Soulmates
It was nearing its end, his waiting for her.
Everything to do with him, with his brief existence at this place, was quite specifically for her.
And so, he was patient. He did not know other ways of being, nor did he know Time.
And all the while, the days and the nocturnes routinely passed as she completed step by step, task by task, the final phases of her journey to him.
Everything to do with him, with his brief existence at this place, was quite specifically for her.
And so, he was patient. He did not know other ways of being, nor did he know Time.
And all the while, the days and the nocturnes routinely passed as she completed step by step, task by task, the final phases of her journey to him.
* *
The nondescript woman driving a nondescript car arrived early. The guard’s fleeting notice of the car’s front bumper county decal produced an automated wave for her to proceed and enter the facility’s grounds. She’d been perceived as just another volunteer and this was good.
It was well over two decades of her being nondescript: average clothing, plain grooming, a small average house in an average suburb of an average mid-sized city, her driving average cars, and a plain name for a second identity.
Actually, almost three decades, she thought after her scant nod at the guard. Nearly thirty years and still . . . still . . . the deep-gut twinge, the ever-present vigilance for any sliver of recognition and its consequences.
She parked and turned off the ignition. A check of her wristwatch confirmed she should sit in the car several more minutes instead of showing up too early. She observed mid-autumn trees and weedy rectangular lawns separating several aged buildings. The grounds plain sensibility mirrored the particular drab institutional building where she would spend the rest of the afternoon. She sighed and decided to reapply her lipstick. She squirmed and lifted her head for her face to appear in the rearview mirror. She paused, her reflected eyes gazing back at her. The reflection was of fading in what had once been singular and attractive. Yes, this face framed by grey hair had indeed faded to nondescript.
So far, so good, she thought.
It was well over two decades of her being nondescript: average clothing, plain grooming, a small average house in an average suburb of an average mid-sized city, her driving average cars, and a plain name for a second identity.
Actually, almost three decades, she thought after her scant nod at the guard. Nearly thirty years and still . . . still . . . the deep-gut twinge, the ever-present vigilance for any sliver of recognition and its consequences.
She parked and turned off the ignition. A check of her wristwatch confirmed she should sit in the car several more minutes instead of showing up too early. She observed mid-autumn trees and weedy rectangular lawns separating several aged buildings. The grounds plain sensibility mirrored the particular drab institutional building where she would spend the rest of the afternoon. She sighed and decided to reapply her lipstick. She squirmed and lifted her head for her face to appear in the rearview mirror. She paused, her reflected eyes gazing back at her. The reflection was of fading in what had once been singular and attractive. Yes, this face framed by grey hair had indeed faded to nondescript.
So far, so good, she thought.
* *
Today was different. Even this moment was different in this place where he and the others were. He was here because his mind, his heart, and some other things had not formed or connected as they should have. All of them had been brought here to wait.
Today seemed lighter, and one of the many mothers, an olive-skinned one, lifted and handled him. This one had music, sweet and bright, humming the whole time she held him, fed him, and returned him to his crib. He and the others here were lucky to have so many mothers to care for them and some of the mothers to sing or hum as well.
But today was harder too. It was tiring, more tiring than before. Parts of him felt heavier, felt colder, and it was harder to breathe.
Today seemed lighter, and one of the many mothers, an olive-skinned one, lifted and handled him. This one had music, sweet and bright, humming the whole time she held him, fed him, and returned him to his crib. He and the others here were lucky to have so many mothers to care for them and some of the mothers to sing or hum as well.
But today was harder too. It was tiring, more tiring than before. Parts of him felt heavier, felt colder, and it was harder to breathe.
* *
“What’s your name again?”
There -- the twinge, the name possibly failing.
She repeated the name, the casualness of her voice and demeanor long practiced.
“Oh, there you are,” the ward secretary said, her fingertip stopped at a typed line on a white form. She paged the charge nurse and a minute later the visitor saw a young woman enter the corridor and walk towards her.
“She’s young,” the visitor noted. That too was good. Less likely for memory’s stir, the risk of recognition and judgement.
There -- the twinge, the name possibly failing.
She repeated the name, the casualness of her voice and demeanor long practiced.
“Oh, there you are,” the ward secretary said, her fingertip stopped at a typed line on a white form. She paged the charge nurse and a minute later the visitor saw a young woman enter the corridor and walk towards her.
“She’s young,” the visitor noted. That too was good. Less likely for memory’s stir, the risk of recognition and judgement.
* *
The visitor had known fame and infamy. It was nearly three decades after the Great Fall, after betrayal, exposure, the shredding of wealth, prestige, and friendships. And more than a decade had passed since her ex-husband died in prison after vanishing from public view. It had been even longer since interview requests, articles, television segments, and his mistress achieving slightly more than fifteen minutes of fame with a tell-all book.
