(Author's note- I stumbled upon this 'ancient treasure' while cleaning out some old cartons filled with ancient memories. It was scribbled on ruled ledger paper in smudgy blue ink and awful spidery handwriting. I was 19 when I wrote it and my handwriting hasn't evolved since then...thank God for laptops. What amazes me is my frequent and pretty accurate use of the Colon and Semi-colon in this piece...I seemed to have had a better grasp of technical Grammar in my youth than I do now in my 30's, for I have quite omitted the 'Colon' and 'Semi-colon' from my Life!)
Hope
There was a stillness in the air; humid, thick and suffocating. Nothing moved, not even a leaf. The sky was dull and a thick haze covered the horizon. The sound of silence throbbed with a life of its own. It grew louder, louder than the waves breaking against the rocks below.
A bird screeched somewhere in the distance. A sign of life. Very slowly, a figure that was curled up against a rock stirred. She was clad in grey clothing. Oversized grey shirt, grey slacks. She blended in with her surroundings. Grey. Which is how she felt; tired, hopeless. Grey.
The bird screeched again. The Girl looked up at the sky. It had been a year now, and she still couldn’t tell whether the screeching bird was a Gull or a Cliff Eagle. The end of another year she thought, an expression of surprise briefly animating her face. How quickly time flew. Time that she was running out of.
April 25th. 30 years old today. Her birthday. Seems like just yesterday she was turning 29. Just yesterday that…………
The memories flooded back.
April 25th 2001. It was a beautiful day. There had been a heavy downpour of rain; early showers this year, and now the sun was out. Birds chirping, trees lush and green, dripping pearly rain drops. The smell of earth. Ah, how she loved that smell and always wished that it could be bottled like a perfume.
She stood at her window sipping a mug of steaming coffee; in her other hand a cigarette. She inhaled deeply and grinned. Life was wonderful. She was young, healthy, successful. She looked at the desk behind her, cluttered with papers, books, drafts of ad copy, a large glass vase containing not flowers, but several pencils, erasers, rulers. Amidst all that mess stood a gleaming gilded trophy. She had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
The most sought after award in the Advertising world and it was hers. All hers. The best birthday present a girl could ask for. She grinned again and walked over to the desk. Who would’ve thought that she, the youngest and newest copy writer could produce a prizewinner. A year ago she would never have believed herself capable of success. And so quick. Now, her life had changed overnight.
Last night was a blur. She distinctly remembered cameras flashing in her face as she walked up to receive the award. A short speech ( she couldn’t even recall what she said and hoped that what she did say had made sense.), people congratulating her, a continuous flow of champagne, wild dancing, drunken bliss. Drunken success.
She picked up the trophy and smiled, wincing slightly as her temples throbbed. But even this hangover was worth it. She wasn’t fond of alcohol and as a rule always refused a drink. Last night was different. She was different. And if she had to do it again, she would. Success, victory, ah, sweet victory. She could taste it and it was delicious.
Finally, after all these years she was a winner.
Her childhood was a skeleton in her closet. And there were many ‘bones’ that she had consciously buried in the deepest recesses of her mind. And her heart.
The younger of two sisters, as a child she was shy and reticent. Growing up was a lonely climb.
The Girl leaned back against the rock and allowed herself to drift further into the past. Now was as good a time as any to open Pandora’s Box…and forgive.
She was small, skinny, awkward, and always seemed lost. On the contrary, her sister was vivacious, clever at everything , everybody’s favorite; the acknowledged beauty. Gradually she retreated into a shell and built emotional walls that no one was allowed to penetrate. Those years were fraught with insecurity, low self-esteem and no confidence. She existed. And the only time that she felt liberated and alive, truly alive, was when she discovered a passion for the written word. Journal after journal. Her thoughts, her opinions, her feelings. And then, whilst at college, creative writing competitions that won her recognition and made her aware of her strength; the ability to breathe life into words.
She decided to move into the city and make a life for herself. It was the riskiest decision she had ever made. The comfort of home, no matter how lonely and frustrating it may have been for her, was still familiar territory; a safety net from harsh reality. And reality was harsh, as she soon discovered.
