Leanne Goldstein hadn't been living in the complex for quite some time now.
She'd been moved to a healthcare facility a handful of months ago, and Boris had been so busy he hadn't even noticed. Truth be told, after being told she no longer remembered him, Boris had not really thought about Leanne, instead writing her off as a failed aspect of his later in life efforts to get closer to people. Now, standing in the elevator with Father Krickett as it ascended up towards the floor Leanne was supposedly placed on, Boris couldn't help but feel sick to his stomach. He suddenly lurched forward and hit the "emergency stop" button on the elevator, causing Father Krickett to look at him. "What're you doing?" he asked. "I don't know that I can do this," Boris said quietly, "I...I'm not sure I'm strong enough." "Sometimes we need to put aside our shortcomings and instead accept that there are things we need to do, not because we want to do them, but because others need us to," Father Krickett said, "Trust me, she wants to see you. You don't wanna let her leave this world without getting that chance of closure." Boris waited, then sullenly nodded and let the elevator resume its mission. Once at the floor, the two men stepped out of it, and headed down the hallway. The sounds of breathing apparatuses and heart monitors and all other sorts of life extension devices flooded Boris's ears, yet somehow he managed to block it all out, instead only focusing on what in the world he would have to say to Leanne Goldstein. They'd only talked a handful of times, and despite her making a big impression on him, it wasn't like they had much history. Why in the world would she want to see him, of all people? He didn't know her. He wished he could've, but the fact remains that he didn't. Who was Leanne Goldstein? Boris and Father Krickett walked to the door and stopped. Boris turned and looked at Father Krickett, who simply smiled and patted the old man on the back before pointing at a nearby bench in the hall. "I'll be over there if you need me," he whispered, and Boris nodded before turning to the door and opening it, heading inside. Leanne was lying in a bed, and she didn't even seem to notice Boris when he entered. He walked quietly up to the bed, seated himself in a nearby chair and carefully cleared his throat. She finally rolled her head towards him and smiled. Boris smiled back. He had forgotten about the warmth her smile had in it, and he had forgotten how much he liked it. "Hi," he said, as she reached out and took his hand. "Hello," she said, her voice sounding strained, tired. "How are you feeling?" Boris asked. "How do you think?" she asked, looking around, half chuckling as she added, "I'm better now that I'm not alone though." "I'm glad," Boris said, "...are you scared?" "I'm not scared, no," Leanne said, "What purpose is there in being scared? It's not like I can change anything, so why worry anymore? The time for worrying is over. It's just nice to not be alone at a time like this. I'm glad you're here. You said we would be together again." Boris raised an eyebrow. "I...I did?" he asked. "Before you died," Leanne said, "don't you remember, Curtis? You were where I am and I was where you are, and now the roles are reversed, but you said we'd see one another again, and here you are. I knew you wouldn't forget about me...I've missed you so much, Curt." Boris looked down at her hand, which was now squeezing his firmly. He smiled back at her, then nodded before standing up an excusing himself for a moment. As he exited the room and leaned against the door, trying not to cry, he glanced towards the bench where Father Krickett was seated, reading a magazine, eating a candy bar. Boris walked briskly over to the bench and grabbed the magazine from his hands, causing him to look up at him in surprise. "What are you doin' to me, man!?" Boris asked loudly. "When I was called in to give last rights, I realized it was the same woman you'd told me about before. I figured the best thing to give her before she left this earth was a chance at not feeling alone," Father Krickett said, "Nobody deserves to die alone, Boris." "John, this is...this is so fucked, man," Boris said, sounding exasperated, throwing his arms in the air, continuing, "I can't...I can't possibly go back in there! She doesn't even know who I am!" "And isn't that good?" Father Krickett asked, "I mean, let's face it, Boris...you two never had a history. You met a few times, and the last time she didn't even remember you. Isn't the fact that you don't share any kind of history a good thing? It makes it easier. If you knew one another, boy, this would hurt so much more, wouldn't it? But this way, you're doing a good thing...you're giving her safety in the face of mortality. That's not something a lot of people get. That comfort in the face of fear. She's lucky." Boris stopped pacing and looked at Father Krickett, then pulled his cap off and ran his hands through his remaining hair. He sighed and looked at his shoes. "I'm...scared," Boris whispered, "she's the one who's dying and I'M scared." "Natural." "Having those around you die...it