Two Strangers by a Lake
An estranged daughter gets news about her father's health but it might be too late to reconcile.
She had repeatedly received reminders of her resemblance to her father by multiple persons and at various stages in her life. Even her boyfriend, who had only seen the old man in photos, hidden safely in the back of a cupboard, could not hide his surprise at their likeness.
“It’s a good job you can’t question whether you have your mother’s DNA or not...” he had said whilst marvelling over the photo. He left the room and she threw the photo in the bin, taking care not to crumple the photo so that she might retrieve it later that evening.
Yet sitting in front of her now, the old man could not see himself in her. Their warm conker brown eyes, the small button nose and the same petulant pout all went unrecognised. She had tried, all this time, to forget about the man who had raised her and as cruel as irony could be he had forgotten her. Now the silent minutes ticked on between them, she wondered how much longer she would stay for. She checked her watch.
“Are you waiting for somebody?” He asked.
The question, wrapped in a soft and raspy delivery, caught the woman off guard.
“Oh... er... yes… but, I don’t think he’s coming.”
He clicked his tongue. “Don’t you worry, they’re like buses.”
“So I hear.” She sniffed.
“Oh no we can’t have that.” He reached into his satchel and produced a handkerchief, holding it out to the young woman, he smiled.
“Thanks. Are... are you waiting for somebody?”
“Me? Yes… I think.” he said without certainty, the words twisting into himself, then outwards, “Perhaps not, I forget. The joys of getting old.”
“I see.” The young woman shuffled on her bum, keeping her gaze fixed on the wide stretch of rippling water before them.
He wasn’t exactly old, at least, sixty-five did not seem that old in her mind, not for Alzheimers anyway. His skin hadn’t become papery in the way that it does when age settles in. His frame was as large, solid like a large oak. Shrinking was a common thing amongst the elderly wasn’t it? She thought.
“Early onset.” She reminded herself, just as the woman with the silvery voice on the phone had. It was not that she had misheard the explanation, rather, a wall went up and her mind fizzed with unrelenting provocation. She asked how could this have happened on repeat. Surely there was still time. Time to be resolutely angry with him and as the years went on, as her own potential family grew, there would be time for the resentment to wane. For her to reach out and silently forgive him.
“You’re not from around here are you?” There was a hint of confidence in his voice this time. The young woman wondered if this was his constant state now, always second-guessing himself and the things he knows to be true. Could she be from around here? Should he know her?
She could be tempted to share the truth but playing the part of the lonely stranger on a bench was easier for him and her.
“I was.’ She replied. “I moved away some time ago.”
“Ah, I don’t blame you, not much round here for a young person such as yourself.”
The young woman laughed. Arguments from their past crashed around the walls of her memory. Colossal fallouts concerning her wanting to leave the Lilliputian village that held nothing for her that would be followed by years of silence.
“Is something funny?” The man’s brows knocked together.
“No, sorry, I just... it’s nothing.” She pressed her lips together and cleared her throat. Her eyes dropped down into her lap. “It’s nice out here.” She said, her voice barely audible.
Matching her volume, he replied, “Yes. It is. My wife and I used to come here every Sunday, feed the ducks, have a picnic. In those days we could feed the ducks the leftovers of our sandwich crusts.” Because neither of you like them, the young woman filled in. “It’s all changed now.” He spoke in a distant voice. It seemed to the young woman that there was a dissonance between his memory and what exactly it was that had changed, and not a longing for what was. This made her stomach lace up and slowly tightening while she considered what else he may have forgotten. Their weekly trips to that same bench by the river had consisted of three visitors. Him, his wife and their daughter.