Nothing prepared her for the grimness and brutality of the city. This was the real world where one existed only for one’s self; where one’s best friend was only one’s self. She learnt through bitter experiences that she could trust no one, she could seek comfort from no one. There were times when she wanted to give it all up and run home; beg for forgiveness for ever thinking that she could do it on her own.
The fighter in her refused to accept defeat. She persisted. And in time she realized that it was the best decision she had ever made. Years later, reflecting on the Past, she was grateful for her tenacity. Her big break came two years down the road with one of the country’s biggest Advertising agencies.
The bird screeched again. Louder. Closer. The Girl looked up at the sky. Black clouds were visible in the distance. A storm was brewing. And yet, everything around her was still. Serene. The calm before the storm. She walked towards the cliff’s edge. The waves were still breaking gently over the rocks, oblivious of the impending turbulence. The calm before the storm. Once again she gave herself up to the past.
It had been over a year. She now qualified as a “city girl”. It had been a tough ride landing a job in the Media field, but she didn’t allow herself to be picky; she couldn’t afford to be so. Living in the city came with a price tag, most of it in the form of rent. So she took the first job that hired her as a Receptionist in a small time Publishing House- her core job role, answering the telephone and making endless cups of coffee. Every time she felt her will breaking, she would recall her Grandfather’s wise saying, ‘ Whatever job you may do, give it a hundred percent. Even if it’s only sweeping your backyard, and remember, your job doesn’t define who you are but only what you do.’
And so, whilst she answered those phones and brewed those coffees, she kept her eyes and ears open. She watched and learnt how campaigns were put together, how creative copy was evolved to suit different customers; how one man’s meat could almost always mean another man’s poison. She filed away every bit of knowledge or information gleaned from her days at work, and then, at night, in the little loft she called “home”, she would visualize, write, create. In time she had built up a decent portfolio and broadened her network of creative contacts. It was time to move on, ‘to hunt bigger prey’.
It was his voice that first drew her attention. Deep, resonant, with a subtle hint of mocking humor. She was waiting her turn to be interviewed along with several others. He walked by, deep in discussion with a very attractive female colleague. As he passed her, he caught her eye and turning to the woman beside him, chuckled, “not a bad looking lot of ‘ hopefuls’. Better than last month’s”.
“Shh, you’re incorrigible”, the woman looked back over her shoulder at the mortified Girl, and winked.
Their laughter resounded in her ears. The woman’s, musical, possessive. And his, warm, rich and mocking. “I’ll show them”, she thought, deciding that although he was rakishly appealing, he wasn’t her type at all. ‘I’ll be the best’.
She got the job and she was assigned as an assistant trainee to the Chief Copywriter.
Her first day at work saw her early, eager and armed with determination. He was bent over his desk, his back to her. “I’ll be with you in a sec”. Her heart sank. She knew that voice. That hateful, mocking voice. That voice that for some reason she couldn’t quite get out of her head.
And that’s how it all began.
The first six months saw them on very professional terms with each other. She was diligent, hardworking; the proverbial sponge, soaking up every bit of information that came her way. He was an excellent teacher. Within the first month he discovered her creative flair for words and took a keen interest in teaching her every thing he knew about the Advertising world. The chords of friendship were struck, and over time it evolved into something stronger, something deeper.
“Move in with me”. It wasn’t a question; just a simple, forceful statement. Like everything about him was. They were working late on a campaign which was due the next day. The whole month had been a blur of madness; a race against time, trying to meet the given deadline. They were together twenty four hours a day, working furiously. And now, as they were putting the final touches to their work, he threw that statement at her. “I’ll think about it”, was her reply.
The campaign was a huge success. The next day she moved in with him. Their personal life was bliss. Their professional life was perfection. Two halves of one whole. Together they made an unbeatable team and left a trail of successes in their wake.
A wispy lock of hair escaped from her headscarf and whipped across the Girl’s face. She shivered, her lapse into the Past momentarily broken. A strong wind was stirring up the surrounding foliage into a frenzy, and the waves on the rocks below had become higher. Louder, angrier. Like the voices in her head and heart.
The elusive bird screeched again, urgently, as if sensing the impending storm. The Girl looked down at the swirling, churning ocean, felt herself being drawn into it’s murky depths. A painless sleep forever. Why not? She thought.