She was young when she joined his investment firm as a secretary. He noticed her, romanced and married her. The ascent was heady as they acquired more and more. The luxury homes in exclusive locales, exquisite furnishings, jewelry, collectibles, and art. They enjoyed remarkable ease in press coverage and mingling with celebrities and politicians. It was so natural before the murmurs then rumblings about him. Suspicions mounted, then shocking accusations about the firm’s operations and what had been done with other people's money and life savings.
True, they’d become somewhat distant throughout the years, something she attributed as routine in marriages of longevity. Yet, she had to confront a reality of lacking even the smallest glimmer of truth about the man she thought she knew. Eventually, she scoffed at herself, scoffed at how she first defended him in the Great Fall, devotedly, adamantly, defended him only to eventually realize and acknowledge the truth.
Early in the Great Fall, friends pledged concern, expressed sympathy, but gradually, her phone fell silent. The brutal descent brought horrible names, profanities, sensationalism, rumors, outright lies, and once being spat upon in public. She refused interviews and learned to avoid anything in print, broadcast, or digital media relating to the Great Fall.
Her material world vanished as government, creditors, and plaintiffs staked their claims. But none of it mattered, after her son, her only child, hung himself from a makeshift noose in a small, dank, apartment -- an all-too-predictable fate for a pariah’s son.
No, nothing much mattered after that.
She was young when she joined his investment firm as a secretary. He noticed her, romanced and married her. The ascent was heady as they acquired more and more. The luxury homes in exclusive locales, exquisite furnishings, jewelry, collectibles, and art. They enjoyed remarkable ease in press coverage and mingling with celebrities and politicians. It was so natural before the murmurs then rumblings about him. Suspicions mounted, then shocking accusations about the firm’s operations and what had been done with other people's money and life savings.
True, they’d become somewhat distant throughout the years, something she attributed as routine in marriages of longevity. Yet, she had to confront a reality of lacking even the smallest glimmer of truth about the man she thought she knew. Eventually, she scoffed at herself, scoffed at how she first defended him in the Great Fall, devotedly, adamantly, defended him only to eventually realize and acknowledge the truth.
Early in the Great Fall, friends pledged concern, expressed sympathy, but gradually, her phone fell silent. The brutal descent brought horrible names, profanities, sensationalism, rumors, outright lies, and once being spat upon in public. She refused interviews and learned to avoid anything in print, broadcast, or digital media relating to the Great Fall.
Her material world vanished as government, creditors, and plaintiffs staked their claims. But none of it mattered, after her son, her only child, hung himself from a makeshift noose in a small, dank, apartment -- an all-too-predictable fate for a pariah’s son.
No, nothing much mattered after that.
* *
The visitor followed the charge nurse down the corridor to the last room on the right. The room’s length-side walls decorated with decals contrasted with the facility’s blandness. A vivid stream of imagery for boys flowed across the right wall: red, blue, green, yellow, and orange cars and trucks interspersed with cartoon policemen, firemen, and superheroes. Flowing across the opposite wall were pastels for girls: pink, lavender, teal, and periwinkle blue filled gentle realms of magical kingdoms with unicorns, fairies, and princesses.
The nurse led the visitor to the right side of the room, all the way to the last of the plain wooden cribs. She next dragged a lone chipped rocking chair from the girls’ side to the last crib on the right. She motioned the visitor to sit in the chair then walked to the last crib and lowered its railing.
She thanked the visitor for doing this. Too bad more people didn’t come, didn’t volunteer for these children, the nurse added. Parents or other family tended to visit infrequently if at all for this room could be too heartbreaking. Some parents detached for other reasons, and sometimes, some were never meant to be parents at all.
“You know about the hydrocephalus, the abnormal heart and hands?” the nurse paused, holding the white bundle she had lifted from the crib close to her.
“Yes,” the visitor answered.
"Alright,” the nurse stepped forward. “Here he is,” she whispered, lowering the white bundle into the visitor’s cradled arms.
“He’s a sweetheart,” the nurse said after sharing the infant’s first name. “There’s something about babies with hydrocephalus -- they have the sweetest faces.”
“Yes,” the visitor thought.“She can perceive such.”
“He does have a sweet face,” the visitor agreed, surprised and pleased after she heard herself say this. She gazed at his face, felt the weight of his head in the crook of her arm. His head’s fullness, its tension, differed from what was familiar, different from her own child or any other infant she had ever held.
“You can see his heart’s failing -- the cyanosis, the blueness of his lips,” the nurse shared. “He’s pale. His hands and feet are cooler than normal. He’s working harder to breathe. He’ll be gone soon, maybe a week, not much longer. That’s the way it is most of the time.”