slowly pushes you to the top of the list," Boris said, "sooner or later, it's going to be me in her position, and I...I don't wanna go out like that. I don't wanna go out losing my memory, unsure of what's real or if I'm even still here. I don't..." Boris looked up at Father Krickett, then seated himself on the bench beside him. "I don't wanna die, John," Boris whispered. "Nobody does," Father Krickett said, "Except perhaps the terminally ill, in severe pain, or truly suicidal people, but even then I think there's an argument to be made for the opposite." "I'm going to die, and I don't want to," Boris said, "...there's nothing I can do about that. My problems with my wife, with my daughter? Those I ran from. All the problems in my life I could run from, but you can't run from the inevitability of mortality. It finds you eventually, one way or another. You can't outrun death. That's terrifying. The concept of nonexistence. How can she be so brave while facing down the reality of no longer existing?" "Because she's lost in her memories, Boris, and she probably doesn't know that's what's happening," Father Krickett said, "think about it, if she thinks you're her dead husband, how with it can she really be? Coherency isn't even a word to her anymore. I'm not trying to be rude, but...let's face facts here. She can't really comprehend what's happening to her, and that's probably for the best. Did you know dogs don't know they're going to die? That one day they just...go to sleep, and that's that? They face every day with the uncertainty of their future, but they never realize it. Dogs are lucky, and right now, Leanne is lucky." Boris nodded and pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped at his eyes. "Alright..." he said, "I'll go back in. I'll do the right thing." "I'm proud of you," Father Krickett said. Boris stood back up and headed back to the room. He opened the door and entered, finding Leanne still in the bed. She smiled at him as he approached the bed and seated himself once more. She reached out, and he graciously took her hand and held it, only now realizing how cold she felt. Boris felt a lump grow in his throat, and he tried not to cry. "You're back," she said. "Yes," he said. "...it's weird," she said, "I can't imagine being here without you. Our house feels so empty, my life feels so empty." "Yeah, that tends to happen when you lose the people you loved," Boris said, "but it's alright, you're not alone now, and this room isn't empty, so it's all okay." Leanne looked around the room again, then let her eyesight settle on Boris once more, and she smiled. She squeezed his hand even tighter and her breathing became shallow. "Is it nice...up there?" she asked. "It's beautiful up here," Boris said quietly, "You're going to love it. We'll be together, and it's so pretty, and everyone you've ever lost and missed will be with you again. I'll be with you. There's nothing to be afraid of." "Who said I was afraid?" Leanne asked, "...I'm not afraid. I'm excited." Boris was caught by surprise, but he couldn't help but smile. This was the kind of attitude he wanted to have when it came to be his time to leave this life behind. Leanne leaned her head back on the pillow, her eyes gazing upwards at the ceiling, and she smiled as wide as she could. "I can't wait to see," she whispered, and then she died. Boris sat there, holding her cold hand for a good fifteen minutes before he finally stood up, wiped his eyes on his sleeve and leaned over the bed. He kissed her cheek and then turned and exited the room. Father Krickett was standing outside, eating yet another candy bar, when Boris arrived in the hall. Boris walked to him and the two men looked at one another, and then Boris fell against the priest and he sobbed. Father Krickett shoved the unfinished candy in his pocket and hugged the old man back. "I'm sorry," Father Krickett whispered, "I know I deceived you, but...you didn't get to say goodbye to Polly. Not with her able to respond. You didn't get to say goodbye to Ellen before her coma, and now she doesn't remember you well. I just wanted you, at least once, to have the chance to say goodbye, and she didn't deserve to go alone." "thank you, John," Boris said in a hushed crying voice, "thank you, thank you, thank you." "You're welcome, Boris," Father Krickett said, patting him on the back, "come on, let's go get some breakfast." *** Seated in their favorite nearby diner, Boris and Father Krickett were eating breakfast. As Father Krickett scooped scrambled eggs onto his fork, Boris was eating his second hashbrown. A waitress walked by and refilled their coffee cups, then politely excused herself, leaving them alone once again. "I'm sorry for bringing you there under false pretenses, but you deserved some closure. I watched my brother die, and I nearly died, and my family has never gotten much closure. Certainly it's a manmade concept created to ease our guilt over things left unfinished, whether by choice or not, but I still think it's worth the effort sometimes to try and attain it," Father Krickett said, picking up his mug and sipping his coffee. "...she