One evening the woman spent four hours reading all she could find on Alzheimer’s on the internet. The blue glow of her laptop lit up the wall behind her like a halo. By twelve am her eyes had become two clay beads inside wooden holes rolling up and down as she read the rows and rows of sentences describing familial experiences, words marched up the screen like ants as she scrolled the hours away. Patients of the disease were likely to forget about family members, she recalled reading yet it hadn’t occurred to her that she would in her entirety. Perhaps an earlier and more affable version of herself would have clung to the walls of his memory. Could she, herself, even remember a time when she was more agreeable, less caustic where her father was concerned. Her mother had been alive then surely, some twenty years ago. Skin spotty, uniform clad, braces and a regrettable fringe. Her entire future stretched out before her, a long winding road. This version had already become steadfast in her decision, had steeled herself for leaving her parents. Her father had already began his campaign in persuading her to stay close to home. As much as her mother had tried to stay neutral, her death only served to bolster the other’s resolve.
During this reflection she surmised that perhaps this banishment was deserved. After all, she had abdicated as his daughter so long ago and there were no other siblings to take the seat and forge healthier, less volatile relations. As for a reconciliation, she now understood she was too late.
How does this end? Today, she knew she couldn’t bear to be the first to leave. Firmly rooted to the bench, perhaps she preferred that he be the one to walk away this time? And what about afterwards? The beyond that was the remainder of his life? Could she re-enter as a new character? Or was that too manipulative? Perhaps, it was better to remain a shadow on his memory?
Many years ago, the front door of her childhood home slammed behind her. The sound ricocheted off the walls and doors of the houses lining their wide and swallowing village street. She flinched. She hadn’t meant to be so forceful but it was too late to open the door again and say, “I’m sorry.” He had already resigned, his pride unable to falter. She stood looking through the frosted glass of their front door watching his silhouette shrink as he receded further and further into the house until the only thing left for her to do was leave. Behind her, the engine was warm and waiting. He would send the rest of her things on at later date.
“Oh well,” he clicked his tongue. “No regrets. Can’t have any regrets.”
The woman wondered what would happen if she confronted him with the truth of her identity. Would it make a difference? And what if didn’t surely that would only serve to wound him and what would be gained from that? In her youth there had been a time when she took verbally injuring her father as serious business by dealing blows of deprecation until he grew so weary that he would open the door and let her be.
He might not recognise himself in her face and surely that had to be ok. When she first arrived in Birmingham, folk would ask about her parents and she would explain that her mother had died and her relationship with her father was complicated. But as the years wore on, the communication between the two of them remained stagnant and the young woman grew into the features that had never felt like her own, she would simply say “both of my parents are gone”. This way the facial responses of those asking the questions would stay put at unwavering pity. Before that, someone once asked how she could bear losing connection with her only living parent. The young woman, not having an answer, shrugged and joined an adjacent conversation about the correct way to cook rice to which she added that the rice should always be washed and rinsed first.
The woman with the silvery voice appeared at her father’s side. The carer. She almost as young as herself with almond shaped eyes and carried the scent of true musky vanilla with her. Thin lipped, the carer smiled and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder.
He leaned in slightly and said, “Time’s up.”
The young woman looked at the damp dirt beneath her feet. Something sickening swilled around the pit of her stomach.
“Don’t wait too long.” Her father said as he rose, towering over her with a halo of light singeing the edges of his frame.
“I won’t.” She promised.
He smiled and turned away from the young woman to link arms with the carer, together they trundled up the path. The kind of path that is made overtime from numerous and repetitive tread, the ground worn so down and exposed that the smell of dirt is permanent. He seemed smaller now. Shoulders rounded. A hesitance in his step. As though most of his self-assurance had been shed, the rest of it had been taken a long time ago when she left for the first and last time, an early inheritance. She leaned back and looked towards the swathe of grey up above. She didn’t watch him disappear.
Pain pinched at the corners of her eyes as she breathed in.
The air tasted of algae and the sort of musk that follows a heatwave, there was no doubt that there would be a rainstorm later on. A duck skittered along the lake, its wings fanning the water’s grey surface before continuing to swim. The water stilled and the duck disappeared into the rush.