Chapter 18 Stefan
EIGHTEEN
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
A subtle glance at my watch doesn’t go unnoticed by the man who keeps time for a living. I catch his soft arched brow, a silent question. “Do you suppose she’s all right?” I ask Rosalie’s father. She’s been in the washroom for almost ten minutes with the water running the entire time.
We’ve been sitting around a small makeshift coffee table while Rosalie’s father pokes and prods at the boiled potato and bits of sausage I cooked up for him.
Rather than eating, he’s been quietly chattering about the relativity of life to clock gears and pendulums. His words keep slackening and the volume of his voice is erratic.
Between words, he rubs his shoulder and cringes, but only when he thinks I’m not looking.
Rosalie was staring at him, hard, but I figured with interest in the subject of clocks.
Then something in her expression changed.
She became overly focused and too motionless just before abruptly shoving away from the table to run for what seemed like cover.
A feeling of uneasiness came over me when she left.
Mister Kaufman continued to talk, but his words continued to deviate and shift, slurring at times as if he had too much food in his mouth.
I found myself leaning toward him, ready to reach out and ask if he’s all right or should take a minute to rest.
“No,” Mister Kaufman says, shaking his head. “She’s not all right, but that’s temporary. In time, she will be. She will be.” A sheen of sweat glistens across his forehead. I should tell him I see he’s not all right—ask him what’s wrong…but his tone remains steady now. Am I imagining it?
He rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck to the side, but the movement looks to cause more pain than relief. No, it’s not my imagination.
“Did something happen? I must have missed something…” I’ve been here on the top floor of the clock tower for the past hour with her. I’m not sure how I could have missed anything. “Perhaps I embarrassed her.” I don’t think this has anything to do with me, though.
Mister Kaufman reaches over from his chair, an unsteady hand tapping my knee. “It isn’t you who’s upsetting her.” He knows too. “It’s me.”
“I—I don’t understand. Are you all right? Can I do something—” I ask, peering over my shoulder toward the narrow washroom door in the corner. The faucet water cuts off, leaving the room in dense silence.
“My girl—well, she can put on a good act, but only for so long.” He takes a struggling deep breath and drops his head.
One hand moves from his shoulder to his chest. “She might seem like the strongest woman you’ve ever met, but it’s a veil—hiding her feelings is the only way she knows how to protect herself. ”
I run my hand across the back of my hot neck, the heat transferring down my arm. “Protect herself…From what?” Rosalie’s father isn’t making any sense.
The next breath he takes comes out scant, like the air has been sucked out of his lungs.
He clears his throat and squeezes his hand around his left shoulder again.
His eyes wince then bulge. I stand up from my seat with an unnerving sensation running through my veins.
The color drains from his face, his fingers spasm then coil inward.
Something is wrong. Rosalie knows this. She sees shifts in patterns before most people. That’s her gift. Or curse, maybe.
The washroom door creaks open and Rosalie’s heels clatter against the stone floor.
“Papa,” she utters. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her words aren’t scolding, but they’re full of heartache.
“Rosy,” he mutters, dropping his face into his hands.
She runs to his side and takes his hand away from his face. “How long has your pulse been racing? How long have you been in pain? Tired, weak, and not eating?”
He ate last weekend while we were here. He seemed all right then.
“I—I don’t—know,” he says, seemingly more perplexed than us.
She takes her father’s face within her hands but as she does, his body leans forward, the weight of his face and head becoming too much for her to hold. “Papa!”
I drop to my knees to help them and ease Mr. Kaufman off the side of his seat and onto the ground.
“What is it?” I ask, my words feeling jumbled on my tongue. How could she even know what’s wrong? Why am I asking her at a moment like this?
“It’s his heart,” Rosalie whimpers, folding over him as his head slips into her lap.
“What can I get? Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, holding my hand over my mouth.
“A cold compress,” Rosalie says, almost as if without thinking.
“Of course,” I say, pressing up to my feet and hurrying to the kitchenette. He’s very pale, almost gray, and I hear quick, short breaths catching in his throat. It’s as if his heart is trying to outrun him and he can’t catch it.
Watching as Rosalie fights for him, I realize this must be what I look like when I’m unconscious. I’m not sure I ever understood how much pain I must be causing. No one ever knows when it’s coming.
I keep my eyes on them while rinsing a rag beneath the faucet, watching as Rosalie takes her father’s hand into hers once more, but this time, presses her fingers to his wrist. Her gaze lifts toward the shadowed face of the town-square’s clock, as if listening for its rhythm to match his pulse. Tick…tick…tick.
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…twelve—” Rosalie’s voice cracks as she struggles to speak each number in quick succession rather than in sync with the measured seconds.
I nearly stumble upon returning with a damp compress, but steady myself while draping it over her father’s crimson forehead.
“Papa, it’s all right. Try to stay calm,” Rosalie coos, calmly, even though he’s not moving. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not leaving you. You’ll be all right. You will.” Her chin quivers, and the sight of her pain breaks my heart into a million small pieces.
I’ve never felt so helpless being on this side. The side that can only sit and watch.
She continues talking to him as if he’s awake, still in her smooth calm voice, despite the distraught look on her face.
“You told me life isn’t measured in time.
It shouldn’t be something we run out of—but rather, something we eventually no longer need.
Is that—that what this is?” Her voice breaks into a breath of silence and she swallows hard.
“You’ve raised me. You’ve done more than I could ever ask.
You’ve given me everything, Papa…But there’s nothing wrong with more time.
There isn’t. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
Everything.
This is her everything.
A small space behind a town clock.
A place to sleep. Food.
And love.
Our lives couldn’t look any different from that perspective, but I see now…
Anything beyond everything is just extra.
“What’s happening,” I whisper as I sit down beside her. “Is there nothing—”
She shakes her head. “It must be his heart—it’s giving out, but I don’t know why,” she replies, her voice barely a whisper now.
“I’m brave now, Papa. Don’t go. Please. I’m—I’m not ready.
I still need you.” Her breath shudders and I consider her words being the last thing he hears when the choice isn’t ours when we come and go from life.
“That’s selfish of me—I’m sorry. I just—please—”
“I’ll make sure she always has everything she needs,” I say, the words burning as they hit my tongue. I’m letting him go while she’s begging him to stay. I want him to know she’ll be all right. “I promise. Whatever she might need in life, I will give her that.”
Rosalie gasps before her shoulders collapse. Tears skate down her pale cheeks.
“Papa,” she says, her voice squeaking. “Will you tell Mama I’m sorry—I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry I didn’t save her. And I miss her with every breath I take.
Tell her that I think about her and my baby sister, all the moments we could have shared, and even the ones that only live in my mind.
I’ll continue to do good, to help those who need help, and I’ll listen for the signs, the patterns, the silent signals that matter most. And for you, I’ll keep track of time.
I’ll make each second count. I won’t let time run out for those who still need more. ”
She knows it’s the end. And she’s being forced to sit here and watch. She’s already witnessed her mother die. This isn’t fair.
I wrap my arm around Rosalie and press her head gently to my shoulder. “I’m here,” I whisper to her. “I will always be here.”
Her tears soak through my shirt, the warmth causing me a chill.
“His pulse is too fast. So fast I can hardly feel anything. His heart will just—will just—Papa…”