Remembering the Park by Michael Seale (Chapter 2)

 

The nights were the worst for Charlie. He would wake, not knowing where he was, who he was or where his wife was. It wasn’t every night, but those nights were living nightmares for him. He would sit alone in his bed, minutes, hours ticking by. The fear only increasing. Tears would come, but he would not remember them. It was as if reality fleeted away from his own mind. His own eyes deceived him and they lost him in a memory. Nothing was how it should be. It wasn’t his bed or even his room. His house gone, his wife nowhere to be found. He would call for her in the night, scream for her, cry the way he had on the day she died. This was his nightmare to relive over and over. Others would come, but she would not. His tears would come, his fright. Charlie could not, would not understand the world at this moment. He looked on as a spectator to someone else’s life. At this moment he was not the frail old man, his mind or the fragment of his mind that was in control at this moment, would forget that his wife had already passed on, only to relive that moment, minutes later.

Most nights passed without incident, but those that didn’t were living hell for him. The past night was a hellish one. He had woke, searched for his long-dead wife, wet himself and cried in the corner of the strange room. The orderlies tried to calm him, but only a sedative worked. His morning was long, groggy. He felt disconnected, as if in a dreamland. The cronies that watched news seemed slow and blurred. His feet were heavy as they shuffled on polished white linoleum floor. He felt as if his mind was trying to catch up, trying to fight its way through a heavy fog. It took him a good part of the morning, but he made his way alone to the second bench in the park.

Tom sat on the bench, staring out at the trees. He watched the man as he shuffled through the park. A woman threw a ball for her dog, which dutifully chased after it. The sky was blue with a few puffy clouds that hung about. Mr. Davis sat beside Tom.

“Hi, Johnny,” he said.

“Hey, Pops,”

They sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the last chill of the morning.

“Did I ever tell you of the time I met your mother?” Charlie asked the man sitting beside him.

Tom looked at the old man, pity in his eyes. “No pops, I don’t think you did.”

Charlie smiled broadly, his coffee stained teeth shone. His eyes lit up, his wrinkles lifted and his nose bobbed up and down. Tom couldn’t help but smile, the old man’s smile was infectious.

“I had been working at the hotel. You remember I took you and your sister there once?”

“Uh huh.” Tom replied. Tom had no sister, but he prompted the old man to go on.

Tom didn’t mind sitting with the old man, he had hoped the nurse he had met yesterday would be with him again. He had seen her several times before but she was working so he never got the courage up to speak to her. So what if the old guy thought he was Johnny, it didn’t hurt to play along? He would be Johnny for him. He would be the son that had probably passed on. If it helped the old guy, then Tom could do it, he thought. And if it got him some brownie points with the nurse for being a nice guy than that was good too.

“After working at the hotel for a few years, I was ready for a change. I know, everyone told me I was crazy for leaving but I just never could stay in one spot for to long. You know.” Charlie didn’t pause, he kept up his monologue. “So, there I was on the train, going to my first job interview in Switzerland. The hotel job was just a transfer from the states. I’m on the train, super nervous. My German was horrible. I had spoken to the owner on the phone and he spoke relatively good English, but I knew they wanted someone who could speak at least some German. I made my way to the restaurant from the train station. It wasn’t far and thank god for that, I hated wandering around the streets not knowing where to go when I had to be somewhere. I make it to the bistro. The sun was bright in the sky, but the restaurant was dark and cool. Mirrors over the bar gave the room the appearance that it was bigger than it actually was. Tables were dark stained oak, lacquered in a covering coat of clear stone. I told a lovely young woman that I had an appointment with the chef. She sat me at a table next to the window, informed me that the chef would be right down. I barely noticed her, I was so nervous. I wanted badly to get the job. If I had looked up, I would have fallen in love with your mother right then. She set a coffee in front of me, turned and walked away.”

Charlie paused a moment, perhaps to take a breath, or perhaps he was reliving the moment right there in front of Tom.

“Did you notice her walk away?” Tom asked with a wink.

Charlie smiled. “That was the worst tasting coffee, I had ever drank in my life, but I ordered four more just so I could see her walk away.”

Tom and Charlie both laughed.

“Did you talk to her?” Tom asked.

“Heavens, no. I had just had probably the worst job interview of my life. I think I messed up every question, the manager asked. But he must have been desperate because he still offered me a tryout. I shook the man’s hand and left.”

“Without talking to her?”

“Of course, I wanted the job, I wasn’t out bird dogging.”

“Bird dogging?”

“You know, Johnny, picking up the ladies.”

