Short Story: Connectedness

SHORT STORY

Connectedness

Dates held significance. In precise multiples of one round-the-sun, events were cemented. The entire day held forever a special, arguably undeserved meaning. It was not just a rainy Tuesday, but a birthday; with cake and whimsy – rain be damned. It was not just a hot, sweaty summer night, but one filled with booms and celebrations of independence. And as she sat there, bouncing socked feet off the bedside, the date staring back at her from the wall was not just an assortment of rounded characters. June eighth; 6.08 – was an anniversary of death. She should have recognised the numerals as a warning; menacing pits of calligraphy. How she missed the man they had pulled into their depths.

The plastic buckle of the monogrammed backpack clicked together awkwardly. She straightened the fabric, admiring the menagerie of pins covering the weathered outer shell. Memories were frozen in these mementos. She ran her fingers over their cool smooth surfaces, tracing their geometry as someone unsighted might. She felt beyond the material, unlocking recordings in her brain: The fair. Sunsets. Long drives. Jax puppy. Buttered popcorn. Iced Coke. Feeding ducks. Jax the dog. Picnics. Watching football. Putting Jax down. Her hands fell to her lap. Reliving joys and sorrows alike was searingly painful. She felt guilty when time passed without thinking of him, even if only a matter of hours. A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed hard. Then with a decisive motion, got to her feet.

She slipped on a pair of Birkenstocks and walked towards her sanctuary’s exit and entrance to the outside world. Cherry wood furniture, seemingly out of place in the mostly undecorated front room, held the front door key on a hook. It hung there, next to a collar with the embroidered letters “J A X.” The surfaces of the customised furnishing were littered with various papers: old mail, magazines, receipts, and hospital bills, now one year post-mortem. Sometimes she burnt them. Sometimes she ripped them apart. Sometimes, she wrote “return to sender” and drew a crudely crafted doodle of an upraised middle finger on the envelope before returning it to the mailbox. Today, however, she walked by the paper mountain and out the door.

Several of her friends and family asked her how she would commemorate his death-iversary. The calendar day hung on the collective mind. People who hadn’t thought of him since leaving his gravesite would feel a twinge of remorse upon reading today’s date. When they asked, out of kindness, how she chose to spend it, there was no consideration that today’s hurt was as bad as yesterday’s. And that yesterday hurt as badly as the day of his last breath. They assumed a spike in emotion on this anniversary; not a dull continuation of empty sadness. To anyone paying attention to her transformation, it was obvious she never recovered. Perhaps some had noticed but chose to give space rather than meddle. She was rather private after all. Through this mess of thought, her mind rested on two truths: 1. Today’s date made no damn difference. 2. She had never stopped mourning his absence.

This year, June eighth fell on a Thursday. She missed her Thursday routine. New episodes of her favorite podcast came out. At work, the mood was lighter on “Friday-Eve”. The cafeteria served nachos. After hours, coworkers would go to a local dive bar for happy hour and karaoke. Wings were a quarter and a can of PBR was a buck. She’d stay out too late, drink too much, and sing too loudly. This was before his sickness took every second of her spare time. Time she’d give again. Friends and coworkers were concerned, but eventually fell away like petals off a withering lotus. What do you tell a sad girl with no time? “Thinking of you.” “Thoughts and prayers.” “How can I help?” She never knew how to answer. But she missed connectedness. She found solace online, chatting with strangers late at night. Her worries collected then, in darkness, under a username. It was astounding how easily one could find an anonymous, empathetic ear. The world is full of misery.

Chatting online had its limitations. Like visiting New York City... no-one seems to live there, at least not permanently. Bipedal, briefcase-adorned ants scurrying between skyscrapers are all tour-

ists on business, education or pleasure. Their time in the metropolis is an escape from the reality of a sustainable day to day. Everyone eventually hops on a train and goes back to their normal lives – although it takes some much longer than others. Her thoughts drifted to the idea that the entire human experience may similarly be a temporary tourist destination, but quickly shook the thought, resisting that particular rabbit hole. The social bandaid that online platforms offered was enough to sustain her sanity through a few lonely nights. However, she often feared she was nurturing the virtual over the actual. It was time to experience unabashed realism, and so today, the eighth of June; a date which had so rudely seared itself into the tapestry of her life, she decided it was time to finally get real.

She was shy; but in this new reality, there was no longer room for her diminutive persona. A mantra grew louder in her brain. It began as a whisper, and by now was a continuous shout. “Try something else. Try something else.” It was actually advice a friend offered in a bowling alley. After guttering four frames, he said, “You know? Try something else. Change your approach – this one’s not working.” She entered a convenience store. The bell on the handrail clanged loudly. The owner recognised her from hundreds of previous visits. Although neither acknowledged the other, this meeting served as a constant. The greying owner had the faintest worry on days she did not appear. In turn, she felt an uneasiness when he was not behind the register. Her first big change, accompanying a fried pie and Dr. Pepper, was the exposure of a broad, toothy smile directed at him. He smiled back warmly with surprised delight. “It’s always nice to see a pretty girl smile.”

Her old way of thinking may have resulted in a fierce surge of rouge to her cheeks at his comment and a flash of irritation. Today, she accepted the compliment, grinned wider and wished him a wonderful day. Walking out of the store, her feet felt lighter and the sun’s rays warmer on her exposed skin. She made the decision to smile at every passerby, many of whom smiled back. Funny thing smiles are... they open an invitation to be friendly, to engage. They say, “Hey, other human! I see you, and I’m happy you’re here.” She contemplated how a human smile might be like a dog wagging its tail. Her feet took her to a picnic table beneath a large live oak. Its sprawling branches cast dappled shadows on the grass beneath. It was there she saw him. Trotting through the tall grasses, snapping at an insect near a cattail was Jax’s doppelgänger.

Not far from Jax stood a young slender woman, carefully monitoring the grinning dog’s every move. She recognised the look on the woman’s face. This Jax was young, reckless, and probably disobedient. And yet, his owner felt he deserved a measure of freedom that comes with an unleashed walk around a sparsely populated park. Jax had never betrayed that trust, short of chasing after an instigating cat. Keeping her promise to approach life differently, she called out to the young woman. “I love your dog! He looks just like my baby.” The woman looked around; startled by this rupture of her own piece of isolation. When she saw the source of the voice, her face softened with relief. Perhaps it was nice to form an unexpected connection. Or, more than likely, she was relieved that the caller was not, or did not appear to be, a complete creep.

The young woman and Jax approached her with a smile and waggly tail respectively. She reached out a hand and Jax sniffed cautiously before brushing his face against her. The two women talked openly about their pets, past and present. How delightful, how challenging, how endearing, and at the end, how devastating to see one go. She teared up unwillingly. Once the warm liquid started to pool in her dark eyes, she could not stop the overflow. The young woman reached out her hand in the most human expression of empathy and placed it on her shoulder. “I can tell Jax was a great dog, and you were a great mom to him.” She shook her head, letting the tears trace the outline of her cheeks before saying, confession-like, “A year ago a special man died. I’m not doing well with it.” The two strangers embraced for several minutes and she felt connectedness. Sapling limbs, really, but growth all the same. From that moment, her grief was no longer solely hers to carry.

By Elaine Hines. Elaine is a poetry and literature-lover living in central Arkansas. She enjoys spending time with her dog, Lady and connecting with other amateur writers through social media. You can find Elaine’s work on Instagram.