was excited," Boris said flatly, "she was excited to see what was coming." "If only we could all face the end of our lives with that kind of eagerness," Father Krickett said. "How do you do it, John?" Boris asked, looking up, wiping the grease from his mouth on his napkin and picking up his own coffee mug, "jesus, how do you do it? Every single day you're called in to give people their last rights, to tell them the end is coming, to let them know it's okay to die...how does that not effect you?" "Who said it doesn't effect me?" Father Krickett asked, "I mean, sure, perhaps I'm a bit more capable of grappling with such concepts than most people considering my line of work, but it doesn't mean I'm not scared of the same things. I think about these things too. Just because I have faith doesn't mean I don't get frightened. Faith only gets you so far, after all." Boris nodded and sipped his coffee. He waited a moment, then spoke again. "I want you to take care of my arrangements," he finally said, making Father Krickett nearly choke on his eggs. "Excuse me?" he asked, mouth half full. "You heard me." "I did, that's the problem, yes," Father Krickett responded, asking, "run that by me again, would you?" "I want you to take care of my arrangements," Boris said, "I've never...I've never had a friend like you before. Sure my wife and I were friends, and okay Carol and I are pretty close, and alright Polly and I got particularly buddy buddy, but...I've never had a friend like you, especially not a male friend. I want you to take care of my end of life arrangements, whenever that happens." "...I...I don't...I don't know what to say, that's...that's a huge honor and responsibility," Father Krickett said, "but are you sure that I'm the right one for the this job? Don't you think there'd be someone better? Someone more capable? Like Whittle?" "Whittle is a great person, and a wonderful friend, but..." Boris hesitated as he rubbed his hands together, sighing, "...I don't trust anyone as much as I trust you, John. Please do this for me." Father Krickett smiled warmly, and nodded. "If that's what you want, Boris, then that's what I'll do," he replied. A moment of quiet passed, as they continued to eat in silence. Boris drank from his coffee, and then finally he set the cup back down and looked out the window at the rainclouds in the sky, the drizzle lightly pelting the glass. "What do you think she was excited for?" Boris asked, "the idea of not being in pain?" Father Krickett finished chewing, set his fork down, cupped his hands on the table and looked out the window with him. "Not our place to say, but...if I had to guess," Father Krickett said, "...I'd say she was excited for anything that wasn't where she was right then." Boris grunted in acknowledgement, and the men ate the remainder of the breakfast in silence. *** Carol was sitting in her office, reading through a series of files with Burt sitting in the seat across from her. She sighed, set the files down and rubbed her forehead. Burt looked up from his own folder. "Need something?" he asked. "Yeah, an assistant," Carol replied. "I thought I was your assistant," Burt said, sounding hurt, which made Carol chuckle. "You do a good job, Burt, but you know what I mean. Someone young and vibrant and full of life," Carol said. "Jeez Carol, I'm not dead yet," Burt replied under his breath. The door to the office opened, and Boris stepped inside. Burt smiled at his friend, and then noticed his face. Burt quickly excused himself from the room, leaving Boris alone with Carol. Boris sat down in the chair Burt had previously occupied and looked across the desk at Carol, who rested her arms on the desk, folded. "What's going on? You don't normally come around lately," she said. "...are you afraid of dying, Carol?" Boris asked. "I mean, isn't everyone?" Carol asked, shrugging, "and those who say they aren't are just liars, if you ask me. What brought this on?" "Someone I knew died today, and I was the last person to talk to her. I've been the last person to talk to a few people lately before they die. I guess it's making me think about the idea of the end of my own life. What comes after, if anything, and the fear that'll likely course through my brain beforehand." "Perfectly understandable thing to think about," Carol said. "The woman who died today, she said she was excited. She was excited for the afterlife, and I can't remember the last time I was excited for my actual life. I want to have that level of dedication to any aspect of life, after or otherwise. If I'm going to get clean for Polly, I'm going to try harder to enjoy life for this woman. The people around me are the ones making me a better person." "Gee, what are you gonna do when I die?" Carol asked, smirking. "Doesn't matter, cause it ain't ever gonna happen," Boris said, smiling back at her. "You wanna help me with some paperwork?" Carol asked. "Yeah, that's what I wanna do with my remaining time on earth," Boris said sarcastically, making them both laugh.
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The Wachowski's had rarely, if ever, taken an actual family vacation.
