"Where exactly do you want this box of crap?" Boris asked, carrying in a rather large box, standing in what would become Whittle's new living room. She turned and looked at him, hands on her hips, thinking.
"I'm gonna say to just drop it anywhere, really," Whittle said, beginning to pick at her teeth, "Is there much left?" "There's a few tiny boxes out here, but I don't know that my frail old man bones can handle it. I'm so weak and my body is just a mere husk of the strapping once brash lad I had been in my glory days. Ah yes, my glory days, let me tell you, I was bold and daring, head full of hair and built like an ox. In those days, you could get a piece of pie for a nickel I tell you, and-" "Shut. Up," Whittle said, laughing as she pulled a small box cutter from her back pocket and started to undo one of the boxes on the floor. Boris chuckled to himself before bringing in the last few small boxes and leaned against the couch, pulling his cap off and exhaling. He glanced around the apartment and nodded. "This is nice," he said, "You found a good place. It's clean, in a seemingly safe neighborhood, I like it. Are you...feeling weird about the whole thing? I was kind of surprised when you asked me to help you move, I gotta be honest, I hadn't expected you to take my advice to heart so quickly." "Well," Whittle said, kneeling down on the floor over the box and pulling out books, a strap on her overalls slipping off her shoulder, "I don't know, I guess? It was hard, believe me, he wasn't happy about it, but after what we talked about I realized that I absolutely had to do it. I had to make a change of some kind, you know? You can't continue living a life that stops you from living." Boris nodded, his eyelids lowering as he became lost in thought. Yes. What a true statement that was. *** "She didn't even want to do soccer! She hated soccer! But you wouldn't listen to her, you told her team sports are great just because they were great for you!" Boris shouted. "Don't you even fucking dare!" Lorraine responded, "You were just as adamant about her sticking to her responsibilities as I was! How dare you try and pin this solely on me! Just because you gave up on what you wanted to do doesn't mean she should learn to do the same!" "Fuck you! You're a fucking monster! You never ever listen to either one of us, and it shows now more than ever!" Boris shouted, and then the crying started. He slouched his shoulders and glanced over them towards her bedroom before softly adding, "I'll go." "Why can't I go comfort her?" Lorraine asked, folding her arms. "Because she never asks for you," Boris replied. *** Boris walked around the front of the couch, hands in his pockets, looking at everything in Whittle's new place, as he slowly made his way towards the small round table she'd set up near the kitchen. She was on the floor in front of the table, elbow deep in a box of books, as Boris pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. He sighed and simply watched her, thinking about how much she reminded him of both his daughter and his ex-wife. Perhaps not in physical stature or anything, but definitely in attitude. Whittle had his daughters earnestness and his ex-wifes stubbornness, both traits he admired very much, especially when combined like they had been here. Whittle pulled out a collection of large books and held them up triumphantly, almost like they were a trophy she'd just won. Boris cocked his head to the side, somewhat confused, until she grinned at him, stood up and sat with him at the table, opening the first giant book in front of them. "Yearbooks," she said, "This was my freshman year." "Oh?" Boris asked, looking into it with her as she skimmed photos in a collage until she found herself and pointed herself out. "There I am, god I was such a dweeb," Whittle said. "You were in band?" Boris asked. "Yeah, I played the cello. I still do, from time to time," Whittle said, "But it's more a hobby than a profession. It was one of those things my parents made me do, pick an instrument and learn it, and it seemed like the most interesting, outside of saxophone which wasn't in band, sadly." "What kind of band class doesn't have a saxophone?" Boris asked, sounding genuinely disgusted, making Whittle laugh. "I know, right?!" she replied, "God these were the absolute worst years of my life..." "Well, don't worry, the years get even worse, trust me on that," Boris said, making her smirk as she opened a pizza box on the table and picking up a slice, biting into it as she skimmed through a few more pages. Boris got up and got himself a glass of water, looking out the window over her kitchenette sink until he heard her exclaim something again. When he turned and headed back, Whittle was pointing excitedly at something in the book, almost squealing. "That was Garth Harris!" she said, "God, I had a huge crush on him when I was in school. You really remind me of him, honestly. He was intelligent, but kind of a dick, but he was also really open and insightful." Boris thought about this for a moment, and couldn't decide if he liked reminding her of someone else or was angry she didn't see him as his own person instead of a likeness. Either way, he supposed, it didn't matter, as long as he had her friendship. Besides, wasn't her really substituting Chrissy for Ellen, in a lot of ways? Trying to undo all the bad parenting he'd done to his own daughter? So who was he to argue. Boris sighed and pulled a slice of pizza from the box and bit into it. "You know, you think those memories are the ones that matter," Boris said, "But honestly, they're not. The memories that you hold close aren't the big ones; weddings, funerals, birthdays, holidays, graduations, that kind of stuff. No, the ones you actually wind up cherishing, polishing in your head til they gleam like a mental trophy, are the ones that seemed so insignificant at the time. Just really good days, where you had a really good time. Random dinners, certain shopping trips, that sort of stuff." "Stuff like this, right now," Whittle said, looking up from her