Chapter 62
Ella
Thursday
Philia and Cara hug me good morning when I meet them outside the Research Institute in Verryn.
I feel happy when I go to work, and I always plan something with my girls every week.
We’ve been Skyping constantly.
When I moved out of Bill’s apartment, they both offered to take me in.
Cara said she would ask her boyfriend right away if he was okay with me crashing on their couch for a few weeks.
Philia affirmed that I could sleep in her king-size bed with her, that her two roommates wouldn’t mind adding a fourth girl to their house squad.
I thanked them deeply, but decided that the commute was worth it, that my house in Evermere was where I needed to be.
More than three months have passed since the three of us had that conversation. I feel emotional, enthusiastic about life.
My girlfriends did like Bill. But they weren’t exactly shocked when I told them we were walking away from each other. I believe they’d seen the scene unfolding, but they didn’t push me in either direction. I didn’t ask them to. So they let me feel my emotions and make my own decisions.
Back in college, they fully supported all my dates, some they influenced, and many they even orchestrated (playing cupid right in front of me after holding their secret cupid meetings behind my back). They used to say I was the most complicated client in their true love business.
One time, we talked about being “ready to love”.
Thinking about it now, I wonder if we only really love when we’re ready for it.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Miles,” I confess to them, while we walk up the stairs at the Research Institute, and they don’t seem surprised. Not even close. I’ve been meaning to share it with them for a few days now, but I haven’t managed to. “Just… lately,” I add.
Cara offers me her understanding smile, the one she gives right before starting one of her long, wise speeches.
“I haven’t said anything because you’ve been focusing on yourself,” she says.
“And that’s great. We all need those moments in life.
I wanted to let you have the time and space for it.
Your whole self has been shining brighter,” she says, and Philia smiles next to her, nodding in agreement.
“But I’ve never seen your eyes beam so widely, or your smile carry such tenderness as when you told us, back in April, in our Skype call, that you’d just found Miles’s harmonica.
You never looked like that talking about any other guy. ”
“We’ve known every love interest you’ve had in the last ten years, and you never talked about any of them like that,” Philia says.
“There’s something about Miles that stayed imprinted on you.
A connection you never built with anyone else.
Not even with Bill, even if you had thought about giving him the chance to be that for you. ”
There’s something about Miles. There always has been something about Miles.
I leave the Research Institute and walk to the Elmwood Center.
Today, I’ll visit each of the patients I’ve been following.
I won’t sit at a desk, I won’t read papers, or study results.
I’ll check on them, spend time with them, and listen to them.
Studies do say that connection is so important in nurturing a patient’s emotional health and sense of identity.
And sometimes, “time is the most precious thing you can offer someone.”
During lunch, I sit next to Miss Vó. She tells me about her granddaughter, who came to visit her yesterday.
She’s beaming as she talks about her granddaughter’s ladybug role in the school play she attended last week.
Her family is always coming to visit her and driving her to places and events.
It warms my heart. Miss Vó was the one who decided she wanted to move to the Elmwood Center.
It’s clear she’s found a sense of security here.
She wanted a place where she could have a little extra support while maintaining her independence.
Miss Vó is in her 80s and has Mild Cognitive Impairment, a condition that causes noticeable changes in memory and cognitive abilities, but it isn’t severe enough to disrupt her daily life in the same way that dementia would.
She occasionally forgets small details: names, places, or parts of a conversation, but still enjoys all the social activities at the Center and always looks forward to our memory games marathons.
After announcing that the next game will be next Wednesday, I get up and say a temporary goodbye to Miss Vó and the other patients who joined us in the cafeteria.
I peek into the Center’s reading room and wave at Miss Oma, who’s quietly and comfortably absorbed in her book of the month. She doesn’t like anyone disrupting her peace during a chapter, so I continue my way down the hall.
I knock on Mr. Marlin’s room door. He usually doesn’t close it, he leaves it slightly open, never locked. And today is no different. The minute he sees me, a smile spreads across his face.
“There’s the country girl I’ve been waiting on to pay me a visit.” He turns his wheelchair, his back lit by the sunlight pouring through the window.
“Hello, Mr. Marlin,” I grin back at him. “Can I invite you to come for a stroll with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” Even when the rest of his body feels tired, his humor never fades.
I watch him take a look outside the window, and then roll his wheelchair to the door by himself. In our conversations, he always asks me questions about my life. His favorite part is when I tell him about Evermere. Evermere’s stories, the people, the nature… I describe it all for him.
His friend, Mr. Doryan, always said that the traffic and the noise were what gave him life. But so often, I find Mr. Marlin staring at the singing birds outside, at the quiet, wild parts of the city. I wonder if he would be happier somewhere else.
“Let’s start by greeting the workers at the cafeteria,” he says, tilting his head.
A man of the people. He and Miss Amara would have gotten along well.
I smile at the thought, and start to follow him.
We move through the hallways together, me walking behind as I guide his wheelchair, giving him a chance to rest, since he’s always the one pushing himself until fatigue sets in.
We stop by the arts hence the use of we in his answer.
“Where do you imagine yourself when someone tells you to picture your happy place?” he asks me.
“At the beach, in my hometown, lying in the warm sand.”
His lips curve into a genuine smile.
“And you?” I ask. But he doesn’t answer. His smile doesn’t fade either. His eyes remain calm and warm, but reflective.
Two birds fly between the leaves of the maple tree in our field of vision. Never drifting apart. Where one goes, the other follows.
“Do you believe in soulmates, Ella?” He raises the question and keeps observing the two birds.
I’m not sure where my opinion stands on that. I never told Mr. Marlin about Miles. But I told him about ending my engagement, when I explained that I was moving out of Verryn, three months ago. He’s a curious inquirer and a very good listener.
“I don’t know. Maybe,” I say. “Maybe some people have such a connection that their souls are perfect mates. Do you believe in soulmates, Mr. Marlin?” I look at him playfully and wait to see if he’ll answer this time.
He glances at me and chuckles, then says, “I believe love is complex. You water it the same way you water a plant. Consistently and carefully.”
“So you believe that people fall in love and work every day for it to work,” I say.
“Yes, but sometimes it’s more difficult than that.
Sometimes, not even love can stand against life’s unpredictability.
” He sighs and turns his attention back to the two birds.
After a moment of both of us staring at the small creatures in flight, he adds, “Or maybe sometimes we’re the ones that make it difficult. ”
I look at Mr. Marlin. He looks lost in thought, his hands resting on his legs. Legs that can’t jump, run, or dance. And yet, he thanks life every day. Shouldn’t we all thank life more often?
He’s never told me about a girlfriend, wife, or old lover. And I’ve never seen one come to visit him.
“Is there anything you regret?” I ask him, referring to love in his life.
“Oh.” He looks at me with a weak smile. It’s rare to see his face lose its smile. “Yes, there is.”
He exhales slowly, his gaze drifting toward the ground as he adjusts the sleeves of his sweater, tugging at the fabric as if the rest of the answer could be hidden there. I sense that he means a lot with those words, but that he won’t tell me about it.
We return to the interior of the building.
I walk beside Mr. Marlin, guiding his wheelchair through the corridor when, clumsily, I get too close to a small table at the entrance of one of the common areas.
The wheel nudges the table, making it wobble, and a stack of blank papers slips off, one of them floating down right in front of Mr. Marlin’s feet.
He bends forward with effort, taking a moment to retrieve it from the floor.
And I stand still, motionless. Not picking up a single paper. Flashing back. Reliving everything. My heart pounds. My breath catches…
I’m flying to New York.