“Enjoying the spoils?”, he had hugged her and placed a bottle of expensive champagne on her overflowing desk. And then kissed her passionately, “Happy birthday sweetheart.” He always managed to surprise her. Always did the unexpected. He had left town three weeks ago on urgent business and wasn’t expected back for another week. At first she had protested at his leaving her to handle one of the most important ad campaigns in her life all by herself. It was to be entered into the Advertising Club for the country’s annual award function.
“How will I manage on my own? We’re a team. I need you”, she was desperate. He had held her firmly by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes, “Baby, I trust you completely. Here’s your chance to trust yourself. You can do this, I know you can”. And she could, and she did. The gleaming trophy was testimony to that fact.
“Back so soon? Thought I’d lost you to another Muse”, she teased. “As soon as I heard”, he affirmed, “ and you, my darling, are stuck with this Muse for the rest of your life, so get used to it”. He poured out the champagne and handed her a glass. She winced and rubbed her temples. Immediate concern crossed his face. “Did your medical report come in yet?”.
Just then the telephone had rung. That inanimate object that was to change the course of her life completely. She didn’t tell him what the Doctor had said. She would do the biopsy first. It would be benign, she was absolutely sure of that. Tragedies were for people she didn’t know.
A week later, as they were relaxing after a romantic candle lit dinner at their apartment, she told him. There was a malignant tumor, the size of a marble in her brain and she had to go in for treatment immediately. Surgery was too risky, but the Doctors were positive that as she was young and otherwise healthy, they could beat this with chemotherapy and radiation.
“We’ll fight this together baby”, he promised.
He was her rock throughout her six week ordeal of chemotherapy. He held her head while she frequently spewed the contents of her already empty stomach; he arranged his client meetings around her chemotherapy sessions, so that he’d always be there to comfort her after. And when she sobbed that she wanted to give up, he held her in his arms and rocked her to sleep. And didn’t let her.
The doctors assured them that the Cancer was beaten.
And then five months later, the telephone rang. The Cancer was back and spreading fast. She would have to go through the whole ordeal again and this time, they told her, only a miracle would help.
The wind blew harder and it began to drizzle. The Girl stood there, a pathetic, broken figure, her tears mingling with the raindrops as she relived the pain.
He walked out on her. Just when she needed him the most , he decided that he had had enough. He couldn’t watch her waste away. He loved her too much and couldn’t bear to lose her. That was his excuse. He insisted she stay on at the apartment. And so he packed his bags and moved to another city.
A man in pain is twice as cruel than a man without.
She couldn’t live in the apartment any more. Too many memories of him. Of them. Of happier, healthier times. She bought a beautiful cottage near the ocean, hours away from the city. Secluded, quiet. She hired a nurse to minister her medication and injections. Now all she had to do was ‘wait and see’. She would welcome death rather than go through the treatment again. She had come to dread the word ‘treatment’.
And yet, somehow, battling his loss from her life was tougher than battling her illness.
Where was God when she was hurting? Was there even a God?
The bird screeched again closer behind her. As the Girl turned to look, a pair of wings brushed against her head and she caught a glimpse of a shadowy form flying towards the shelter of an overhanging rock. She stepped closer to the edge and looked down at the foaming, frothing turbulence. Similar to the turbulence within her. Oh, to end it all. It would be so easy; sweet relief. She was tired. Tired of hurting; physically, emotionally, spiritually. There was nothing holding her back. She took a deep breath, slid one foot forward.
Something hard and heavy hit against her leg interrupting her progress. She stooped to pick it up. It was a rubber bone, the kind you throw to a dog. She looked around and saw them.
Man and beast running in unison, almost abreast of each other. The dog reached her first. He was a magnificent brindle Boxer with white socks defining his muscled limbs. He looked up at her, tongue hanging out, and foaming drool flying everywhere, pleading for his prize. She smiled and gave him the bone.
“Here boy, what’s your name huh? Good doggy.”
“Hey, thanks”, the dog’s drenched owner panted his way over to her. “I thought it would go over. For a minute there it looked like you were going over as well”. He frowned at her, then grinned, and patted his dog. “This is Spike and we’ve just moved into the house on the other side of the cliffs”.
Ah yes. She had wondered who’d bought that house. For many days now there had been several moving vans hanging around, and for some reason it annoyed her. She had felt resentful; like some stranger was invading and taking away the only beautiful thing left in her life. She couldn’t catch a glimpse of them, but had heard loud barking and deep male laughter and realized that her days of peaceful solitude were numbered…in more ways than one.