yearbook at him, "Like this will someday be a treasured memory. Not the whole 'breaking up with my boyfriend and moving to a new apartment' aspect of it, just this, you and me, sitting here with a pizza and talking." "...Sure, exactly," Boris said, smiling, "That's fair to claim. Though, if you don't mind, please try and remember me as much more handsome than I am, maybe even fairly rich." "No problem rockafella," Whittle replied, laughing as she continued to flip through her yearbook. *** Ellen was lying in her bed, reading a book when Boris came in with her afternoon snack. Ellen put her book down as Boris sat on the side of her bed and set the tray on his lap. He sighed and cut her sandwich in half, handing her a glass of juice, which she gladly took and sipped on as he continued cutting her sandwich. "Your mother wants to know why you never call for her," Boris said. "Because mom never makes me feel better, only worse," Ellen said, "I don't need to feel worse right now." "You know she's just upset about what happened, right? That she-" "I don't like mom," Ellen said, surprising her father before looking down at her juice glass and, lowering her voice, added, "I don't even really like you." Boris's heart cracked in that moment. He finished cutting her sandwich, handed her the entire tray, ruffled her hair and then exited. He immediately hurried down the hall to the bathroom, shut the door behind him and sat on the toilet lid, crying quietly into his arms. He couldn't even be angry or upset with her, because he completely understood, and, quite frankly, didn't like himself very much either, so why should he expect her to? Especially after what he'd done to her. It was all his fault, no matter how much blame he wanted to push onto Lorraine or extenuating circumstances, it was his fault. What kind of a family was this? He didn't want this. He didn't want any of this. And it wasn't long after that that Boris packed up and moved out, only coming around to see her Ellen once a week, and always giving Lorraine whatever money he could spare to help with house or medical expenses. That was the day that broke Boris, and it was also a moment he'd never forget. As he told Whittle, it wasn't the moments you'd expect to remember that you remember, it wasn't the accident he recalled. It was the moment his own daughter told him she didn't like him. That was the moment he remembered. *** It was getting late, Boris realized as he checked his watch. He should probably start to head back to the home. He sighed, ate one more slice of pizza, had another root beer and then decided to call it a night. As he stood up and slid back into his jacket, Whittle stood up as well and walked him to the door. "Thanks for helping me, not just moving in but like, in making the decision to change my life too," Whittle said. "My pleasure. You know me, I'm always willing to give advice I'll thoroughly ignore myself," Boris said, and, without warning, Whittle hugged him tightly. He was taken aback for a moment and didn't know how to respond before realizing he should likely hug her back, so he started to. They stayed that way for a minute or two until she finally let him go, they said good night and he was on his way. Boris took the bus all the way back to the home, and when he finally arrived, the only person still up and in the common area was Carol, reading a book. Boris sat down in a chair beside her and exhaled heavily, taking his hat off and running his hand through what was left of his hair. "Busy day down at the office?" Carol asked, smirking. "...what's the one moment you can't shake that surprises you? You know, a moment that theoretically you would imagine you wouldn't remember or have considered important down the road." "Hmmm," Carol said, placing her thumb between the pages of her book and resting it in her lap, "I guess...I guess that honor would likely go to the time I was in my mid twenties and had to have a tooth pulled because it split in half while I was eating candy. Wound up dating that dentist for a few years, all because he made a tooth pun and I thought it was funny enough to base an entire relationship on. And even though it ended when he was hit by a train, which is the part you'd think I'd remember most of all, it was the start of our relationship, not the death of it, that I recall with ease." "...jesus, you're kind of a bummer," Boris said. "That's rich, coming from you." "You ever think you might make some more memories?" Boris asked and Carol laughed. "I'm making memories every day! There's no cutoff on memory making, Boris. Just because I get old doesn't make my new memories any less worthy than my old ones. You just have to decide which memories are worth remembering, and continue to make them. I'm gonna go to bed." Carol stood up, tucked her book under her arm, yawned and then put a hand on Boris's shoulder. "You make the memory, to memory doesn't make you," she said, and with that she turned on her heel and headed off to bed, leaving Boris to sit there and contemplate everything she'd just said. Later on, when Boris himself had retired, lying in bed and looking up at his ceiling, he couldn't help but try and think of a different memory, any memory, worth remembering more than the time his own daughter told him she didn't like him. He thought about when he first signed her up for soccer. She was apprehensive, she wasn't that into sports, but he said it would be fine. He bought a brand new ball and everything, and took her out into the backyard to practice. And despite her grievances towards sports, despite her lack of athletic ability, he could remember her having a lot of fun that day. He could remember the both of them having a lot of fun that day. After they finished, they went inside and had some ice cream before Lorraine got home from work, and sitting there at the kitchen table, she said to him, "I guess it wasn't that bad. Thanks dad." Thanks dad. That was the best he'd ever gotten. But it was better than the other memory. And with that Boris managed to shut his eyes, and go to sleep.
