~9 minutes read time
The calluses that used to scatter across my sandpaper hands have been getting softer. This is one of the many changes to my body that I have noticed since her arrival. She’s been coming into my room these past few days with a large metal tub in which she has mixed a balm of her own recipe. It is soft and buttery and she lathers it between her fingers so as not to discomfort me with its initial cold. I stare at her: she appears to be around my own age, though women hide their aging much better than men do. I feel inclined to stare at the way her graying hair bounces just above her shoulders. Her lips are small and shut tightly but they are not uninviting. The impulse I feel to reach out and touch them troubles me but I can’t seem to figure out why.
My hands tremble as she takes them into hers—not because I am nervous—but because they seem to be doing that a lot lately. As she rubs the balm over my cracking knuckles and leathery palms I can feel the moisture seeping in; my hands feel warm under the friction of her massage. I feel as if I am oddly familiar with this process despite my knowing that she has only just recently begun coming by. I know that once my hands are complete she will move onto the rest of my body, replenishing the balm as she sees fit and paying special care to problem areas such as my elbows, ankles, or knees. She will ask me, “Is it alright if I unbutton your shirt?” and I will nod my head, looking away as she does so; embarrassed of the wrinkled skin that flows down my body like rivers fall over cliff sides. Beautiful emerald eyes should not have to gaze upon a body so heinous with aging. She pays no mind to my inability to look her way.
The first time she came—maybe a few days, no, a few weeks ago?—I had offered to unbutton it myself, worried she would think of me like an invalid if I simply sat and watched her do it for me. I was growing weaker, but I could not bear to think myself incapable. She watched with unwavering patience as my unreliable fingers fumbled and slipped over the buttons. Frustration overcame me and I tried once more to get just one small button to poke its head back through the hole, but no matter how hard I concentrated, my hands disobeyed. I could not get them to still. At last I had to concede and confess that I could not do it by myself, suddenly unable to recall how I had buttoned the shirt in the first place. She made no remark. She simply nodded and continued on where I had failed, and yet, a peculiar feeling of shame washed over me and I could not look her in the eyes for the rest of the day. I felt helpless, in the way that a wounded animal or an infant is helpless. I had not felt this way in such a long time that I had nearly forgotten it and in the face of my shame I stared forlornly at the wood paneled ceiling, occupying myself with special attention to the gaps where the panels had been joined. I willed the trembling of my lips and the mist in my eyes to dissipate.
Thinking of it now, the feeling reminds me of a time when I was a boy and I had not known how to tie my shoelaces. I often ran around the school yard with them trailing behind me like a kite that drags across the ground when it has not yet been picked up by the wind. This resulted in a specific instance in which I stepped on my own lace and tripped, falling to the ground. I rolled over and laid my head back with my eyes shut tightly, trapping any tears that might dare to escape and I exhaled slowly and forcefully to distract myself from the stinging pain. Back then I wanted to believe I was a man, as did many of the boys my age, therefore it would have been a catastrophe to cry after such an embarrassingly preventable fall. I cannot recall how long I laid there until I sensed a shadow standing above me.
“Are you okay?” the shadow asked me and when I opened my eyes I saw a girl in a school dress with her brown—or maybe it was black—hair braided into pigtails. The sun formed a ring around her head, making it appear as if she were glowing. I sat up quickly to make sure none of the other boys were watching.
“Yes, I just tripped,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
I looked down and saw she was right. The bare skin of my knees was peeled and disfigured like ground torn up by the claws of excavators. Small pieces of concrete littered the wound. Unlike the other boys who harbored a devilish delight in the practice of poking roadkill with sticks and squishing small frogs beneath large stones, I was squeamish of blood and the sight of it turned me pale. I swallowed slowly before attempting to speak.
“Yes, I suppose I am,” I responded, maintaining eye contact with the girl, mostly in the interest of avoiding another look at the mangled flesh I had once known to be soft and smooth.
She kneeled down next to me, tilting her head from one side and then to the other while she squinted at the injury. Before I realized what was happening, she reached her hand forward and poked the raw skin. It was like flames lived in her fingers; I felt my head grow light.
“Why would you do that?” I yelled, recoiling my knees from her and her iron-hot touch. She said nothing and instead simply shrugged in the twisted way that children do when they have no excuse for their actions besides mere curiosity.
Holding out her hand, its pointer finger stained red, she offered to take me to the nurse. I shook my head, mildly horrified at the thought of being seen with my affliction getting escorted across the playground by this strange girl and her fascination with poking raw wounds.
She rolled her eyes and, lowering her voice, said “Don’t be stupid Charlie, I know it hurts. Just let me help you.”
I knew she was right. The pain throbbed throughout my legs causing the tips of my toes to tingle and pulse. Reluctantly, I took her hand and she slung my arm over the span of her shoulders so that I could lean on her as we walked to the nurse’s office. I watched the playground nervously as we made the journey. Anxious not to be seen I tried to limp faster, but the pain made me wince and without a word I felt the girl shift her weight to support me more. By the time I had thought to tell her thank you, we had already arrived at the nurse’s and I felt like the moment had passed. After the nurse had cleaned and bandaged my wounds, I exited the office. To my own surprise she was still there, waiting for me on a chair with a little red—or maybe it might have been blue—book in her lap.