The rain pelted down.
The Girl stood there, torn, making a decision. “Would you and Spike like to dry off in my house until the storm blows over? I live just up the path”. She crouched down and ruffled the dog’s ears. He panted louder and spattered her face with drool.
“Woof!”.
“I think that’s a yes”, she laughed, wiping her face on the back of her sleeve as she stood up. And then to Spike’s owner, “ I’d enjoy the company.”
The man grinned his appreciation for her offer and threw the bone in the opposite direction. Spike took off like a bullet, barking madly. They both laughed and hurried towards the house. She paused and looked over her shoulder at the sea beyond the cliff edge.
Not today.
Conversation, laughter, human contact. She felt like someone awaking from the dead. She had been wrapped up in her own secluded torment for so long, it felt wonderful to break out of it; almost like stretching after hours of cramped sleep.
He told her about his life. He was a Writer. Always knew he wanted to be one, and had followed his dream right from an obscure farm where he had spent his childhood with his parents and siblings; tending horses and pigs by day, and reading Homer and Shakespeare by night. He worked his way through University and against all odds had graduated amongst the top five students in his class. He dabbled in Journalism for a bit; decided he didn’t particularly enjoy almost getting shot down by trigger happy outlaws in Afghanistan and neither did he enjoy reporting “live” at a national football field in one city, whilst actually watching the whole game comfortably from his couch in another city, and making his commentary from there. Hypocrisy and games. He’d had enough of it all and decided to come live by the ocean (which he’d always wanted to do), to work on a book that he had been planning to write for almost three years
He lived alone with his best friend, Spike. And yes, he remembered her from the pictures of her award winning press campaign in the newspapers.
He asked no questions. She volunteered no answers.
They discussed everything else. Life, people, events, the weather. She shared the happier bits of her life. They seemed to have experienced similar struggles in their journey through the literary world, and both had been triumphant in their own right.
“Was it a difficult decision to make? Moving here I mean?” She seemed embarrassed, like she’d given away something, and hastened to add, “It’s so different from the city life that you’re used to. And so quiet. At times you’re lucky if you get to hear the wheels of a car go by.”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled, “But isn’t that why you live here? To escape the bondage of life in the city?”
She blushed and lowered her head, suddenly ashamed of the “escape” she’d been planning earlier. She told him about her life in the Advertising world. The insane rush before and after every potential campaign; the need to do it again. And then again. Like some expensive rare drug.
He understood.
And how finally, she’d decided to buy this place and reprioritize her life. She left out, ‘and death’.
He offered to make her his mother’s ‘famous farm’ pancakes whilst she sat at her kitchen table, listening to his ideas for his book. Spike sat near her feet dozing contently as she gently scratched his ears. He approved of this sudden development and even forgave his interrupted game of ‘Catch’!
They laughed, they talked, they ate. The hours flew by.
She started to live again.
“Well, I must be going”, he sounded regretful. The storm’s blown over and I’m sure you’ve had enough of us”. She smiled and patted Spike. “ Do visit again. I quite enjoyed the company.”
The bird screeched in the distance. “Golden Eagle”, he told her. “There’s a family of them living by those cliffs. Did you know that Eagles mate for life and if one of the partners die, the other doesn’t mate again?”
Finally she knew who was responsible for those haunting screeches. “Not our friend though”, he continued, “I’ve seen him with his mate. They’re nesting.” He left her with that interesting deluge of information, promising to cook pancakes for her again soon.
She stood there for a while, savoring the smell of rain on the sodden earth that wafted in through the windows.
The jangle of the telephone startled her. For a moment she was tempted to ignore it. Why spoil the positive way she was feeling right now?
The telephone jangled again.
The Girl sighed and picked up the receiver. The conversation lasted five minutes. At the end of it she was sobbing. Pent up emotions unleashed. Joy. Freedom. Off course she would have periodic checkups to monitor any developments, but for now, she was free. She pulled off her head-scarf, ran her fingers through her hair. Something fluttered to her feet. She stooped over to pick it up. A tawny feather. A sign? She laughed out loud at her foolish romanticizing .
Still, there was hope.