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Regina Whittle couldn't take the sound anymore.
That constant knocking on the door, his voice coming in and telling her to just come out and talk to him, that this isn't fair to him, to keep cutting him out like this, but she didn't want to listen anymore. She leaned against the door of the bathroom and poured herself another glass of wine as she wiped her eyes on her arms. She downed the wine and then she ran one hand down her arm, looking at the scars on her wrists. She wanted to tear them open, watch them flow with blood. She wanted to cover the entire bathroom floor with her insides. She wanted to. But she didn't. After all, she had to work in the morning. *** "You know, between Angela Lansbury and Matlock, television really convinced me that I'd be knee deep in detective work when I reached old age," Burt said, making Boris laugh. "You're telling me. In the end, it turns out that the only mystery I'm trying to solve is how I ended up here," Boris said, as Carol walked in and handed Boris a can of soda. He thanked her as she took a seat beside him and watched the tv. "MORE fucking Matlock? Seriously?" Carol asked, "Have you no shame?" "You know, there's this great place called your bedroom that you can sit and NOT insult my viewing choices," Burt said. Carol mocked him, making both men laugh as the front door opened and Whittle entered, looking pale and exhausted, her eyes red, like she'd been up all night crying and then had to tried to cover it with makeup so as to dissuade any questioning. As she walked past them, she smiled at Boris, who nodded back at her accordingly, before she headed into the back of the nurses station. Boris looked back at Carol, who was sipping her soda and he sighed. "Whittle looks like shit," he said. "And you look like a basket of roses," Burt said, "Don't talk about a womans appearance like that." "No, I'm not being derogatory, I'm being concerned, asshole. I'm saying she doesn't look well, like she is feeling bad or having a hard time dealing with something," Boris replied. "We're all having a hard time dealing with something Boris. It's called life," Carol said. Boris stood up and walked to the door that exited from the nurses station into the hallway and leaned against the wall, waiting. Eventually, it opened, and Whittle walked out, holding a small tray with tiny paper cups on them. She was surprised by his presence at first, but then acknowledged him and the two walked together down the hall. "What's going on?" Boris asked, "You seem...kind of...not...good." "Boy, for a writer, you sure are a real conversationalist," Whittle said, making Boris chuckle. "I'm just concerned. Is everything okay?" he asked, as Whittle stopped and looked at him. "Meet me outside, in the gazebo, in about...twenty minutes? We can talk then," she said, and he nodded as she went about her way, delivering medicine to house citizens. Boris got something to eat from the cafeteria and then headed out to the gazebo and waited for her. Leaning against the rail of the gazebo, chewing on his cookie, he watched the knitting club and saw Larry toiling in the dirt nearby, seemingly trying, badly, to do some gardening. After a few minutes, Whittle showed up and sat down on the floor of the gazebo, exhaling. "Want some of my cookie?" Boris asked, holding it out to her, but she smiled and shook her head. "No thank you," she said. "Good, cause I didn't wanna give you any," he replied, eating the rest and then groaning as he too sat down across from her; he wiped his hands on his pants and then asked, "So...what's going on? You usually seem sort of perky. What's up?" "I don't want to do this anymore," Whittle said, "I don't...I don't know what it is I wanna do, but I know it's not this." "You're a trained medical professional, you can do anything," Boris said, "There's lots of jobs in that field for someone with your expertise." "It's not just that, I just..." Whittle said, trailing off as she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, "...I'm really unhappy with, like, EVERY decision in my life. I don't wanna do this job, I don't wanna be where I am, at work or at home, but I don't know how to fix any of it." "Nobody knows how, and because the idea of change is so scary, so many often don't even try and they remain unhappy until they either die or wind up in a place like this," Boris said, "Do you wanna wind up in a place like this?" "I already have," Whittle said, making him laugh. "Sure, but, voluntarily. I mean like us. Like Carol and myself. Not by choice." "...you're here by choice," Whittle said, making him furrow his brow. "Listen, we're here to talk about YOU, okay?" he said, "I remember being extremely unhappy when I was married and working, and that nothing, no matter what it was that I tried, seemed to help. Eventually I just sort of accepted how I felt and left behind the concept of gaining fulfillment of any kind. Society would have you believe that having a family makes your life complete, but I think that's only true when that's a goal you actually want to achieve. Point is, you're a lot younger than I was when you're realizing how screwed up your life is and that you want change, and I admire that." "Yeah, but I don't know how to do anything about it," Whittle said, "That's what's so frustrating, man. Like, where do you even START? I..." She glanced away and rubbed her eyes as Boris