The visitor noted the bluish lips, the malformed thumbs and fingers of his cool bluish hands below the cuffs of his white T-shirt. She stroked his face then placed her hand on his chest as if to soothe the retractions of his ribcage from each strained inhalation.
The nurse watched, assessing this match of visitor and patient. She saw it was good, that the visitor held the infant securely, tenderly. The aged chair was already rocking gentle and slow.
“A long time ago, I was skimming through an almanac, or some old book like an almanac,” the nurse spoke after a pause. “There was a section on famous epitaphs and there was one in particular that comes to you in a room like this. It was for a baby that died soon after birth. The epitaph said, ‘Since I’ve been so quickly done for, I wonder what I was begun for.’ ”
An instant, strange energy swept through the visitor. She looked up and saw the nurse sweep her fingers across her moistened eyes. “One of life’s mysteries, I suppose,” the nurse self-consciously quipped then glanced at the wall clock. She sighed and hurried to the door to her next errand.
“Thanks again,” the nurse said, looking back at the visitor who offered a wistful smile. The visitor watched the nurse’s departure, watched how carefully and quietly she opened and closed the door in deference to the sanctity of such a room in such a place.
The nurse led the visitor to the right side of the room, all the way to the last of the plain wooden cribs. She next dragged a lone chipped rocking chair from the girls’ side to the last crib on the right. She motioned the visitor to sit in the chair then walked to the last crib and lowered its railing.
She thanked the visitor for doing this. Too bad more people didn’t come, didn’t volunteer for these children, the nurse added. Parents or other family tended to visit infrequently if at all for this room could be too heartbreaking. Some parents detached for other reasons, and sometimes, some were never meant to be parents at all.
“You know about the hydrocephalus, the abnormal heart and hands?” the nurse paused, holding the white bundle she had lifted from the crib close to her.
“Yes,” the visitor answered.
"Alright,” the nurse stepped forward. “Here he is,” she whispered, lowering the white bundle into the visitor’s cradled arms.
“He’s a sweetheart,” the nurse said after sharing the infant’s first name. “There’s something about babies with hydrocephalus -- they have the sweetest faces.”
“Yes,” the visitor thought.“She can perceive such.”
“He does have a sweet face,” the visitor agreed, surprised and pleased after she heard herself say this. She gazed at his face, felt the weight of his head in the crook of her arm. His head’s fullness, its tension, differed from what was familiar, different from her own child or any other infant she had ever held.
“You can see his heart’s failing -- the cyanosis, the blueness of his lips,” the nurse shared. “He’s pale. His hands and feet are cooler than normal. He’s working harder to breathe. He’ll be gone soon, maybe a week, not much longer. That’s the way it is most of the time.”
The visitor noted the bluish lips, the malformed thumbs and fingers of his cool bluish hands below the cuffs of his white T-shirt. She stroked his face then placed her hand on his chest as if to soothe the retractions of his ribcage from each strained inhalation.
The nurse watched, assessing this match of visitor and patient. She saw it was good, that the visitor held the infant securely, tenderly. The aged chair was already rocking gentle and slow.
“A long time ago, I was skimming through an almanac, or some old book like an almanac,” the nurse spoke after a pause. “There was a section on famous epitaphs and there was one in particular that comes to you in a room like this. It was for a baby that died soon after birth. The epitaph said, ‘Since I’ve been so quickly done for, I wonder what I was begun for.’ ”
An instant, strange energy swept through the visitor. She looked up and saw the nurse sweep her fingers across her moistened eyes. “One of life’s mysteries, I suppose,” the nurse self-consciously quipped then glanced at the wall clock. She sighed and hurried to the door to her next errand.
“Thanks again,” the nurse said, looking back at the visitor who offered a wistful smile. The visitor watched the nurse’s departure, watched how carefully and quietly she opened and closed the door in deference to the sanctity of such a room in such a place.
* *
At last this moment, at last she had come to him. She had come for him to hold her in his eyes.
He would do this even as tired as he was. He perceived her body’s warmth, the security of her arms cradling him, of being rocked in a rhythm slow and light, slow and light. He heard her whisper to him. He did not know words, but her voice was tenderness, tenderness with a palpable tremble and catch, the voice like no other, the voice just for him.
Yes, everything was here, now. He would do what he had come for.
He opened his eyes, found and gazed up at her face, found her eyes. They were aged, saddened eyes, dulled blue-grey, the skin surrounding them thinned myriads of wrinkles. He rested his gaze there, waited for her eyes to come to his.
Yes . . . there they were, coming at last.
He would hold her in his eyes as no one else ever had. It was just for this once, these singular moments, just for her.
