived experience as advice, and that isn't something you should take to heart because everyones experiences with their queerness is different. We all took a different road to get to the same destination. You know that, no matter what choice you make, I'll support you. You're my friend. And we can still work on this together even if you leave the church. But you have to choose that, okay?" Sister Jenn nodded, then went back to her paperwork. Father Krickett turned and headed outside. He reached into his coat pocket and sighed. He wanted his fucking rosaries back, and he was beginning to get annoyed with not knowing where they were. How's a man supposed to pray when he doesn't have something to pray on? *** "Long night?" Whittle asked, looking up from the couch as Boris entered the apartment. He pulled his jacket off and hung it up, as Whittle muted the television and then turned on the couch to watch him. "Exhausting, regardless of the length," Boris remarked, "I'd stay up but I gotta go to sleep." "...Boris, about this meeting with Chrissy's school soon...what do we do if they try and give her back to her folks?" Whittle asked, picking at her nails anxiously, "...like...tonight she told me she wished I was her mom, and I just...I don't wanna see her go back to a home where she isn't properly cared for, emotionally." "This is important and we should talk about this, but seriously Regina, in the morning please," Boris said, and Whittle nodded, recognizing he was wiped. Boris headed down the hallway and opened his bedroom door, heading inside. Whittle unmuted the television and after a moment Boris came back out into the living room and looked at her sternly. "What?" she asked. "Why is there an enormous diorama of the Sistine Chapel on my bed?" Boris asked, "I don't have anywhere else to put it and I can't lay down!" "Well, John said he'd be back in the morning for it, so," Whittle said, shrugging. "He's always pushing the lord into my life!" Boris shouted, half annoyed but joking as he headed back to his room, making Whittle laugh to herself. Sure, things weren't normal in their lives, and sure they weren't a real family in the traditional sense of the word, but she wouldn't trade what they had for anything else. Like Chrissy, all Whittle ever wanted was a place where she belonged, with people she belonged with. It had taken a long time to get it, but now that she had it... ...she refused to give it up without a fight. |
About
Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
March 2024
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