finally sitting down, cross legged, across from her. He cocked his head, waiting for her to continue, and she finally cleared her throat and undid her ponytail, letting her bushy brown hair down. "I hate my boyfriend," she finally said, very matter of factly, "He doesn't know this, obviously, nor does he really deserve it. I just...I don't think I'm capable of being in long term relationships with people. My sister can, she's fantastic at it, she's been with her husband for like 10 years, but I just...I can't do it. It's not even a fear of commitment, it's just that eventually I get tired of people and nobody ever really understands how I feel, even if they swear up and down that they do and I try to talk to them about it." "I sort of get what you mean," Boris said, sighing, "I was very unhappy in my marriage because I felt like I wasn't good enough. Like my wife deserved better. Then, when the fighting started, after the accident, I took the hatred I had for myself and merely redirected it towards her, because it's easier to hate others than it is to hate yourself, at least for me it was." Whittle ran a hand through her hair and glanced around at the gazebo, taking in the architecture. "I don't even know that I wanna stay in this field," Whittle said, "...did I ever tell you how I started getting into the nursing field?" "No, but please do weave your tale for me," Boris said. "I was actually in college for something else. I was about three months into my sophomore year, working towards my culinary degree, when my aunt took ill. She was my favorite aunt, and she'd gotten really sick and it looked really bad, so I started spending a lot of time with her. It got to the point where I was spending more time caring for her than I was working towards my degree. After a while, I decided that I needed to do more with my life than cook soup, that I needed to help others, so after she died, I changed my major to nursing and decided instead to dedicate my life to the care of others. But the thing is, the sick, irrefutable thing is, I don't really CARE about others. I mean, I DO, but...but I don't want to dedicate my life to them, but to say that, to admit that I don't want to spend my life doing that, feels so cruel, so instead of following my dreams and shit, I just continue to live with a man I no longer love and work at a job I no longer enjoy." "...I think you should leave him and go back to school," Boris said, "I know, I know, that's so easy for me to say, but I think it's the only option. Look at how miserable you are now, imagine how miserable you'll be if you stay in this situation. You have to do something. That's...that's the one thing I've come to learn this past year. I have to try and move forward and be a better person, even if only for myself, because otherwise it was all meaningless. I want my life to end with an exclamation point, not a question mark." Whittle smiled as Boris handed her a fresh cookie, still wrapped in plastic. "Thanks," Whittle said, taking it and trying not to cry, "I guess you're right. I guess I'm the only one who can do anything, and that that's what I should do, is something, anything. Otherwise I'm doing nothing and look at what doing nothing has netted me. It's netted me nothing." "Exactly." "I can do better," Whittle said, opening the wrapping and biting into the cookie. "We all can," Boris said, opening yet another fresh cookie he'd pulled from his jacket. "What's with all the cookies?!" she asked, mouth half full of cookie, trying not to laugh. "I stole 'em from the cafeteria," Boris said. *** Father Kricket was sitting in someones room reading his bible by the dim light of a small table lamp when he heard a soft knocking on the door. He turned to see Boris standing there, coming in quietly. Father Kricket smiled and nodded at him as Boris shut the door behind him. Boris sat down in a chair across from Father Kricket and leaned forward, hushing his voice, so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. "You're here an awful lot," Boris said, as Father Kricket leaned forward too, but didn't whisper. "You don't have to be quiet, she's deaf," he said, making Boris laugh, "Yes, I'm here a lot. It's a nursing home. I'm all a lot of these people have, as you should well know. Lots of folks end up here completely alone, and it's up to me to give them some sort of comfort and guidance in their final days." "Is this woman dying?" Boris asked, looking at the woman sleeping in the bed and Father Kricket shook his head. "Nah, I just come in here cause she sleeps a lot and is deaf so I can't bother her. I'm actually on break," Father Kricket said. "The word of god takes breaks?" Boris asked. "Well, I'm only human underneath this cloth," Father Kricket said, shutting his bible and setting it on his lap gently, "So, what's on your mind?" "Not much, just wanted to see how you were doing. I had a long conversation with Nurse Whittle today about the things she does and doesn't want from life, and it made me wonder if I was even qualified to be giving out advice, considering how well I screwed up my own life. I'm likely the LAST person who anyone should be coming to for life advice." "I don't think that's true. Those who screw up are actually, in my experience, the ones with the best advice for how not to fail because they've already failed. If anyone is qualified to steer others towards success, it's those who have failed. They