And, just for her, it would make all the difference.
He would do this even as tired as he was. He perceived her body’s warmth, the security of her arms cradling him, of being rocked in a rhythm slow and light, slow and light. He heard her whisper to him. He did not know words, but her voice was tenderness, tenderness with a palpable tremble and catch, the voice like no other, the voice just for him.
Yes, everything was here, now. He would do what he had come for.
He opened his eyes, found and gazed up at her face, found her eyes. They were aged, saddened eyes, dulled blue-grey, the skin surrounding them thinned myriads of wrinkles. He rested his gaze there, waited for her eyes to come to his.
Yes . . . there they were, coming at last.
He would hold her in his eyes as no one else ever had. It was just for this once, these singular moments, just for her.
And, just for her, it would make all the difference.
* *
His slight expiratory sigh followed by the bend of his elbow to raise his forearm and hand caught her gaze and directed it to his face, his opened and waiting eyes. She especially noticed their color, a blue-grey similar to her own.
Again, a strange, sudden energy swept through her, resonating deep in her solar plexus.
She stared into his eyes, the white sclerae, the blue-grey irises, how his eyes held and reflected light as well as her image. As he held her eyes, images emerged, cascaded, and flowed throughout her mind. Suddenly, she too, did not know Time.
The images were faces known and unknown to her, of places she known, visited, and had dreamt of visiting. She saw the events of her life, uncountable experiences and emotions. She was a child exploring the first rooms, windows and views of her life. She saw her son from birth to adulthood. She saw her husband, scenes of their once-opulent life, the Great Fall, and her later anonymity. All emerged and flowed through her consciousness in no particular order, no particular sequence. Everything was One and with it distant music, ongoing, joyous voices combining in indescribable beauty.
She saw herself at the favorite of her past palatial homes. She lounged in an exquisite garden surrounded by flowers and greenery. There, serene, she read books and magazines, turning their pages with her perfect, manicured fingers. Correspondence and refreshments brought to her on silver trays by various servants.
Now, she saw, she understood, as his eyes held her, that by the Great Fall and all lost with it, she was truly enriched. Less was more for this second life, this second chance, for she had learned what was illusory, impermanent, insignificant, and the precious little which was not.
And now, these eyes . . . his eyes . . . holding her in sheer love.
She continued cradling him as his eyes emitted transcendent light, transcendent love, and perhaps an answer to the age-old epitaph spoken about in the room mere minutes before. The visitor gasped as transcendent light and love created a delicate wave cresting and surging through her heart, through her every cell.
She gasped again at the wonder of him, the realization of his purpose: to only love, to hold her in his eyes, to transmit love.
Again, a strange, sudden energy swept through her, resonating deep in her solar plexus.
She stared into his eyes, the white sclerae, the blue-grey irises, how his eyes held and reflected light as well as her image. As he held her eyes, images emerged, cascaded, and flowed throughout her mind. Suddenly, she too, did not know Time.
The images were faces known and unknown to her, of places she known, visited, and had dreamt of visiting. She saw the events of her life, uncountable experiences and emotions. She was a child exploring the first rooms, windows and views of her life. She saw her son from birth to adulthood. She saw her husband, scenes of their once-opulent life, the Great Fall, and her later anonymity. All emerged and flowed through her consciousness in no particular order, no particular sequence. Everything was One and with it distant music, ongoing, joyous voices combining in indescribable beauty.
She saw herself at the favorite of her past palatial homes. She lounged in an exquisite garden surrounded by flowers and greenery. There, serene, she read books and magazines, turning their pages with her perfect, manicured fingers. Correspondence and refreshments brought to her on silver trays by various servants.
Now, she saw, she understood, as his eyes held her, that by the Great Fall and all lost with it, she was truly enriched. Less was more for this second life, this second chance, for she had learned what was illusory, impermanent, insignificant, and the precious little which was not.
And now, these eyes . . . his eyes . . . holding her in sheer love.
She continued cradling him as his eyes emitted transcendent light, transcendent love, and perhaps an answer to the age-old epitaph spoken about in the room mere minutes before. The visitor gasped as transcendent light and love created a delicate wave cresting and surging through her heart, through her every cell.
She gasped again at the wonder of him, the realization of his purpose: to only love, to hold her in his eyes, to transmit love.
* *
He closed his eyes. His breathing felt lighter, somewhat eased.
Now he would return, return soon to just beyond here, just beyond cloud and sky, just beyond breath.
There, in that space of light, of love, he would rest and wait for her again.
Now he would return, return soon to just beyond here, just beyond cloud and sky, just beyond breath.
There, in that space of light, of love, he would rest and wait for her again.