But Ellen's therapist had told Boris and Lorraine that taking a small trip may just be key in reigniting their daughters memories. They sat together in a cafe after meeting with that therapist, trying to think of where it was they could easily go for an afternoon, and it was, surprisingly, Lorraine who came up with the answer. She'd pick Ellen up from the hospital, and then she'd come and get Boris, and he could drive them up to the location, and Boris was perfectly fine with this. In fact, that's exactly what he was telling Carol that morning as he packed a day bag. "I'm perfectly fine with this," he said, making Carol scoff as she leaned against his doorframe. "Right, and I'm the queen of England," she replied, "Come on, you hate this woman. You can barely spend ten minutes in the same room with her, and now you're going to spend a whole day in a car together? You're gonna murder eachother." "Well, if that's in fact what it comes to," Boris said, stopping his packing and turning to look at her, "then I want you to have my belongings." "Great, old dusty books and a pair of tube socks. What a winner I am," Carol said, making him laugh; she hesitated for a moment, then asked, "...do you really think this'll work? Do you really think this may actually help Ellen get some of her memories back?" "I don't know, but I'm willing to try. I wasn't willing to try and be a father when I had the chance, but I'm willing to try now," Boris said, "I've let that girl down enough already. It's time to do right." Outside the apartment, a horn honked, and Boris and Carol walked to the window to see Lorraine sitting in the lot in the car, Ellen in the backseat. Carol turned towards Boris as he grabbed his day bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, and she smiled. "Just be careful and have fun," Carol said. "Yes mommy," Boris replied, before hugging her and heading out the door, Carol leaving the opposite direction down the hallway after he locked the door; she was heading back to the home. As he strolled down the hallway towards the staircase, he bumped into Father Krickett, who was coming up the stairs. "Oh, sorry, what're you doing here?" Boris asked. "I came to see you, actually." "Wow, aren't I Mr. Popularity today?" Boris asked, "I'm heading out for the day, so I hope it can wait, whatever it is. I have to do something with Lorraine and Ellen." "It can wait," Father Krickett said, "I'll walk back down with you. No sense in staying here if you're not. I'll head back to the parish, get some paperwork done. Maybe take an early evening. What are you folks doing today?" "Ellen's therapist says it might be best for her if we take a small trip somewhere to help rekindle her memories," Boris said, struggling to hold the bag up, so Father Krickett finally offered to take it; Boris rubbed his shoulder and continued after thanking him, adding, "So we're taking Ellen upstate somewhere, taking her to see something we took her to see as a kid. We're hoping maybe that'll be enough to trigger something at least. It's the simplest thing we can do on such short notice." "You could plan a bigger trip," Father Krickett said, "Actually take some time, put some energy into it. You don't have to go for the simplest thing." "It's a good place to start," Boris replied, "besides, if it doesn't work, then we'll try and take her somewhere else. The thing is, this is also one of the only things we ever did as a family. We never really took vacations but we did do a few things together, and this was just the simplest one, so we're starting there." As they reached the landing and headed out the complex's front doors, the two men stood and looked at one another. Father Krickett smiled and handed Boris his bag back, which he happily took. "Well then, I hope it works, and if it doesn't, I hope you at least have a nice day," Father Krickett said, patting Boris on the shoulder. He then stood back and watched as the old man, bag in hand once more, walked around to the other side of Lorraine's car and pulled the drivers side door open, climbing in. Lorraine had already shifted to the passenger seat in the time it took waiting for Boris to get downstairs. He then started the car and drove off, waving out the window to Father Krickett as he departed. Father Krickett stood there, arms folded, watching and smiling, until they were out of sight. He then turned, and headed back inside and up the stairs. He waited a bit outside the apartment door, until Whittle arrived back home. She was certainly surprised to see him, upon her arrival. As she dug around in her purse for her keys, he took her grocery bags and waited patiently. "We really need to get you your own key. You're here more than I am these days. Really, you should start paying rent," Whittle said, half laughing, Father Krickett laughing along with her as he waited patiently, holding her grocery bags; once the door was opened, she let him in first and then followed him in, adding, "what are you doing here anyway?" "I'm waiting for Boris," Father Krickett said, setting her bags on the kitchen table and then seating himself at it, pulling out his rosary beads and thumbing them gently, "I hope it's okay that I stick around." "Of course, John, you're always welcome here!" Whittle said as she began to unpack the bags and put things away, asking, "Why do you need to see him?" "...because Leanne is about to die, and she asked to see him," Father Krickett said. That certainly got Whittle's attention. *** The place in question was a small park, about two hours away. The only time they'd taken Ellen there had been when she was 8 years old, but it was one of the few memories she held onto dearly, until the surgery, until she lost everything. It was a quiet park, surrounded by beautiful trees with