can tell you what NOT to do," Father Kricket said, "You know I'm not a therapist, right?" "That's fine, I don't need a therapist. I need a friend," Boris said, making Father Kricket blush a little as he looked at his cross necklace he was playing with in his hands. "Well, I'm glad I can be that for you," Father Kricket said, "I know all too well what it's like to feel like you don't have any companions. If I can alleviate some of that pain for you, then so be it. I'm here to bring comfort to those who need it, as I said." "...you don't think I'm a bad person, right?" Boris asked. "I don't, no, but I gotta tell ya, I'm gonna get very annoyed with you if you ask me every week," Father Kricket replied, making Boris laugh loudly. "I have to confess, I stole some cookies from the cafeteria today," Boris said, "But I did share them with Nurse Whittle, so." "The lord taketh and the lord giveth back," Father Kricket said, licking his lips, "You wouldn't happen to have any of those cookies left would you? I need to keep my blood sugar up." "I do, yes," Boris said, reaching into his jacket and tossing Father Kricket a wrapped cookie before leaning back in his chair and sighing, "I guess in a way I AM sort of like Columbo. Earlier today we were watching Columbo, and I thought how weird it is that there was a trend of old people being detectives, but I think, really, all old people are detectives. We're detecting new ways to help others, help ourselves, always solving one problem or another in any way that we can. I discovered Whittle had a problem and I helped her with it." "Another case closed, Columbo," Father Kricket said, raising his cookie to him before taking a bite. Yes, Boris thought, another case closed. It wasn't really fair; Boris spent most of his time either at the hospital or the home, and he didn't particularly care to be at either one. Sitting here now, with Father Kricket, waiting for Lorraine to show up. Boris sighed and checked his watch, as Father Kricket read a book across from him, them both sitting next to Ellens bedside. Boris sighed again, folded his arms and shook his head.
"Patience is a virtue," Father Kricket said, without looking up, turning a page in his book. "Patience is a waste of time," Boris said, "You're just giving others carte blanche to throw your precious time away and I don't know about you, but I'm pretty old and I ain't got much time left, and frankly, I'd prefer not to spend what little time I do have in this place." "You have to learn to be patient, it isn't something that comes naturally, it's a skill, like cooking," Father Kricket said, leaning forward and resting the closed book on his lap, continuing, "When I was in college, I was interested in this girl but I wasn't sure she was interested in me, and at the same time I was thinking of switching colleges but I wanted to see if things would work out with her first, so I waited for her to make her decision and until she did, I wouldn't switch schools. It taught me to bide my time and wait for the right choice to show itself." "You know, sometimes, listening to you is like having a conversation with a hostage negotiator. You know what I mean? Everything you say sounds logical, it very well may be the right way to feel in fact, but god knows I don't wanna hear it," Boris said, making Father Kricket smirk. "That's what I'm here for. To help people along, especially when they don't want it," he said. Boris looked at Ellen and put his hand on the sheet over her legs. He thought about the last conversation they'd had before she went under for her operation, and wondered how such a thing could result in this sort of situation. The door opened and Lorraine entered, making Boris scoff as she shut the door behind her and sat down at the end of the bed. "Well, what're we doing here?" Lorraine asked after a minute. "We're here to say a prayer," Boris said, "Or does that cut into your 'me' time?" "For your information, all my free time is my me time because I don't have anyone else in my life to deal with, so," Lorraine replied, fishing through her purse for some gum as Father Kricket leaned forward and cupped his hands on his lap. "Let's not bring negative energy into the room," he said calmly, "Let's approach this like rational adults, alright? We're all capable of being in complete control of our own emotions, so let's try that. We're here for Ellen, remember that? Not for you two, but for her, so let's stay focused on that." "I'm sorry," Boris said, continuing to rub Ellens hand, "So I'm not a particularly religious person, is there a sort of non partisan prayer we can do? One that ensures she'll be okay even if I go to hell?" "Certainly," Father Kricket said, laughing, "The thing about prayer is there's no set rule on how they must be said or anything. They can be made up on the spot, so just say whatever comes to your mind. Boris, if you'd like to start, you're welcome to." Boris cleared his throat and squeezed her hand as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Dear god, please let my daughter wake up, let her go on to bigger and better things, lord knows she deserves it. Please do not punish her for our misdeeds. MY misdeeds. She is not me, she is her own person and she deserves to be judged accordingly so," Boris said, "...I love her, please just protect her and let her wake up." "That was beautiful Boris," Father Kricket said, then, turning his gaze to Lorraine, he