Ripples Through Time Read Free

sick.
    Old habits die hard.
    “Truth is that’s not the first time I thought it, either. I’ve
wondered for years now. I can’t do anything except putter around. This is
the first time, though, that I  meant  it.”
    “Beth told me what you said,” Edward says softly, “but she
didn’t know what you meant.” His voice is so soft I can barely hear him. Clearly
this isn’t something he wants to talk about either. I wave my hand at his
concern.
    “My daughter was just talking.”
    “She doesn’t know what you’re planning.”
    I pause, then ask: “Do you?”
    Edward only stares at me, his expression strained. I look down
at the table, then at the glass front door of our squat gray condo. Our condo.
    For a second, only a second, I can see her face.  There in
the glass, her eyes wistful and tragic.
    My mind drifts: it is one of those nights when Mellie felt
well enough to get out of bed. She would look out that glass window to the
houses beyond, as though it was the whole world. I suppose it was, after all
this time. It was the only world we had left.
    I never knew what she was staring at.
    I never knew what  her  world looked like.  
    “She said the window was dirty. She said—” my voice cracks
“—she said: ‘Calvin, this window’s all dirty and I can’t see nothing. You
should clean it.’”
    I barely push the last few words out. It hurts, but not with
the intensity of youth. This is a dull ache, emptiness. Loneliness. But it is
tinged with relief. I hated seeing her in pain more than I hated losing her.
    “That was a few weeks ago,” I hear myself say. “And I
cleaned the window. And it took me forever. Spent almost an hour scrubbing it
so she could look out. But she never did.”
    “I’m sorry,” Edward says.
    “I’m not,” I say. “She’s not in pain now. No more crying. No
more sleeping. No more waking up in agony. It’s over for her, and she can rest.
She’s with God now, and God knows she deserves it. And now I wonder: why am I
still here?”
    “You were a saint,” Edward says, “taking care of her all of
those years.”
    I grunt to show what I think of  that . There
definitely aren’t words to describe  that  statement. “I
was  something .”
    “You were there when she needed you.”
    It wasn’t enough. Not after everything. It could never be
enough.
      “Edward,” I say finally. I turn away, suddenly
unable to look him in the eye. “I’ll walk there if I have to. It’s only a few
miles. I can make it that far.”
    “You can’t do this.”
    “I won’t hear none of that now,” I say, finding energy in a
surge of anger. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do. I said
I’ll  walk  if I have to. But I don’t want to. It should be
easier than this.” I pause. Tears are welling but I refuse to blink. “Why isn’t
it easier? I shouldn’t have to beg.”
    “You don’t have to—”
    “I’ll walk if I have to,” I repeat, “but I would appreciate
if you drove me to the cemetery. To her grave. Will you do it?”
    Edward is silent for a long moment, but I can’t tell if he
was seriously considering the request. Finally, he lets out a long sigh and
says:
    “Calvin, Emily is gone. I won’t drive you to her grave so
you can kill yourself.”

 
    1946 -
Emily Harper
Just who is this girl, anyway?
     
    “I bet you never knew much about Emily. When she was a
child?”
    “No. She was my friend’s mom,” Edward says. “I never even
thought she had a childhood, when I was little.”
    I laugh. “Yeah, that makes a kind of sense.”
    “I think it’s hard for kids to realize how young their
parents actually are until they are adults,” Edward says. “And then you look
back and think about all the times they must have been completely lost and
helpless.”
    “We had plenty of those.”
    “Why don’t you tell me about her,” Edward says.
    “You want a story?” I ask, mulling it over.
    “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe something when she