a large fountain for making wishes, and an old, fairly big, wooden playground. Despite not having been there for years, Boris still knew exactly how to get there. Lorraine looked behind them at Ellen, who was asleep in the backseat, headphones over her ears. She then looked at Boris. "How is she?" Boris asked. "She's napping," Lorraine said, "She naps quite a lot. She's been through a number of ordeals for someone her age." "Well, good. Keeps her strength up, I'm sure," Boris said, "...what made you think of this place, anyway?" "Well I remember her talking about it a lot as a kid, but..." Lorraine stopped, sighed and looked out her window, before continuing with, "...I have always remembered it too. It was a good day. It was one of the only good days. We all had such a nice time. She deserves to have a nice time." Boris glanced over and noticed Lorraine was starting to cry, but she quickly wiped her tears away on her sleeve and exhaled deeply, slowly, before turning the heater on her. The cool fall air had begun to leak in through the windows of the car, and she was getting chilly. Boris didn't say anything more. In that moment, he felt more for her than he had in decades. The park, called Harvey Peaks, was completely empty by the time they got there. There was a small manmade lake nearby, which Boris did not remember, meaning he'd either forgotten it entirely or it had been built in the years since their visit, which was certainly a possibility. As Boris parked, he could almost smell the past in the area, and his own eyes started to water. Lorraine opened her door, letting herself out, before going around to the back and pulling the wheelchair out of the back, unfolding it and then wheeling it around to Ellen's side of the car. After they helped her into the chair, Boris stepped back again and looked around once more. It was almost like she was still 8. Like he was still middle aged. Like they were still a family. Before the accident, before everything, it was as if this was the first time they'd visited, and Boris was suddenly struck with a surprising amount of emotion. Lorraine began to wheel Ellen away, but she noticed Boris leaning against the car, hiding his face. She told Ellen she'd be right back, then walked briskly back to the vehicle and put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, as he shook his head. "I'm very much not alright, no," he replied. "It's okay. It's okay to cry," Lorraine said quietly, and much to her surprise, he rested his face on her shoulder and she held him. These two hadn't had any kind of physical contact in ages, and rarely had she ever actually held her husband, but he didn't seem to worry about that anymore. He needed it. Lorraine looked back over her shoulder momentarily at Ellen, who was simply sitting in her wheelchair under a tree, looking up at the bright multicolored leaves. After a few minutes, Boris seemed to have regained his composure and zipped up his jacket. "You ready?" Lorraine asked. "Yeah," he said, "I'm ready." Together they walked back to the tree where Ellen was sitting, and Boris took the handlebars of her wheelchair and began pushing her, Lorraine walking by his side, smiling at the sight. As they continued further into the park, Ellen began looking around in what could only be described as a mixture of awe and confusion. After a few minutes, they stopped at the fountain, and she reached forward, putting her hand in the cool, clean water. "When we brought you here," Boris said, "you kept asking to make wishes in the fountain. I must've given you about 3 dollars worth of change so you could make so many wishes." "Did any of them come true?" Ellen asked. "I don't know, you never told us any of them," Boris said, making Ellen grimace. "How am I supposed to remember things when you guys don't even remember things?" she asked, surprising them both; she added, "I mean, you two seemed to have blocked out your entire time together, so who am I supposed to turn to for help remembering our past if we don't have a past worth remembering?" Boris looked at Lorraine, who just shrugged. He sighed, walked around to the fountain and sat on the lip of it, in front of Ellen's wheelchair, looking up at her. "You're right. Your mother and I have kind of put up barriers between us and within ourselves even because our marriage was so fraught with bullshit, but the one thing we never gave up on was loving you. We remember coming here. We remember seeing you run and play, and how much fun you had. I'm sorry, Ellen, that I don't remember your wishes. I'm sorry that I...that we...screwed things up so badly. But we're trying to fix them now, for you." Lorraine smiled. Boris really had changed in the last few years, and she was so proud of his growth. Ellen smiled too, as she held her fathers hands and rubbed the back of them with her thumbs. "Thanks," she said, "I like the fountain, it's pretty." "It really is," Lorraine said, as the three of them stood there and listened to the running water. The day consisted of not much beyond strolling through the park, trying to see if anything came flooding back into Ellen's brain, but to no avail. After a handful of hours, the trio finally gathered themselves back into the car and Boris started driving again, heading back home. It was getting darker, the sun starting to set behind the trees, and all the streetlamps were coming to life. Boris turned on the radio, tuning it to soft classical music, and the three drove in silence. Halfway there, Ellen shifted in the seat, looking out the window, sighing. "I remember," she said quietly. "What? You remember what?" Lorraine asked, turning to look back at her. "I remember one of my wishes," Ellen said softly, almost whispering, "I don't remember much else, but I do remember