~9 minutes read time
The calluses that used to scatter my sandpaper hands have been getting softer. This is one of the many changes to my body that I have begun to notice since her arrival. She comes into my room with a large metal tub in which she has mixed a balm of her own recipe. It is soft and buttery and she first 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, although women hide their aging much better than men do, and she is striking. 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, she creates heat with the friction of her massage and my hands feel warm. I feel oddly familiar with this process, like I have done it many times, although she has only just recently begun coming by, and I know that once my hands are complete she will move onto the rest of my body, replenishing the balm as she sees fit, 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.
The first time she came I had offered to unbutton it myself. She watched with unwavering patience as my unreliable fingers fumbled and slipped over the buttons. 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 about this, 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 at the gaps between the wood paneled ceiling while willing my trembling lip and welling eyes to dissipate.
Thinking of it now, it reminded me of a time when I was a boy and I had not known how to tie my shoelaces so I often ran around the school yard with them trailing behind me like a bridal train. People say that things like this are bound to happen, but in reality they require a very specific, very slim window of time. As my foot lifted through the air, the lace continued its contact with the ground, with my second foot I had stepped too soon, onto the lace of the first, thereby leashing my first foot midair resulting in my knees’ unfortunate contact with the warm concrete. 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 out of my mouth, blowing the air as forcefully out of my lungs as I could to distract myself from the emblazoning pain. Back then I had assumed myself a man, as had many of the boys my age, and therefore it would have been a social catastrophe by all occasions for me to cry after such an embarrassingly preventable fall. I cannot recall for how long I laid there until I felt the presence of 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 and her brown—or was it black?—hair braided into pigtails. I sat up quickly to make sure none of the other boys were watching before I replied.
“Yes, I just tripped. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re bleeding.” she said. I looked down and she was right, I had been previously unaware of this, and I wished it had remained that way. Unlike the other boys who maintained a devilish delight in the practice of poking roadkill with sticks and squishing small frogs beneath large stones, I was squeamish to blood and the sight of it turned me pale.
“Yes, it appears I am.” I responded, keeping eye contact with her mostly in the interest of avoiding eye contact with the bloody skin of my knees. She kneeled down and poked the raw skin and it was like flames lived in her fingers; I nearly fainted. “Why would you do that?” I yelled. She just shrugged in the twisted way that children do when they have no excuse for their actions besides mere curiosity.
“I’ll help you to the nurse,” she offered as she held out her hand, pointer finger stained red. I shook my head. She rolled her eyes and, lowering her voice said “Don’t be stupid Charlie, I know it hurts. Just let me help.”
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. The nurse had cleaned and bandaged my wounds and as I exited the office I had not expected to see her still there but she was, waiting for me on a chair with a little red—or was it blue?— book in her lap. I cleared my throat and adjusted my shirt as I approached her, “Thank you for helping me,” I said. She looked up and smiled and I realized that she was actually quite pretty, her face looked soft, I thought.
“Of course,” she said, “but really, why on earth were you running around with your shoes untied? That’s asking to trip and fall.”
I looked away sheepishly before mumbling that I didn’t actually know how to tie them. She folded the corner of the page and shut her book as she stood up, ushering me to take her seat. I’m not sure why, but I obliged, and as I did she knelt down and grabbed one string in each hand. “First, you take each string and make an X like this,” I watched intently as she crossed the strings, “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, how do you know my name?”
She rolled her eyes, “I sit right behind you, now, I said pay attention.” At once I shut my mouth and continued to listen as she instructed me on what to do. When she was finished she made me do the other one while she guided me through my mistakes. By the end of the process I had one neatly tied shoe, one shoe that was tied alright, and two skinned knees. She stood up and grabbed her book to go back outside before I called, “Wait!” she turned with an inquisitive look. “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 had begun to think that this was a thing she did a lot, “Of course I did Charlie, I wouldn’t let you bleed out on the sidewalk.”
I laughed, she was funny and I felt something inside of me that wanted to be her friend, “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Evelyn.”
I held my hand out for her to shake, not knowing, at the time, that I was shaking the hand of my future wife. “Nice to meet you, Evelyn.”
This memory feels as if it hits me all at once. It comes full force like a belly flop or a train and I feel my head begin to throb. She is applying the lotion to my chest when I wince. “I didn’t hurt you did I?” she asks.
“No, no. I just don’t think my wife would appreciate you being here, I think you should leave. I can apply my own lotion.”
Her upper lip twitches subtly, but is quickly replaced with a placating smile, “I 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 even is this woman? I don’t seem to even recall letting her in. How long has she been here? Where is my wife? My breathing grows more unsteady as the weight of what I have done seeps in, how could I do this to her? My wife, my Evelyn. I stand up from my chair, my shed button-up falling to the ground, I pick it up and throw it at her, “Who are you?” I shout again.
She is calm as she shushes and coos me, but her hands shake as she reaches them towards my face, “Charlie, honey. It’s okay. It’s okay, Charlie.” Her voice cracks, and a single tear rolls down her wrinkled cheek. My head is throbbing, I feel as though I know nothing, I am nothing. She begins to cry harder, “It’s me, Charlie. It’s me.” And then I see it.
“Oh my god,” I whisper as I fall to my knees at her feet, the weight of my head drawing me closer to the floor, “I’m so sorry, Evie. I didn’t know…I—”
She kneels and pulls me into her warm and suddenly familiar body, I can feel her holding back her grief, “I know,” she says, and I wonder how many times I have already forgotten her before.