Tom’s cheeks flushed red as he stifled a laugh. The old man’s a cut up, he thought.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Charlie smiled. “Where was I?”

“You left.”

“Yes, yes, I left. I would be back the next week. The next week came, and I worked the lunch shift, at the restaurant and through the afternoon. She, your mother, was waiting tables again, but I believe she spent an awful lot of time in the kitchen. I didn’t mind, I don’t think the other cooks minded either, but I never asked them. Your mother was beautiful, with long brown hair, pulled easily back into a ponytail, a round full face, that emanated life. Her smile lit the room, still does. Her one gap between her teeth, an imperfection that completes her perfectly.”

“She sounds amazing, Char… pops.”

Charlie coughed and wiped his mouth absently with a handkerchief that appeared out of nowhere. He sat quietly for a moment. Lost in his thoughts. After some time passed, he patted Tom on his thigh.

“What about you, Johnny? Turning any heads?”

Tom blushed, “No, not at that moment. But they have turned my head a few times,” he said with a smile.

Charlie smiled back.

“Did you ask her out?”

“No, I did not. Your mother asked me out. Well, actually she slipped me her phone number as she ran out the door. I was in the middle of the kitchen, I believe I was cutting potatoes at the time. There she was a nervous wreck, I imagine it took all the courage she could muster, to walk into a kitchen, full of men that she knew and hand her phone number over to the one and only one that she didn’t. But she did it. She smiled and walked away. I don’t even know if I said anything or not. I took the note, looked at it, and knew that she was special. I will not say I fell in love with her at that moment, but I took a big step in that direction.”

Tom wondered how the man could remember so much, so many details and still be sick. He didn’t know that Charlie would wake up at night and not know where he was or that his wife had already passed on. Tom did not know how the disease worked or what it did to a person. But it made him curious. The story the man had told was so rich, so detailed. He felt he could see it in front of him; he felt as if he had been a part of it.

“What happened next?”

“What do you think? I called her. Didn’t understand a single word, she said on the phone. She talked and talked, but she could have been speaking Chinese or ancient Greek, for all I knew. It didn’t matter, we communicated. We met the very next week. Since then I haven’t been apart from her for more than a week, in the last fifty years.”

A nurse that Tom didn’t recognize came storming up to them. Her hips swayed as she walked over to them. She had the direct opposite demeanor from the woman the day before, Tom thought. She stood, legs slightly spread apart and hands on her hips. “Mr. Davis, what have I told you about wandering off?”

“He’s fine,” Tom said. “He was just chatting with his son.” Tom put a big emphasis on son, hoping the woman would understand that he was not alright at the moment.

“You shouldn’t humor him, it won’t help.”

“But what does it hurt?” Tom asked.

Charlie wrung his hands, nervously. “Johnny, who is this woman?”

“Pops, she’s a nurse, she takes care of you. I guess.” Tom did not know what she did at the hospital, but he was sure of one thing and that was she did not take care of anyone. He disliked her the second she opened her mouth.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me. I’ve got your momma. She looks after me just fine. Did I ever tell you the story of when I first met her? She served me the worst tasting coffee, I ever drank in my life, but I drank four cups of it just so I could see her walk away.”

Tom smiled at Charlie. The story not as funny as the first time. Agunda took Charlie by the arm and led him back down the path and towards the hospital. Charlie’s feet shuffled along the gravel path, kicking up small stones. He seemed happy, thought Tom, even if his mind was going. Soon even these memories would fade into the dark cave that was engulfing Charlie’s mind.

Tom sat for a moment, remorse cascading in. His eyes welled up, his hands found his charcoal before he knew it. The picture drew itself. A young man, sitting at a table in a restaurant, papers in front of him, four cups of coffee spread out, a woman walking away, the man’s gaze following her. Time flew by as he sketched. He felt alive. For the first time in a long time, he felt as if the picture was drawing itself. The details he imagined himself, the mirror reflecting the man’s gaze. The curve of the woman’s hips. Other patrons, plates of food. He was sure this was how Charlie had met his wife. The picture was perfect.

Tom was twenty-eight and a drift in life. He worked random jobs, never sticking with one thing too long. He wasn’t a loser, or so he thought, but he was winning at life either. Tom just couldn’t find in his passion. Or at least make a living from it. His parents wanted more from him, he learned that long ago but he stuck to his guns. He wanted to be an artist and if that meant literally starving for his art that is what he would do. Tom worked with his hands, he built things, he sketched, he painted. But it seemed to him at least that nothing he created was good enough. Until now.