Every Breath
Page 56
Romy cracked the stick in half and let the pieces fall to the ground.
“Then, one night in September—five or six years after the trip to America?—I saw him sitting outside. He was drinking. I was having a smoke and went to join him. He turned to me, and his face…I’d never seen him look that way before. I asked him, ‘How are you doing?’ But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell me to go away, so I sat down next to him. After a while, he gave me a drink. He always had good whiskey. His family was rich, you know.”
I nodded.
“After some time, he finally asked me what was the hardest thing I ever did. I said I didn’t know, life is full of hard things. Why did he want to know? He said that he knew the hardest thing he had to do, and that nothing would ever be greater than that.”
Romy let out a wheezy breath before going on. “It wasn’t the words…it was how he said it. There was so much sadness, so much pain, like those termites had eaten his soul. And then he told me about that trip to America…and the woman. Hope.”
Romy turned to face me.
“I’ve loved some women in my life,” he said with a grin. But then the grin faded. “When he talked, I knew I never loved anyone that way. And when he told me how he said goodbye…” Romy stared at the ground. “He cried, like a person broken. And I felt his heart aching inside me, too.” He shook his head. “After that, whenever I saw him I would think, he’s still feeling pain, just hiding it.”
Romy grew quiet, and for a while we just sat together and watched twilight descend over the village. “He never talked about it no more. I retired then, and I didn’t see Tru for a long time, not until he had the big accident. I went to see him at the hospital. Did you know about that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He looked terrible, so terrible. But the doctors said he was a lot better than before! He was mixing up his words a lot of the time, so I did a lot of talking. And I was trying to be cheerful, to make jokes, and I asked him, did he see Jesus or God when he died? He made a sad smile, one that nearly broke my heart. ‘No,’ he said to me, ‘I saw Hope.’ ”
When I returned from Zimbabwe, I drove to the beach where Tru and Hope now live. I had taken nearly a year to research and write the book, and was reluctant to intrude on them anymore. Nonetheless, I found myself walking near the water’s edge, past their cottage. I didn’t see them.
It was midafternoon. I continued to walk up the beach, eventually reaching the pier, and strolled to the end of it. There were a handful of people fishing, but I found a clear spot in the corner. I stared at the ocean, feeling the breeze in my hair, knowing that writing their story had changed me.
I hadn’t seen either of them in months, and I missed them. I drew comfort from the knowledge that they were together, the way they were supposed to be. Later, as I passed by their cottage a second time on the way back, my eyes were drawn automatically to their home. Still no sight of them.
It was getting late by then, the sky a mixture of violets, blues, and grays, but on the horizon, the moon had begun its rise from the sea, as if it had spent the day hiding at the ocean floor.
Twilight began to deepen and I found myself scanning the beach again. I could see their house in the distance, and though the beach had largely emptied, I saw that Tru and Hope had emerged to enjoy the evening. My heart leaped at the sight of them, and I thought again about the years they’d spent apart. I thought about their future, the walks they would miss and the adventures they would never have. I thought about sacrifice and miracles. And I thought also about the love they’d always felt for each other—like stars in the daytime sky, unseen, but always present.
They were at the bottom of the ramp, the one that Tru had been building the first time I met him. Hope was in her wheelchair, a blanket over her legs. Tru was standing beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. There was a lifetime of love in that simple gesture, and I felt my throat close up. As I continued to stare, he must have sensed my presence in the distance, for he turned in my direction.
He waved a greeting. Though I waved back, I knew it was a farewell of sorts. While I considered them friends, I doubted we would speak again.
It was their time, at last.
“Then, one night in September—five or six years after the trip to America?—I saw him sitting outside. He was drinking. I was having a smoke and went to join him. He turned to me, and his face…I’d never seen him look that way before. I asked him, ‘How are you doing?’ But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell me to go away, so I sat down next to him. After a while, he gave me a drink. He always had good whiskey. His family was rich, you know.”
I nodded.
“After some time, he finally asked me what was the hardest thing I ever did. I said I didn’t know, life is full of hard things. Why did he want to know? He said that he knew the hardest thing he had to do, and that nothing would ever be greater than that.”
Romy let out a wheezy breath before going on. “It wasn’t the words…it was how he said it. There was so much sadness, so much pain, like those termites had eaten his soul. And then he told me about that trip to America…and the woman. Hope.”
Romy turned to face me.
“I’ve loved some women in my life,” he said with a grin. But then the grin faded. “When he talked, I knew I never loved anyone that way. And when he told me how he said goodbye…” Romy stared at the ground. “He cried, like a person broken. And I felt his heart aching inside me, too.” He shook his head. “After that, whenever I saw him I would think, he’s still feeling pain, just hiding it.”
Romy grew quiet, and for a while we just sat together and watched twilight descend over the village. “He never talked about it no more. I retired then, and I didn’t see Tru for a long time, not until he had the big accident. I went to see him at the hospital. Did you know about that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He looked terrible, so terrible. But the doctors said he was a lot better than before! He was mixing up his words a lot of the time, so I did a lot of talking. And I was trying to be cheerful, to make jokes, and I asked him, did he see Jesus or God when he died? He made a sad smile, one that nearly broke my heart. ‘No,’ he said to me, ‘I saw Hope.’ ”
When I returned from Zimbabwe, I drove to the beach where Tru and Hope now live. I had taken nearly a year to research and write the book, and was reluctant to intrude on them anymore. Nonetheless, I found myself walking near the water’s edge, past their cottage. I didn’t see them.
It was midafternoon. I continued to walk up the beach, eventually reaching the pier, and strolled to the end of it. There were a handful of people fishing, but I found a clear spot in the corner. I stared at the ocean, feeling the breeze in my hair, knowing that writing their story had changed me.
I hadn’t seen either of them in months, and I missed them. I drew comfort from the knowledge that they were together, the way they were supposed to be. Later, as I passed by their cottage a second time on the way back, my eyes were drawn automatically to their home. Still no sight of them.
It was getting late by then, the sky a mixture of violets, blues, and grays, but on the horizon, the moon had begun its rise from the sea, as if it had spent the day hiding at the ocean floor.
Twilight began to deepen and I found myself scanning the beach again. I could see their house in the distance, and though the beach had largely emptied, I saw that Tru and Hope had emerged to enjoy the evening. My heart leaped at the sight of them, and I thought again about the years they’d spent apart. I thought about their future, the walks they would miss and the adventures they would never have. I thought about sacrifice and miracles. And I thought also about the love they’d always felt for each other—like stars in the daytime sky, unseen, but always present.
They were at the bottom of the ramp, the one that Tru had been building the first time I met him. Hope was in her wheelchair, a blanket over her legs. Tru was standing beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. There was a lifetime of love in that simple gesture, and I felt my throat close up. As I continued to stare, he must have sensed my presence in the distance, for he turned in my direction.
He waved a greeting. Though I waved back, I knew it was a farewell of sorts. While I considered them friends, I doubted we would speak again.
It was their time, at last.