one of my wishes in the fountain." "That's great!" Lorraine said happily, making Boris grin as she asked, "What was it?" A moment passed. "I wished you two would stop fighting," Ellen finally replied. The smiles faded from Boris and Lorraine's faces, and nobody said a word the rest of the ride home. *** The door unlocked, Boris coming inside the apartment, when he startled Father Krickett asleep on the couch. Father Krickett sat up suddenly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he and Boris matched sights and Boris stopped in his tracks. "You're home," he finally said. "Yeah. I'm home," Boris said, tossing his keys onto the table near the door and beginning to pull off his jacket. "How was it?" Father Krickett asked, standing up and yawning, stretching. "She remembered something," Boris said, "...just not something we would've liked her to remember." "I'm sorry Boris, but at least she's making progress, and bad memories are just as important as good ones," Father Krickett said. "Yeah, I'm trying not to take it personally," Boris said, sitting on the couch and looking at his hands, his voice lowering as he said, "...how did we screw up so badly? How does everything go so wrong? You get married, you have a family, you think this is what you're supposed to be doing, and then, by the end of your life...you realize it all fell apart and none of it ever meant as much as it was supposed to." "Things only mean as much as the meaning you put into them," Father Krickett said, "for example, someone who believes in God only has as much faith as their belief allows. It doesn't make their faith any less strong or any less valid than someone who, say, regularly goes to church and really leads a spiritual life, it's just a matter of how much you wanna put into it." "So you're saying we didn't wanna put much effort of energy into being parents?" Boris asked. "I don't think that's the case, no," Father Krickett said, "I think you guys wanted to be. I just think once the time came, you didn't know how difficult it'd be, not that that's any excuse for the shortcomings, I'm just...I don't know, Boris, I'm just trying to make you feel better." Boris smirked and patted his arm. "I appreciate it John, thanks," he said, "What're you still doing here anyway?" "Actually, it's what I came by for earlier," Father Krickett said, "...Leanne is about to die, Boris, and she asked to see you." Boris stared at him, his expression that of pure disbelief. "...let me get my coat," he said, and together they headed off once more. Seemed the only people Boris spent his time around anymore were sick people. Makes sense, when he thought about it, considering how sick he actually was inside. But he'd let Ellen down, he wasn't about to let Leanne down as well. On the ride to the hospital she was being held in, neither Boris nor John said a word, but John just looked absentmindedly out the window, chewing on his nails. He wondered how bad the fallout from this would be. He wondered how mad he'd make Boris by lying. But maybe it wouldn't be bad. Maybe he wouldn't be angry. Maybe things would turn out alright. He had to have faith. "You wanna tell me where you got these?" Father Krickett asked, shaking the little bottle of pills at Boris as he sat at the kitchen table, his arms folded, scowling.
"Why? You my dad or something?" Boris asked. "We're just curious how long you've been using them," Whittle said, sitting across from Boris, "...I'm guessing you kept them from the incident you and Polly went through, but have you been taking them regularly?" "...sort of," Boris said, "I've been having nightmares. I've been using them when I need them, which is what they tell you to do with any medication, right? Use only when necessary?" "Yeah, when they're prescribed to you! She stole these out of the medicine hall of the home, Boris," Father Krickett said sternly, rubbing his forehead and beginning to pace around the table; after a moment he sighed and said, "I don't wanna be the straight edge priest here, but this isn't an acceptable situation. I cannot, in good conscience, allow this to continue." "Then stop caring," Boris mumbled. Father Krickett shook his head, surprised and saddened by Boris's attitude. He couldn't just 'stop caring', because he'd seen first hand what these sorts of things could develop into, spiral towards, and leave in the wake of peoples lives. He didn't like to talk about it, but yes, he'd seen it. And he swore to never see it again. *** John Potter Krickett had been a young man when he'd been in the accident. He was a young man in college, his second year in, when it happened. He hadn't been drinking, he hadn't been out late, he hadn't been speeding. He had done absolutely nothing to instigate the incident, it merely happened, as these things so often do. Someone else disobeyed a traffic law, and suddenly John Potter Krickett was scrunched between his steering wheel and a lamp post. They told him he was lucky to even be alive, but was he? No. His parents were lucky he was alive. After all, he'd watched them lose his brother, he didn't want to put them through that level of agony and anguish yet again. Once had been enough for a lifetime. At the hospital, they gave him the pain medication. Once he got out, he still was being given it. He took it fairly regularly, partially because it helped with the pain but also, and he'd never admit this to anyone, because it made him feel less bad about having survived. He hadn't wanted to survive. Sitting there, drifting between states of consciousness, John Potter Krickett swore up and down that he'd seen the face of god, and that all he wanted was to join him in heaven. When he awoke in the hospital, he was devastated. Oh sure, most people - likely all people honestly - just took