I cleared my throat and adjusted my shirt as I approached her. “Thank you for helping me,” I said, hoping to make up for my previous lack of gratitude. She looked up and smiled and I noticed that even without the sun her face still had a particular glow to it. My hand twitched at the urge to reach out and touch her, just to see if the glow was real or if my mind was playing a trick on me. Her eyes were a color I hadn’t seen before; green and deep like the pond Papa would take me to fish in. I didn’t really like fishing, but Papa would wear these big rubber overalls with boots on the end so he could stand waist deep in the water and not get wet. He told me if I kept showing an interest in fishing he’d get me a pair when I was a little bigger and I liked the thought of standing in water without getting wet. There were some times in the day when the sun would shine through the water in these sharp streaks. I could see the flecks of algae and fish poop floating around clear as if my head was under water. I thought it was a beautiful color and I wanted to tell her that her eyes reminded me of it, but you can’t just go around telling girls that their eyes remind you of fish poop.
“Of course,” she said, carefully dog-earring her page before shutting the book, it looked a lot like a copy of Charlotte’s Web I’d seen my sister reading before. “But really, why on Earth were you running around with your shoes untied?”
I looked away sheepishly before mumbling that I didn’t actually know how to tie them. Without hesitation she stood up from her chair, handing me the book and ushering me to her seat. I’m not sure why, but I obliged, and as I did she knelt and grabbed one string of my still-unlaced shoes in each hand.
“First, you take each string and make an X like this”—I watched intently as she crossed them—”then, you take one end and tuck it into this bottom hole of the X above your foot, and pull.” As she pulled, the string became tight across the top of my foot. “Now, this is the hard part Charlie, so pay attention.”
“Say, wait,” I interrupted. “How do you know my name?”
She rolled her eyes, sighing as she shook her head. “I’ve seen you at church, my dad’s the pastor … now, I said pay attention.” I shut my mouth as she instructed me. When she was finished she made me do the other shoe while she guided me past my mistakes. By the end of the process I had one neatly tied shoe, one shoe that was tied alright, and two bandaged knees. She stood up and grabbed her book to go back outside before I called,
“Wait!” She turned with an inquisitive look. Feeling her eyes on me I felt a warmth creep up the back of my neck. I was not used to feeling this way. My palms felt cold and wet, “Th-thank you,” I stuttered, “I mean, for helping me and all, and showing me how to tie shoes. You didn’t have to do that.”
She rolled her eyes again. I was beginning to think that this eye roll was something she did a lot, perhaps something she had just learned how to do. “Of course I did Charlie, I wouldn’t let you bleed out on the sidewalk.”
I laughed. I liked the way she said funny things with a straight face. I liked listening to her talk and I felt something inside of me that wanted to be her friend. “What’s your name?” I asked.
She smiled before saying, “Evelyn, but my friends call me Evie.”
“Am I allowed to call you Evie?” I asked her.
She nodded. “Yes, I think I’d like it if we were friends, Charlie.”
My stomach felt airy. I held my hand out for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Evie.”
The image of this girl feels so clear. I have seen it many times in my memories. I think for a moment, searching for another page in the story. My eyes flit to the open closet where there is a pale yellow blanket folded and gently laid upon the top shelf. Suddenly it’s as if I can feel that blanket in my hands and I can see her again. She’s much older in this memory, but it’s her. I’m sure of it.
“A blanket?” I asked. The small paper bag fell by my feet as I unraveled the canary fabric. I held it across my body and it stretched the length of my shoulders; barely enough material to make a t-shirt out of. Evie sat on the couch looking at me expectantly.
“I mean, I love it of course I do Evie, but uh, it’s a little small for me don’t you think?”
She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to kiss me on the cheek, the scent of her new perfume lingered on my skin as her touch receded. Her mother had just gotten her the perfume for Christmas. I remember watching her open the gift and her eyes lighting up like the glistening decorations on the tree. Evie and I saved our Christmas—and our personal presents—for last, choosing to spend the holidays with both of our families instead of at home alone. I had gotten her an olive green merino wool sweater, it sat poorly wrapped in a box by our feet while I opened my present first.
“There’s something else in the bag, Charlie.” She whispered with flushed cheeks. I looked at her perplexed before reaching my hand towards the ground to retrieve the paper bag that had once held the blanket. It had a picture of Rudolph from the claymation movie standing next to Santa on it. At the bottom there was a thin, white plastic rectangle. The bag fell to the ground as I held the device up to my face. Two faint pink lines reflected my gaze. I felt my throat hitch.
Turning to Evie I whispered, “Is this what I think it is?”