added, "Would you like to go?" "Certainly," Lorraine said, "Dear god, please give my husband and I something else to do besides grieve over someone who isn't even dead yet. And please don't let my husband see this as something to make about himself." "Gee, you're a riot," Boris said, glaring at her, "This is supposed to make us feel better." "There's no feeling better about this, Boris, and in fact, I think it's time we let it go and take her off life support. They say that after 3 months nobody comes out of a coma generally, or at the very least, the chances drop dramatically." "It's barely been a month and a half," Boris said, sounding annoyed now, "How about, if that's the case, we at least get to the third month and see what happens before we write our only child a one way ticket to the afterlife." Lorraine leaned back and crossed her legs, groaning as Father Kricket shifted in his seat and looked at Boris. He fumbled with his bible before standing up and finally setting it down on his chair as he stood up and headed for the door. "I, uh...I am going to head to the snack machine, if anyone would like anything?" he asked, but neither one responded, so he politely nodded, opened the door and exited the room. Boris looked at Lorraine and ran a hand over his face. "I'm sorry," he said, "I know this hurts you too, I'm not making this about me, I hope you know that. I hope you don't think I'm the same man that I was before. I'm not saying I'm totally better now, but I like to think that I've grown a bit in the last year or so, and I'm still trying to change for what it's worth." "I believe you," Lorraine said, "But I'm still going to blame you." "Why?!" "Because if I don't...I have to blame myself, and I...I don't think I could handle accepting that guilt," Lorraine said, near tears. Boris understood that line of thought, though. He stood up, patted her on the back as he passed by her and exited out into the hallway. He spotted Father Kricket standing near the snack machine, eating from a bag of chips. Boris strolled up to him and stopped beside him, leaning against the wall as Father Kricket put the bag in front of him, offering him some chips. "I never speak ill of people, but I have to say...she's hard to deal with," Father Kricket said, making Boris smirk. "She's not hard to deal with," he replied, "She's just like anyone else. She's reacting, understandably, to something that's terrible, that's affecting her, and has affected someone dear to her. I think, more than anything, what she's actually upset about is that Ellen came to ME instead of HER before her surgery and tried to talk to me." "I could see that. She might take it personally, making her question her worth," Father Kricket said, putting a chip in his mouth and eating it before adding, "That's why we shouldn't take her attitude personally, because she's already judging herself far more harshly than we ever would. She's forcing herself to suffer, so we shouldn't add onto that. We should be helping her." "Exactly. I couldn't agree more," Boris said, "If there's one thing I've learned in the last few months, it's that I don't need other people hating me. I hate myself enough as it is. Don't need any help in that department." Father Kricket chuckled as he crumpled the chip bag and tossed it into a garbage can across from them. He sighed, adjusted his collar and looked at Boris, who looked up from his shoes to Father Kricket, their eyes locking for a moment. "Come on, let's get back to the room," he said, Boris nodding in understanding as the two turned on their heels and headed back to Ellens room. As they arrived, Lorraine was coming out, pulling the strap on her purse up over her shoulder, adjusting it. She stopped and let them in before passing them. Boris turned and followed her, abandoning Father Kricket in the room. Boris walked with Lorraine down the hall, towards the main lobby. "So you're just leaving?" he asked, "We're done today?" "I can't sit there with her," Lorraine said, "I just...can't." "I know, it's hard." Lorraine stopped, her back still to him, and she sniffled before saying, "She didn't have to do this." "...do what?" "Have the surgery." "Sure she didn't have to, but she wanted to and that's her decision. I was more than supportive." "But she wasn't broken," Lorraine said, "She's always acted like she's been broken but that's because of the bullshit lense society puts on those with disabilities. She wasn't broken. She was still Ellen. She could've done anything she wanted just as she was." "I agree with you," Boris said, "But...nonetheless, she made a decision about her own life and I stood by her." "Do you still?" "Excuse me?" "Do you still stand by her decision, even now, while watching her lay in that bed, struggling to even live?" Lorraine asked, "Because if you do...then I don't exactly know where you stand. I don't know how you can support a decision that nearly killed her." "You can support something in the moment and not support it in retrospect." "Certainly, but perhaps had you not supported it to begin with, she-" "Don't you EVEN," Boris said, almost snarling at her now, pointing at her, "Don't you DARE do that. That isn't fair. You and I both know she would've done it whether or not I supported it." "Oh please, she was always your little girl, she always wanted your approval," Lorraine said, "Don't pretend she wasn't. She asked you because she knew that you would