his sadness as a reaction to what happened, but no...he wasn't sad about the accident. He was sad that he'd survived it. Lying in bed one night, John couldn't sleep. Instead, he pulled himself out of bed, slipped his feet in his sandals and headed outside to the backyard of his parents house, where he found his father sitting on a chair, having a beer. John sat down in the chaise lounge, and after acknowledging one another with a brief smile, they both silently watched the stars together overhead. After a few minutes, John sighed. "Why don't we ever go to church?" John asked. "...I mean, your mother used to drag us there for holiday situations, but otherwise, neither of us just ever saw the need," his father replied, "why?" "Just curious," John said, shrugging, before adding, "...so you guys don't believe in heaven? You don't think Jeff's up there or something?" "...I think we each have our own personal viewpoint of the situation, frankly," his father said, "your mother is far more spiritual than I, but no, I don't think either of us believes in heaven, at least not the way the catholics define it." John nodded, listening intently. "What kind of proof would you need for you to suddenly believe in a concept like heaven?" John asked, and his father shrugged, shaking his head. "I guess, you know, visual confirmation of the sort. I'm definitely a 'see it and it's real' kind of person. I know that doesn't exactly fly for everyone, but for me my eyes have never lied, and never would, so that's good enough evidence to convince me of anything. You hear it all the time from skeptics who never believed in ghosts until they saw one, or never believed in aliens until a UFO showed up over their yard. That's what I'd need. I'd need to see the face of God." He didn't know it at the time, but that sentiment had begun John down a path that would eventually lead him to the church. John had seen the face of God, and nothing in the real world compared. *** "What are they for?" Steven asked, lying in bed as he watched John head to the bathroom and pull out his pain medication, taking one before shoving the bottle back into the cabinet. "I was in an accident a few years ago," John said, "I still have pain from it now and then, so I've just had an ongoing prescription since then that they keep honoring." "You sure you're not abusing that?" Steven asked as John came back and sat on the side of the bed. "...I am, and I can admit it. My folks were so angry with me when I told them I was still using them, but they insisted on getting me help. I told them no, I have to get help myself, I can't depend on others. Except, being religious, that's what you do. You depend on others. You depend on the lord to guide you, you depend on your people to take to heart what you say in your sermons. You depend entirely on faith itself." "What do you think God would find more blasphemous?" Steven asked, sitting up now, "Abusing medication or sleeping with a man?" John smirked, chuckling. "Frankly, I don't think God has any right to tell me how to live my life so long as my life is lived in service of him. So long as I spread his gospel, treat his word as truth, try and help others with the love Jesus gave to those around him, then God has no say in what I do outside of that. I've already given my life to God. He shouldn't get to dictate every single aspect of it." Steven smiled and kissed John's shoulder, John reaching back and running his hands through Steven's fluffy hair. Their relationship had been going on a year now, and nobody knew. John wasn't exactly afraid of what would happen if his parents found out or anything, but he was afraid what the church itself might say. Between their relationship and his medication abuse, he was almost certain he'd be asked to leave. But before anyone could find anything out, there was yet another accident. This time, it was John's fault. This time he couldn't point blame at anyone else flagrantly disregarding traffic laws or simply chock it up to one of those things that happens in life. No. This time he was solely responsible. And it was something he'd never forgiven himself for. God might have, certainly. That's the idea, isn't it? God forgives your sins so long as you're willing to repent for them and make right. So okay, he had God's forgiveness. But he could never forgive himself. *** "This cannot continue," Father Krickett said, "We're going to put an end to this. I'm willing to hold onto it for you, give you some when you really genuinely need pain relief, but I cannot allow you to continue having it in your hands. I refuse to stand idly by and be responsible for something I could easily stopped." "You told me I wasn't responsible for Polly's death, so what would make you responsible for anything that happens to me?" Boris asked, growing agitated. "Because yours would've been avoidable!" Father Krickett said loudly, his anger surprising Whittle, who'd never seen him get mad before. "Oh, and hers wasn't? At any goddamned point during that entire situation I could've stopped, I could've said to her 'hey, maybe this isn't such a great idea!' but I never did, did I? I never once did that. Ergo, I'm responsible for her death. Polly is dead because of me!" Boris shouted, standing up now, hands planted firmly on the table, staring Father Krickett down from the other side. Krickett wasted no time, matching Boris's stance, like a wild animal defending its pups from a predator. Whittle backed away and simply watched, fascinated. "You don't get to decide after the fact what would've been better in the moment, that isn't how things work. You make the decisions you make and you live with the consequences thereof, be they positive or negative. The only thing you can do afterwards is move on and try to do better. By