A Compendium For The Broken Hearted, Page 3

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  Warren Schmidt had always been different. Perhaps it had to do with his sickly pale appearance or black hair and eyes. Maybe it was because he was moody or distrustful by nature. It might be because he rarely smiled and when he did it looked a little unpleasant. People were careful around him, seemed to think that he was a little dark, perhaps even deceitful. Nobody could quite put their finger on what they found so off-putting about him. People generally agreed, however, that Warren Schmidt was still a good enough boy. He was polite, helpful, and reliable when he needed to be. Above all his actions were always kind, when push comes to shove, like a hidden nugget of gold at a river’s bottom.

  He was just different.

  Story 5:

  Rebecca’s sister drove, trying to ignore the sobs as much as she could.

  It was not an easy feat to accomplish. Sobs were often the more heartwrenching way to cry when compared to open wails, sniffles, streaming tears of anger, and so on. There was just something about the pain in your chest when trying to stifle a sob. People moved in these situations and tried to calm you down. Beth, however, knew her sister and the situation far better than that. Rebecca could practically hear the gears grinding in Beth’s mind. Be understanding, she knew they said. You have no idea what she’s going through.

  Despite knowing her sister felt bad about being unable to provide assistance, Rebecca’s anguish was not to be quelled. She was known to put others before herself usually, but today such a thing was unthinkable.

  Rebecca’s mind was blank behind her soft, age kissed features. Years of smiling patiently had sculpted her face, etched laughing lines here and there before fleeting by. Her blonde hair was tied into a neat ponytail, and she had no idea whether she herself had tied it or not. She spared no thought for her appearance, but had she dared check she would have discovered that nails, face, and clothes all carried an air of practiced competence. All were clean and simple, despite her outfit being a little too darkly coloured for her usual tastes. She had always been the image of simplicity: what she considered an outfit was something you’d see on a lady working on her herb garden behind the house.

  Still Rebecca West wept as if it was a thing to do. She started to feel aches in her throat and in a soft spot nestled just behind her heart. She looked out the passenger seat window and watched her town’s familiar streets weave in and out of focus as she cried. Her mind remained blank as if she was in a dream. She barely registered everything that was happening around her. In a way, people making their way to work or the supermarket for a day’s shopping didn’t exist. A fever dream, a voice popped into her mind’s silence, that’s what those are called. Backpacks bouncing on children’s backs in front of a school building made it seem as if there wasn’t anything wrong with the world.

  Soon the scenes changed; became more sporadic as the car headed to the outskirts of town. Here and there were shops, but as she lived in the middle of town, things felt empty to the older of the two sisters. Streaming sunrays betrayed midmorning’s approach, but there really wasn’t much more to go until they reached their destination. Rebecca had been here a few times before, but the ride had never impacted her this much. She found herself thinking of excuses to stop Beth, make her pull over for a while. Sooner rather than later Rebecca’s view gave way to a large park, populated majorly by four things planted into it: short grass, beech trees, stones with named etched on them and lastly, people.

  “Here we are,” announced Beth warily, sneaking a peek at her older sister. Rebecca’s sobs were still going strong, but she didn’t have many tears left in her. With a few deep steadying breaths, she nodded. Still it felt like it was all a dream, but Beth apparently took her to be lucid enough.

  Beth parked her car noisy, coughing car. She got out and helped Rebecca out, steering her towards a crowd of people and something raised upon a dais. It looked a little bit like a cot, judging from its size. Despite knowing what was awaiting her, Rebecca still found herself wishing that object to be a cot, or perhaps not finding anyone she knew among that solemn crowd.

  Maybe it’ll be her funeral and she’ll look down to find herself a ghost, she thought hopefully.

  There, in the middle of the crowd, stood Peter with his own brother. She went up to him in a rush, embracing him, letting the tears flow away. With her head buried in his shoulders, Rebecca’s eyes pointed not towards the hole, but in the opposite direction. This way she could pretend she was still having a dream brought by fever. In that world, there was just her and Peter and everything was alright. She was crying purely due to something else; it hadn’t happened and never will. Then she noticed shaking and realized she wasn’t the only one crying. “There, there, sweetheart,” Peter breathed into her neck, voice choked up but holding the faintest glimmer of a smile within it. It wasn’t his usual open musical laugh, but rather a shadow, a promise of hope coming another day.

  There was one more powerful form of sadness, it is said, than could be held in sobs. It was the silent tears of one holding himself together for the sake of another. In this form of kindness, one can crystallize the concept of love. This was what Rebecca received from Peter. Instead of weeping harder or wailing, she felt the rain in her eyes warm up. She said, “Yes, baby, he’s gone to a better place.”