go along with it, because you want to make her happy, you want her to love you. I would've fought her on it, because that's always been the dynamic, I've always been the bad guy." Boris stood there as Lorraine wiped her eyes on her sleeve, hoisted her purse back up again and buttoned her sweater. "I'm so tired of being the bad guy. I say it's time we audition for new roles," she said, before turning and leaving, letting Boris stand there and watch her walk off towards the main lobby. He turned and headed back to Ellens room, where he found Father Kricket reading his bible silently, as he sat down beside him. "Am I a villain?" Boris finally asked, taking his hat off and scratching the back of his head. "Nobody is a villain, Boris. They're just misguided heroes," Father Kricket said. And somehow, this statement made Boris feel better. They sat for a few minutes, watching Ellens machine buzz and beep, and after a moment, Boris held his hand down by his chair, and Father Kricket held his hand for a little bit. Boris rarely held the hands of other men, but this wasn't just any man, it was a man of god, and that meant, in a way, he was holding the hand of god, and that comforted him in its own small way. *beep*
*beep* *beep* The noise had become somewhat soothing, over time, like a white noise used to help one drift off comfortably to sleep. This made Boris uncomfortable. Did it mean he was alright with what had happened? That, because the noise didn't bother him, that it meant he wasn't hurt by it? No, that couldn't be right. He was definitely hurt. He put down his magazine and looked at the bed, where his daughter lay, unconscious. He sighed and reached out, touching her hand, gripping it ever so gently. He shut his eyes for just a moment, when he heard the flatline, which jolted him awake. Boris opened his eyes in worry, only to discover that it wasn't Ellen's machine, and instead was sounding from a machine down the hall. He stood up and swiftly marched to the door to her room and glanced out. He saw two nurses and a doctor rush by and head into the room two doors down. Boris came out into the hallway and headed to the room, peering inside where he saw a man who was probably his age laying flat on a gurney, while the doctor prepared paddles. One of the nurses turned and noticed Boris, then swiftly shut the door to the room. He backed up, and stood in the hallway while every manner of person seemed to move around him, quicker than he ever could. He felt trapped in time, stuck in existential molasses. He buried his hands in his coat pockets and realized that this place was where it all ended, and that was if you were lucky enough to not die alone. Yes, this place, a hospital, is where most roads lead. He sighed and turned, heading back into Ellen's hospital room, shutting the door behind him. He only hoped it wouldn't end for him here as well. *** "I always wanted to be a pilot," Burt said, "Never happened, but it was nice to imagine. Even tried out for my pilots license every few years. Just...couldn't quite grasp it. Add it to the list of shit I'll never finish I suppose." "I know what that's like," Carol said, "I never quite got the hang of a lot of things I was interested in, that I swore up and down that I'd learn to do. You have anything like that, Boris?" Boris looked up and shrugged, his chin resting on his fist, his elbow posted up on his armchair. He sighed and sat up more, yawning. "I don't know why we think we don't have time NOW," he said, "I mean, what's stopping us? Who says that at a certain age you can't learn to do something, right?" "I appreciate your attempt at positivity, but that isn't how things work. As you age, your brain stops soaking in new information and it becomes harder to learn things," Carol said, "Like, if you try and teach a small child a language, they learn it easier when they're young than if you try when they're older. It's just how the mind works." "But you can still learn things. Sure, it may not be as easy, but you CAN do it," Boris said, "I don't...I don't want to die and be remembered for the two things I did in life. I want to be remembered for all sorts of stuff I knew how to do. I want them to say that I spoke multiple languages and could play multiple instruments and that I could build things with my hands-" "But you can't do any of those," Burt interjected. "Thank you, I was getting to that," Boris said, annoyed, "But that doesn't mean that I can't learn it right now. Who knows how much time we have left? Why're we spending it sitting around, taking medication and remembering the things we have done instead of finding new things to do?" "Because I'm old and cranky," Carol said, "And I prefer to complain, because that's a right you get when you live to be this age." "Carol has a point," Larry said, approaching them with a drink in hand, "Everyone tells you not to complain your entire life, but dammit, if you live to be our age, that's a right that you EARN." "I think I'm going to make the best of my time and learn something new," Boris said, "I'm tired of feeling useless, I want to feel like I still have things I can offer the world, even if the world doesn't necessarily want or need them." With that, Boris stood up and headed down the hallway towards his room. As he walked past a door, Father Kricket came out, and the two stopped to look at one another for a moment. "What're you doing here? Is someone else