She smiled and nodded as tears streamed down her cheeks, “We’re having a baby, Charlie.” I embraced her in a flurry, my stomach felt as if it were made of the pillowy snow Rudolph’s hooves stood upon. I cradled the back of Evie’s head with my hand, she had recently cut her hair so that it swayed just above her shoulders and I could feel the fresh cut ends beneath my fingers. She was beautiful, she was glowing, she was pregnant. With my baby. Our baby. Ours. My heart felt so full, I couldn’t keep my joy contained. I held my wife and I cried for our future together. I can feel it. All the warmth at the happiness, it surrounds me, it—it’s fading…
This memory hits me all at once. It comes full force like a belly flop or a train and I feel my head begin to throb. I try to conjure it again, to make it clearer, less fuzzy, but the harder I try the more the memory dissipates and morphs. I want it back, I want Evie back and in my arms. I feel my breathing start to agitate. The gentle caress of the woman’s hands brings my attention back to present. She is applying the lotion to my chest when I wince.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she asks.
Her concern fills the back of my throat with a bitter taste. “No, no. I just don’t think my wife would appreciate you being here,” I say, troubling myself to hide my anxiety. “I think you should leave.” I reach for the tub of lotion which she concedes with no retort.
Her upper lip twitches subtly, like she’s in pain. The grimace is quickly replaced with a placating smile, like the one you give an old dog when you’re coaxing it to take its medicine. “I really don’t think she would mind—”
“No!” I find myself shouting. “I want my wife, I don’t know you. Where’s Evelyn?” Panic begins to flood my senses. Who is this woman? I don’t even recall letting her in. How long has she been here? Did Evelyn let her in? Does she know she’s here? Where is my wife? My breathing grows more unsteady as the weight of what I have done seeps in. Allowing this stranger to draw maps along the veins of my skin with her salve smothered fingers. How could I do this to her? My wife, my Evie. I stand up from my chair, my shed button-up falling to the ground. Rage bubbles to my forehead. The discarded shirt is another reminder of my betrayed intimacy. I pick up the shirt and throw it at her. “Get out!” I shout again.
She seems calm as she shushes and coos me, but her hands shake as she reaches them toward my face and I can see fear and grief flood through her green eyes as they flit back and forth. “Charlie, honey—it’s okay.” Her voice cracks, and a single tear rolls down her wrinkled cheek. My mind is thrust back to the tear that fell watering the grass as her lips waivered, “I do.” My head throbs harder. I feel as though I know nothing, I am nothing. She begins to cry completely, two tears, then four. I lose count. “It’s me, Charlie. It’s me.” And I see it. I see it more clearly than through a freshly cleaned window pane; I see it clear as the sky was on the day I knelt to the ground and asked her to marry me. Looking into her eyes, I’d know that color green anywhere.
“Oh my god,” I whisper as I fall to my knees at her feet. The weight of my pounding head draws me closer to the floor. My lungs feel as though they cannot take in any air; hot tears wet the ground but I do not make any effort to wipe them. Instead, my throat opens up and all that escapes is a harrowing scream. The kind of scream that cannot be willed on command, the kind that makes its way out of your heart as the result of a great tragedy. Crawling on the floor I make my way toward the mirror perched next to the armoire.
I stare at my own reflection and I cannot recognize the man standing before me. The skin around his eyes bear a similar pattern to the crinkle cookies my mother would bake every Christmas season. When I smile, he smiles back. The creases and caverns between his skin fall perfectly into place just as soldiers at attention fall into line. His teeth no longer have that gap on the side that I always hated and would often grin on one side more than the other to hide; instead, rather, he has no teeth at all and the smile he holds is babyish and non-threatening. He still lifts one side more despite the fact that he has nothing at all to cover up. Instead of my thick, brown hair his head is shiny and vacant. Wisps of silver threads poke up around the nape of his neck and behind his drooping ears. This man is not me. He couldn’t possibly be. It was just yesterday I remember my hands untarnished and absent from sun-spots, stroking Evelyn’s soft cheeks as she wept for our lost child. She held her shaking hands to her stomach and she told me that God had cursed us. Pulling her into my chest—my chest that was taught and stretched beneath my shirt; not the chest I seem to bear now, which flops and caves in—I told her we could not be cursed. It just might not have been our time yet. Our time would come when it was in His will. It was just yesterday I told her that, I swear.
I seem to be muttering to myself now and she kneels next to me, pulling me into her warm and suddenly familiar body; the way my face nestles into the crook of her neck feels as natural as if that spot were made just for me to lay. How could I not recognize these arms? These hands? This love? I feel her holding back her sorrow, a tightness spreading throughout her limbs. “I know,” she whispers, “I know.”
“Evie, the baby.” I cry. “The baby, our baby, Evie.” She holds me tighter.
Sobbing too, she says, “Charlie, honey, what baby?”
“Our baby, Evie. The yellow blanket. The baby.” My words come out in wet splutters.
After a long silence I hear her murmur, “She’s okay,” her voice breaks, “the baby was fine, she’s okay.”
But I can tell she is lying and I weep, “I’m so sorry, Evie. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” As I continue to rest there in her arms, hyperventilating with heaving shoulders, I wonder how many times I have already forgotten her.
My Evie.