  At that moment, Rebecca had no idea whether she believed her own words. She fancied herself a naturalist, but who could say that becoming a tree was better for David than living the rest of his life with his parents, growing and going to university, marrying? Just a few days before, she’d told Peter of a dream where David’s kids came by to visit. And now there wasn’t opportunity to make that dream come true. Instead, her child was stuck in nature.

  Still, Rebecca said the words to ease her husband’s heart, stood beside him, and held his hands as their five year old was buried. Words were said, people cried, and little David’s coffin was lowered beneath the ground. Then they went home.

  Later, people came to her and said kind things. She accepted their condolences gracefully, feeling glad that she and Peter had such people around them. The two were kept apart mostly, as Rebecca had to stay with her own parents and offer them strength. Jane and Frank had loved the child dearly, and had spoiled him. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Frank said one more time. He looked it, and the hint carried through. They sat in the living room. Peter was nowhere to be found.

  Apparently, Frank hadn’t been clear enough for his wife. “Five years without a word.” Jane’s voice was low yet furious, causing her daughter to wince. Rebecca sighed, knowing deep in her heart that she couldn’t argue with her mother now. Going head to head was going to tear them away from each other.

  “I’m sorry, mom. We just didn’t want to ruin his chances at a normal life.”

  When both husband and wife had said goodbye to every relative and family friend who had come by, they finally had a chance to work things out emotionally, in private. Naturally, there was a lot of crying involved, for the house was too quiet. Peter was a good cook in his own right, so he whipped them up a pasta alfredo and biscuits on the side. “A hearty meal can do wonders,” he’d exclaimed, albeit with less enthusiasm than usual. To keep herself busy (despite her husband’s orders for her to rest) Rebecca went out back to pick a few fresh herbs to brew into a good soothing tea. She was going to get them a few hours of peaceful sleep if it was the last thing she did.

  It took weeks for things to return slowly to a semblance of normalcy. Making breakfast for two instead of three that first day was a challenge. Usually, her cooking involved a great deal of flourish. She would cook with the best interests of her family in her heart, and so her movements would take on a certain degree of finesse. Peter often called it a form of art. Now, however, she felt trapped in her own body, lethargic and wounded. For all intents and purposes, she walked with a wide gaping gash in her body. She even forgot to add lavender to her gruel. Still, Peter ate quietly, absentmindedly. She ate standing on the other side of the wooden ki
tchen counter, still in a pink and white apron. Hardly a word was said between the two of them, for each was lost in his own thoughts. Both knew what the other was thinking, but neither wanted to burst open the doors to that flood gate just yet.

  When he was done with his breakfast, Peter finished up straightening his tie carefully and meticulously. Far more carefully than he usually did, it was as if he had a personal vendetta against an elusive perfect form. He squeezed her hand tightly when he was done, whispering a quiet “I love you” before leaving out the front door. His tie was still askew.

  Rebecca usually worked from home, helping keep a friend’s online business intact by managing orders for her small flower shop. She had been given a long vacation, but the lonely mother couldn’t bear to stay here. It would be too difficult to resist the urge to go there. Even then, the pain in her body wouldn’t give way, no matter what she watched on TV. It felt like the box was taunting her with children’s shows.

  Her father had once told her that children were created out the flesh from a parent’s heart, and now she felt the truth of those words. Due to this, a call from Lidia came as more than welcome, and she answered enthusiastically. “Hello, sweety...” came her friend’s hesitant husky voice. Rebecca had always found it strange that Lidia’s voice didn’t match her girly look at all. Even now, her friend looked not a day beyond twenty two.

  “Hey,” she replied, then decided not to waste any time. “Please say some work came up and that you need me.”

  “I, um... but sweety, don’t you need some time alo-“

  “Lidia, honey, I know you only want the best for me. Peter got called to work, I’m all alone here and it’s driving me insane. I love you, but just listen to me. Please say some work came up and that you need me.”

  A moment of silence passed, then two. Lidia was a shrewd woman, and was probably now considering whether her friend was stable enough to come to work or not. Eventually she sighed. “Some work came up and we need you at the shop.” Rebecca smiled inwardly, although she wasn’t able to bring her expression of mirth out into the world just yet.

  “Thank you,” she exclaimed, then hung up before her freckled schoolgirl lookalike of a boss could say another word. She almost skipped her way up the living room, thumping on the beige carpet loudly. She would have gone up the stairs three at the time, but getting old was no fickle matter. She went through the hallway, trotting. Rebecca passed right next to a door on the right, and stuttered to a stop.

