He spread out the roses on his bed, each of the same length; they brought a beauty to his room that he never knew was missing. The room was clinically minimal, and the only object to adorn any of its walls was a painting, that of a young prince holding a pear. Yet five flowers were on his bed: symbols of love and signs of affection.
He wondered why this was so, and then decided that the crimson petals formed the heart of the flower, exposed at the top for all to see. With a graceful swipe he bundled the flowers into his hand, and felt the pricks of thorns on his skin.
Ouch! I should be more careful — even if they're just flowers.
The sun was setting outside his window and cast the room in an orange haze — a nostalgic atmosphere.
He remembered playing amongst the trees in the courtyard of his old apartment building, both hiding from Gorovaia and putting forth all of his effort in finding her; she tended to throw twigs at him upon being discovered, and he would pick her up in retaliation. Both would then come tumbling to the ground and become dirty together.
As if punctuating the thought, the floor beneath Gail’s feet vibrated with the passing of a low-flying airplane, and he needed no further encouragement to get moving.
The crisp red and orange leaves crunched and crackled beneath his feet as he walked along the driveway, sounding as camp fires do in the dim of morning. He lived in a brick-red suburban neighbourhood, stations of warmth and security all lined up.
A better place was never lived in — uptown was far too pompous and undeserving of his sincerity, while downtown was simply a constant racket, filled to the brim with vagabonds. Gorovaia had lived in the apartment across from him at the old building, in the lovely, carefree days of their childhood.
Nothing else came into the picture then, in those young minds — naught of their states of living, nor matters of family wealth. Life was a literal playground, and all who played knew only the moment, knew it without thoughts of repercussions to hamper them.
Dreary of the thoughts then encompassing his mind, Gail settled at the bus stop and squatted to admire the decorations of autumn: dead leaves, curled like paper caught in a fire; a lady bug crawling out from under a crumpled yellow pamphlet, a cross still visible within the folds; the butts of cigarettes stomped and discarded, accompanied by the scattered burnt holes of leaves. Ashes were spread over the pavement as though a smoker’s last rites.
What do I see if I close my eyes?
First, he noted nothing. And then there was a subtle sense of colour, as though someone had removed hands from his face. For minutes he sat staring at the backs of his eyelids, waiting for something to happen — anything, but he did not know exactly what.
Something rumbled; he opened his eyes to the blue and white bus, patiently waiting for him to zone in.
He fumbled for his bus pass with one hand while the roses scratched his other. The bus squeaked and the doors folded open, reminding Gail of the Japanese paper fans his mother had collected, before cancer collected her. He entered and walked along the space of the bus as it drove up the street, maintaining his composure and balance despite the rattles and shakes. Inside smelled of musk and cigarettes, though smoking on the bus was illegal.
Usually he recognized an associate amongst the ranks of seats, but none of the few, scattered passengers here looked familiar to him.
Oh, except her. Graeme's Giovanni. His kid.
He sat facing Giovanni in the back and set the roses on the seat beside him with due care.
A few days ago — exactly as midnight struck — a close friend had wished him a happy twentieth birthday. After crying, Gail — child at heart, twenty in body — had then assumed that everyone younger was blanched by him, an old man fumbling desperately for conversation with those he had no right talking to.
While he did not know the girl’s age as canon, he placed it between fifteen and seventeen years. Her father, while old, had created her when he was very young. Gail felt sorry for her, and during the few times they encountered each other, had tried to act as an uncle.
“I think he actually left me,” Giovanni said.
“Graeme?”
“Yeah. Dad.”
“He might've just gone out to the store.”
“Five days ago.”
“God, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
She paused and Gail watched as a stream of thoughts crossed over her face.
“I’m hungry.”
“Well, I have food in my house. Here, take the key; eat what you can find. Just leave the door unlocked for me.”
“Thanks, Gail.” She wiped away a tear and looked down at the silver key.
He sat beside her with the flowers.
I want you to know you’re never alone.
“Was it money?”
She nodded.
“Are those flowers for her?”
He was about to open his mouth but stopped, and simply nodded in return.
“Tell her I said hi.”