dying?" Boris asked, and Father Kricket laughed and touched Boris's shoulder. "Of course not, I'm just visiting someone who can no longer come into church. Walk with me a ways," he said, and Boris obliged, walking alongside Father Kricket as they headed down the hallway; Father Kricket cleared his throat and said, "So, how've you been? How are you dealing with things?" "Not very well," Boris said, "Honestly, I feel like I'm the one who should be dying and my daughter should be out there leading a full life." "It's never easy for a parent to see their child in a manner that could lead to death," Father Kricket said, "I've dealt with many grieving families who've lost children at a young age, even some at a not so young age, and man let me tell you, it's hard. They're not even my children and it's hard." "They're not your children? But you call everyone 'my child'," Boris said, smirking, making Father Kricket laugh again. "Well, biological children then. I know from experience what it's like to lose a child," Father Kricket said. "I thought priests couldn't-" "No no, no, I watched my parents lose my brother at a young age," Father Kricket said, "I watched them go through all the stages of grief, watched their marriage fall apart. You know that it's a rather high statistic that a marriage that sees the death of a child doesn't last, right? Most marriages usually end within a year of said death." "My marriage didn't end because of what happened to Ellen," Boris said, "Not just for that, anyway. I want to become a better person, but I'm finding it difficult to know where to start." "Don't let the rough start discourage you. It's good that you're wanting to better yourself. Just because you reach a certain age doesn't mean you can't continue to evolve into a better human. There's no age limit on morality." "That's what I was thinking," Boris said, "But where should I start?" "Frankly," Father Kricket said, stopping, turning to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, "I think we both know where you should start." *** Boris and Carol entered the hospital room, Carol lightly clasping his hand as he stopped right in the doorway and stared at Ellen laying in the bed. Carol looked at him and patted his shoulder, letting him know that he wasn't alone. He cleared his throat and approached her bedside, taking a seat and gently stroking her arm. Carol came in and stopped beside him, again, resting her hands on his shoulders. Boris sighed and looked down at the floor, at his shoes, and opened his mouth. "I wasn't the best father, nor was I really a father of any sort, so I guess take how I feel with a grain of salt, but...I really could've, and should've, tried harder. But here we are, you're unconscious and I'm talking to a semi lifeless body and I don't really know what to say or how to feel and all I know is that I should say something and feel something and now I'm not sure where to go. I wish I could actually speak to you. I wish I had spoken to you more before this happened. I just...I wanna know what you think. About everything." Carol tightened her grip on his shoulder and he reached up and held her hand, his eyes brimming with tears. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his other arm and exhaled, waiting a second before speaking again. "I didn't really know how to be a dad. I just sort of assumed you'd know what to do when it happened to you, that somehow, this magical button would get pushed in my head and I'd know exactly what to do. I think it's safe to assume that most parents think that's what'll happen when they have a kid. Like...like having a kid is what somehow flicks this light switch and you now know how to do everything for them, but that is SO not the case. I thought playing Soccer is what you wanted. I'm sorry, I'm an idiot. I tried to push you into extracuriculars and it ended so poorly. If I could go back in time and change one thing, just one, it'd be that. Fuck Soccer. I fucking hate Soccer now." "Eh, most americans do, so you're not alone," Carol said, making him chuckle a little. "I wanna be a better adult to people, but nobody needs me now," Boris said. "There's always someone who needs you," Carol said, and this made Boris think. *** The school bell rang and Chrissy came out, heading to the bike rack. She put her bookbag down and started undoing her bike lock when she heard a horn honk and she looked around, concerned. After a minute of scanning the parking lot, she spotted a car sitting nearby, and noticed a priest sitting in the drivers seat, and an old man standing by the passenger seat. "Hey, get in the car, kid, we're gettin' ice cream," Boris said as she started to wheel her bike towards them, glancing at Father Kricket. "Usually when you're told to get in the car with a priest, it's not a good sign," Chrissy said, and Boris laughed as Kricket rolled down his window. "That is true, and I am aiming to change those connotations, so if you're humor me, please get in the vehicle so we can acquire rum raisin," Father Kricket said. "Rum Raisin? I'm not 21," Chrissy said. "Nobody said it was for you," Boris replied, popping open the car trunk, "Now get that bike in here and let's ride." Chrissy smiled, nodded and did exactly as she was told. She might not be his kid, but for this afternoon, she would be. |
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
April 2024
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