  His door was white, with a pinned up whiteboard bearing a drawing of the three of them standing together in a field. For his age, his drawing skills had been impressive. In capital, skewed letters, the word “David” had been painted onto the white door. The paint had gotten both of them furious, yet their child had been proud of his handiwork and it had been allowed to stay. Even now she could see his proud red splattered face with its trademark grin, so reminiscent of his father’s. That door loomed larger and larger right before her eyes until it grew to gigantic proportions. It felt like Rebecca was a quarter of its height; the knob teased her from high above her head. “Come in,” it said, “Maybe he’ll be here. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe he needs you, hm?” It was all too much for her to take, and suddenly her hand was on that doorknob, preparing to pull. She could see her hand visibly shaking.

  Rebecca pulled with all her might, but no strength would go to her hand. She couldn’t do it. She was about to collapse and cry herself to sleep right against that door, but the thought of Lidia waiting for her spurred the mother to action, and she managed to extract herself away. She dressed and got ready, steadied herself with a few deep breaths in front of the car’s driver seat mirror, then drove to Lidia’s flower shop.

  There was something soothing about a flower shop. Rebecca had no idea if it was the scents, simple decor of such shops, or sights of flowers of all shapes and colours. Something about a flower shop gave you a sense of being close to nature’s most beautiful aspect. Personally, she enjoyed the more earthy solid truth of a garden, but nothing could beat the smell of a flower, objectively speaking.

  On this day even this place could do little to replace her perpetual sadness with peace. It was strange to be a sad person: it hung in the back of your head like a single tone. She went to the girls, and after greetings they just dove right into work, chatting a little. After a few hours of working to get a large order of bouquets ready in time, the conversation began in earnest. A talkative intern called Dianna listed off news about some actor or the other that she found to be particularly attractive. In response to this, the other younger workers steered their talk to revolve around boys. Rebecca and Lidia kept quiet, except to urge their helpers to talk less and work more or to offer concrete advice about relationships.

  Rebecca had little interest in actors and singers or other men. Peter was kind and spontaneous and quick to laugh, he had brown hair and eyes that fit together perfectly, and his chiselled jaw and muscular frame were slowly but surely giving way to a small belly most associated with kind uncles. Still, he hadn’t let himself go and neither had she. Age changed the way they looked without taking from their attractiveness. In time, that same chiselled look her husband had had would get passed on to- Rebecca shook her head to banish the thought, excused herself to the restroom.

  She had forgotten for an instant. That realization came with crippling guilt, yet she had felt so happy while it lasted.

  When she came back, everyone was talking about cooking techniques. “Ah, there she is,” Lidia remarked, eyeing her over before apparently concluding that nothing was wrong, “This lady here has all you need to know about cooking stuck in her head...” The rest of the day was spent with her teaching a gaggle of modern women how to turn food into a masterpiece. Soon enough, her day’s work was done and she had to be shooed away.

  A meal sat ready on the counter when she arrived, despite it still being five in the evening. She caught a whiff of pistou soup. Well made, too.

  Her husband was nowhere to be seen. Their house was not naturally well lit, and so at times Rebecca felt it got darker in this place earlier than usual. Now, in particular, there was an eerie sense of foreboding. It was the feeling that you get when you wake up late at night, perhaps even in that fabled minute after midnight.

  Rebecca could see over the counter to where had had left a cutting board with a knife on it, as well as a heap of vegetable shavings.

  “Peter?” she called out, but there was no reply. He wasn’t in the living room either. slowly, Rebecca made her way up the stairs, keeping her eyes glued on their top. Darkness shrouded the corridor as well. There was only one window at the far end of the corridor, and apparently he’d turned the blinds there.

  Rebecca turned on lights as she went. Reaching the end, she squinted ahead. She could hear him breathing. She breathed a sigh of relief. We’ve been watching too many crime movies, the blonde reflected. With a smile, she almost called out to her husband, her hand on the last light switch. Then she froze. He was standing exactly where she had earlier today.

  She flicked the switch. Light flooded their corridor, and he turned. “Peter?” she asked, more subdued. His face reflected open anguish, silent and deep. She went to stand behind her husband, her hand on his shoulder, and they watched that massive door together. After a few seconds of silence, the pair nodded to one another other. They knew what they had to do. Peter squeezed her hand for reassurance, and pushed the door open.

  David’s room was bright, brighter than most of the house. It had originally had one window, but another had been added in a desperate attempt to add brightness to his life. They had thought perhaps sunlight would do him good.

  There was a sense of peace in the room. A quiet beyond reckoning. In a way, it was as if their little boy lay asleep here on his unmade race car bed. His toys lay neatly in one corner of the room, in a blue chest. Video games lined a small shelf. If you kept quiet, you could almost hear him laugh. Each of David’s parents stepped to a different co
rner of his room. Peter went to the toys, pulling out a few of them and smiling. Rebecca made his bed absentmindedly, wishing he were here to do it himself. When they were able to pull out from within themselves, Peter and Rebecca drifted towards each other in the middle of the room like dancers.