dwelling on things, you're only inviting more pain unto yourself that isn't exactly warranted nor necessary!" Father Krickett shouted back, "I know because I've been there! I killed someone because of pain medication! This stopped Boris in his tracks. His face softened, his eyes widened. He saw the tears swelling in Father Krickett's eyes. "what?" he asked softly. "I was in an accident in college. They gave me pain medication to deal with it, pain medication I became extremely reliant upon. A year later, I met a man named Steven, and we fell absolutely in love with one another. A year after that, wouldn't you know it, I had yet another accident. Except this time it was my fault. This time I was to blame. Driving hopped up on pain medication, frustrated with the church for trying to tell me what I could and couldn't do outside its walls. He died because of me. He died because of my recklessness. I will not have that happen again. You may think you're the first person to go through this, but I assure you, you are not. You may, however, be the most goddamned stubborn." Boris didn't respond. Instead he merely slunk back into his seat and bit his lip, looking at his old, wrinkled hands in front of him on the table. "...then you know. You know what it's like to miss someone," he whispered, "I didn't love her, not romantically anyway. Besides, she was gay too. But I loved her as much as I've ever loved anyone platonically. I keep having dreams about her. It's like she's haunting me. Do you know how much that hurts? To see the face of someone you miss so badly, only to realize their face is not here anymore? You're seeing a memory of their face. I'm old. My memory ain't what it used to be and it's only going to get worse. What if I forget what she looks like? What if...what if at some point I have a dream about her, but it doesn't look like her? I may not be responsible for her death, but I'm sure as hell responsible for her memory." Father Krickett slowed his breathing, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve before walking around the table and kneeling beside Boris, putting his hand on the old mans hands and squeezing them gently. "Time...takes everything from us. It cannot be reasoned with, it cannot be fought, and it cannot be bargained against. It takes what it takes without compassion, but also without malice. It can't do it with either, because it isn't a living thing, it's a concept. The older we get, the more we lose, be it people we love, our health or simply parts of ourselves. The only way to fight time is to be timeless. Untethered from its restrictions and its indignant disregard for our personhood. To not think about time gives time no power over you. Sure, seasons will still change, people will still leave and we'll still grow old. But at least we do it on our own schedule instead of doing it on times schedule, or that's what we can tell ourselves anyway. Memory is the only thing we have in the fight against time, and so long as you remember Polly - even if she looks nothing like you remember - then you've won. You've won. Because the idea of her is what's important. The feeling she imparted on you. Not what she looked like. That's what photographs are for." Boris looked at Father Krickett, his face running with tears, and he turned and put his arms around the priest, hugging him tightly. "I miss her so much, John," he whispered. "I know," Father Krickett said, hugging Boris, patting his back, adding, "and that's good. That means her life made a difference." He didn't argue with Boris any further that day. He just let him cry, and he held him. He made Boris feel safe, understood and cared for, because so often, people never get that in their lives, especially our elderly. Boris let Father Krickett take the pills home that night, and agreed to see a doctor about his addiction, which made Father Krickett happy. After Father Krickett left that night, he drove home, and he made himself some dinner. Fish and rice and roasted carrots. He ate dinner, he took a shower, and then he got ready for bed. John put his pajamas on, had dessert, then he brushed his teeth and he slipped the medication into his medicine cabinet. John then went to bed, pulling his quilt and sheets back, climbing under them and adjusting his pillows, laying his head back and sighing. He done the right thing, he knew this, and he was proud of himself. He picked up a book from the bedside table and opened it, then, just as quickly, set it in his lap face down so he wouldn't lose his spot and he pulled open the bedside table drawer and removed a framed photograph from it. He smiled at it, kissed the glass and then placed it on the pillow beside him. John picked his book back up and started reading again. *** "You look good," John said, adjusting the lens on the camera, "Your parents will love it." "I hope so. I haven't had a haircut in a long time," Steven said, sitting on the steps outside John's apartment, continuing, "thanks for doing this, by the way. I really wanted to send them a Christmas card this year, and I can't take a decent photograph to save my life." "Hey, it's no problem," John said, smiling, "Just make sure I get a copy." "Of course," Steven said, blowing a kiss at him. "Smile!" John said, before snapping the photo. *** John put a bookmark in his book, set it back down on the bedside table and turned the light off. He rolled onto his side, facing the framed photo on the pillow and smiled as he shut his eyes, one hand on top of the frame, patting it ever so gently. "Good night, Steven," he whispered, before drifting off to sleep. |
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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
April 2024
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