“If you take the bus long enough it’ll circle back and stop at my house. I don’t think you should walk in your condition.”
Nothing more needed to be said. They used the silence to gather their respective thoughts and worries, trusting that the isolating moment would pass just as all others.
You remind me of Gorovaia. Not just anyone can do that — they have to be sweet, kind, and thoughtful; playful as well as sneaky. Did your father really leave you, or do you just want something for free? I really don’t mind, either way — such is life, and those who pursue it. I’ll tell Gorovaia about Giovanni when I see her. She’ll appreciate that.
Soon came his stop and he pressed the button behind him, letting out a ding that, while sounding more diminutive and harmless than anything else on Earth, managed to break the spell of silence cast upon them.
“Catch you later,” Gail said to her at the back exit, holding the roses as though they were his heart, soul and thoughts worn on his sleeve for all to see.
“Okay,” she said, tapping the key. “Thanks again.”
He parted the bus, felt the firm sidewalk beneath his feet and again breathed in the morning air around him. Beyond the automobile pollution and steaming sewers, the air was enough to rejuvenate his lungs after the stuffy interior of the bus.
His heart sped when he stepped towards the open gate before him. He slowed his breathing to control it, savoring the air. An elderly couple was leaving just as he entered; they nodded at him, the bow of North Americans. He smiled back.
Walking on the cobblestone path always brought a selection of memories to Gail’s mind, and of course, this time as well as every other, he pushed them away.
The raining, splashing sounds of the large ivory fountain added a comforting ambience to his surroundings. Gail caught his tiny reflection in a drop of water, which shrunk from adulthood to a child, temporarily encapsulated as a physical memory. And then, as fleeting as his childhood, the drop hit the pool. He looked away.
Where his gaze fell upon was, in the same place as always, Gorovaia. He held the flowers tight and a thorn broke his skin. A droplet of blood formed but he didn't feel any pain.
Putting on his most pleasant face and attitude, he went to her.
Gorovaia Evelyn Helena
Her epitaph might have defined brevity, but Gail felt it also defined her life better than he ever could: A Gentle Heart.
Some people want to stay young forever. Some people get that.
He laid the roses upon the grave and smiled wistfully. At the age of nine she had fallen to her death, helping him out of the tallest tree they knew.
Elsewhere
She slid the key into the hole and turned, resulting in the most satisfying sound she had heard in days: a simple, solitary click. Reluctantly, after spying left and right for curious neighbours, she pushed in the door and it opened without the slightest resistance or even squeaking.
Oh my sweetness, it actually worked! I’ll have to kiss Gail when I see him.
Once inside, Giovanni pulled off her shoes and stretched out her toes — being on her feet all day had simply killed them.
Where’s the kitchen? I’m so hungry I could eat this entire house. Ah!
Luckily it was just at the end of the foyer.
In the fridge she found a little of everything: meats, vegetables, fruits, condiments and desserts. With so many options she decided on the most logical: a sandwich of her own creation — a royal meal between two slices of bread.
She ate it while standing, looking over the wooden cabinets, drawers, and photographs littered throughout the kitchen. On the fridge, surrounded by countless photographs of people she had never met or seen before, was Gail, around her age, sitting by a pile of leaves; he looked much odder back then. She smiled and a crumb came tumbling from her mouth.
I guess he just grew up like everybody else.
Before she could further investigate the life of Gail Harris, however, Giovanni had to get things done.
Hmm, where does he keep the plastic bags? Ah, right below the sink, in a giant messy pile. And now to fill them.
Originally — as was the plan — she grabbed food that would not readily spoil, such as cans and jars. Alas, these made the bags far too heavy for her to carry and pained her arms.
As she was reevaluating which foods took priority and slowly refilling the bags in the process, a trace of guilt tinged her. However, before the guilt grew too large, a reassuring thought presented itself:
It’s not like I’m stealing them if I’m going to use them. Gail works in an accounting agency. He’ll be able to handle his losses.
And then she thought: No. No, no, this is wrong. My dad left with the past so that I may have the present — I am not going to waste my only chances.
She bit into a ripe apple, savouring the sudden rush of flavour before leaving it on the table as she exited the house.