  The pain was senseless, devoid of any handhold they could use to crawl their way out of, and worked like crashing waves upon their souls. It was only then that Rebecca wailed. “It shouldn’t happen,” she complained to the world through her sobs. “A little boy should never die before his parents! It’s wrong!”

  Peter could do nothing to comfort her, and she knew he wholeheartedly agreed.

  Story 6

  Summer is received differently, depending on who you are.

  If you like to snuggle in bed alone, covered in multiple blankets in your own little world whilst flicking through channels aimlessly, then it might not be your thing. What some people call “good weather” is in fact sweltering hot for most of us, and tends to cause embarrassing situations after a few hours outside. However, there are also those who don’t mind switching colours to stay in season, swimming their way through the days and passing evenings in the company of chilled glasses filled with more ice than drink. These particular people like summer quite well. Lastly, there exists a third type of individual that has no real preference between frost and flame. For these people things may depend on their outlook on life, situation on that particular day or week, or even a simple mood swing.

  Peter thought of none of these things as he hummed his way through a large circular park halfway through the afternoon. His mind was blank, in fact. He walked slowly and leisurely to such a degree that people around him, whether child or adult, kept their eyes on his portly figure for a second more than was strictly necessary. When people usually walked, they kept a studying gaze fixed around them, attention focused generally below eye level. This was to make sure that there were no obstacles in their path seeking to stub wayward toes, and was a habit that most all humans developed sooner rather than later after a few painful toe experiences. This was a habit Peter mostly ignored, for he quite liked the sky. If one were to ask, he would likely say that refreshing his eyes with a long stretch of blue was well worth tripping once or twice. Luckily no one had never asked, and so Mr Bellamy was spared the strange looks he was sure to have gotten otherwise.

  Now, when you or I are told of someone with a blank mind such as Peter, we generally conjure a particular picture to mind: Eyes glazed over, hair mostly gone or attached to the scalp in tufts, a silly walk for good measure. Sometimes we even imagine such people to have gaps in-between teeth, or an unorthodox laugh. Mostly these people were scatter-brained for good measure, and answer most inquiries with “huh?” Such people may happen to have blank minds, but Mr Belllamy was of a different breed.

  Peter was a successful man, tall if not thin, with a healthy shock of blonde hair, and he walked with a spring in his step, as long as he wasn’t going up anything particularly steep. His big brown eyes burned with fierce intelligence, and he lead many of the people dedicated to keeping the country’s financial security. His best friend was a dentist and made sure his teeth were healthy. However, Mr Bellamy was scatter-brained, and with little excuse.

  Children played around the grassy park, kept in check by watchful parents. As Peter made his way towards his favourite hill, a stray ball rolled slowly from the right, kicked by what had to be the child with the cutest cheeks he had ever seen. She had her light brown hair made up into twin horns, each jutting out at skewed angles undoubtedly perfect when she was taken from her home earlier. Bright green eyes looked up at him, torn between fear of this new stranger and the will to have her ball back. The girl’s lips pursed in sudden determination. Still, she took not one step further towards Peter, despite his smile. He was fixed on her now, forgetting his surroundings momentarily. He looked around and saw that there were no parents about who looked like hers. She apparently realized the same thing, and took one hesitant step backwards, forcing one of her white shoes to squeak. Still, the child seemed curious than anything else, and she eyed Mr Bellamy earnestly.

  The girl wore blue jean overalls tucked over a pink shirt and bright blue and white shoes, just large enough that he could hold them between his thumb and forefinger. Peter looked down slowly and deliberately at his feet, where his black business shoes touched the blow up beach ball. A breeze blew, rustling grass all about and pushing the ball slightly away from him. His mouth popped open in shock as he bent over to pick up the ball, then straightened. The man’s expression remained amazed as he looked from the ball to the young girl twice, for all intents and purposes not believing his eyes. The little girl put up her left hand to her mouth, giggling shyly. Peter wondered where she’d learned to do that. When the little girl gave him an expectant look, peter tossed the ball gently in her direction, where it bounced once and rolled a bit. Being a child, she didn’t have the hand eye coordination to pick up her prize, and so had to follow it for a few seconds. The thirty nine year old had to hold in his exclamation of “awwww!” at the spectacle. He loved how children walked when excited, almost bobbing about out of rhythm. After she took the ball, she turned her head with its little hair horns towards him in a smile, but he already had his hand outstretched. After rolling the ball towards each other for a few seconds, Peter crouched down and she shook his hand shyly. Mr Bellamy smiled in triumph.