He’d named the welcoming room full of his books the reading room. His sanctuary. The one place in the house that she knew had the care it took to make a room more than walls and space, to make it a haven.
His footsteps were measured, his trek stable. It was a façade. His personality demanded action, not the slowness with which he moved. Did he hide how tired he was? Did the side effects of medicine, if he took it, cause his muscles and joints to ache? Did he take medicine? How far had it progressed since he was diagnosed? Was it still in the beginning stages, or much worse?
Beth had endless questions, and she didn’t know how to ask a single one.
The door was right there, a reachable escape. Two steps and she could open it and go. She would be free of any obligation to him. And what would Harrison do? He would sit in a structure full of lost hopes and dreams, alone, his story untold. It wasn’t her problem, and yet empathy kept her where she was. Empathy, yes, but what else?
She lowered her head and covered her face with her hands, her eyes tightly shut. She tried to breathe normally, but her breaths came out shallow, raspy. If she stayed, she was agreeing to submerge herself in a reality she didn’t know, didn’t understand. If she left, she would feel like she’d abandoned him to his undesired fate. He had a story to tell, and he was asking her to tell it. Maybe this was her chance to do something meaningful, no matter how altered she became in the process.
Because Beth didn’t think she could write his story and not be affected by it.
With a sigh of resignation, Beth dropped her hands. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go. Beth lifted her head and pulled back her shoulders, turning new eyes on the situation. Her decision was made, and determination stiffened her spine. Once Beth committed to something, there was no giving up. His story was worth something, and she would write it. Beth would not give up on this, on Harrison. It seemed interlocked with her writing dream, a quest that, if accepted, would change her world. Beth was ready for a change.
THREE
TODAY SHE DIDN’T bring her laptop, knowing there was three-quarters of a book waiting for her to read it. The story of a boy losing his mother at the age of seven took on a different meaning. It became real, formed depth. And Beth knew when she picked up that book again, she would read words different from the ones she’d read yesterday. The story changed because the person reading it altered the way they saw it. Perception was a powerful tool.
Harrison stood with his back to her, looking outside much like she did the previous day upon first entering the room. “It’s snowing again.”
She was surprised by the comment. He didn’t seem the type for idle conversation. Neither was she. She wanted to know about a person’s childhood, what scared them, what is was about the first person they fell in love that made them do so. If they preferred candy to chocolate, or the opposite, and why. Beth wanted to know what made a person the way they were, what gave them their individualism, what scars they carried, what life was to them. What dreams they had.
In Harrison’s case, what was it like to have a countdown to his mortality?
And yet, she replied, “It’s supposed to snow all week.”
He turned then, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “You stayed.”
“I stayed.”
“The disease is not to be discussed.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Unless there is crucial information you should know.”
Beth shifted her feet, her jaw tight. Sighing, she nodded. “Fine.”
Harrison nodded to the stand beside the couch. “You have a book to read.”
She moved to the couch, her eyes not leaving his. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go for a walk.”
“In the snow?”
One pale eyebrow tipped up. “Is that not permissible?”
“Well, yeah, you can do whatever you want, but…”
His footsteps were measured, his trek stable. It was a façade. His personality demanded action, not the slowness with which he moved. Did he hide how tired he was? Did the side effects of medicine, if he took it, cause his muscles and joints to ache? Did he take medicine? How far had it progressed since he was diagnosed? Was it still in the beginning stages, or much worse?
Beth had endless questions, and she didn’t know how to ask a single one.
The door was right there, a reachable escape. Two steps and she could open it and go. She would be free of any obligation to him. And what would Harrison do? He would sit in a structure full of lost hopes and dreams, alone, his story untold. It wasn’t her problem, and yet empathy kept her where she was. Empathy, yes, but what else?
She lowered her head and covered her face with her hands, her eyes tightly shut. She tried to breathe normally, but her breaths came out shallow, raspy. If she stayed, she was agreeing to submerge herself in a reality she didn’t know, didn’t understand. If she left, she would feel like she’d abandoned him to his undesired fate. He had a story to tell, and he was asking her to tell it. Maybe this was her chance to do something meaningful, no matter how altered she became in the process.
Because Beth didn’t think she could write his story and not be affected by it.
With a sigh of resignation, Beth dropped her hands. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go. Beth lifted her head and pulled back her shoulders, turning new eyes on the situation. Her decision was made, and determination stiffened her spine. Once Beth committed to something, there was no giving up. His story was worth something, and she would write it. Beth would not give up on this, on Harrison. It seemed interlocked with her writing dream, a quest that, if accepted, would change her world. Beth was ready for a change.
THREE
TODAY SHE DIDN’T bring her laptop, knowing there was three-quarters of a book waiting for her to read it. The story of a boy losing his mother at the age of seven took on a different meaning. It became real, formed depth. And Beth knew when she picked up that book again, she would read words different from the ones she’d read yesterday. The story changed because the person reading it altered the way they saw it. Perception was a powerful tool.
Harrison stood with his back to her, looking outside much like she did the previous day upon first entering the room. “It’s snowing again.”
She was surprised by the comment. He didn’t seem the type for idle conversation. Neither was she. She wanted to know about a person’s childhood, what scared them, what is was about the first person they fell in love that made them do so. If they preferred candy to chocolate, or the opposite, and why. Beth wanted to know what made a person the way they were, what gave them their individualism, what scars they carried, what life was to them. What dreams they had.
In Harrison’s case, what was it like to have a countdown to his mortality?
And yet, she replied, “It’s supposed to snow all week.”
He turned then, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “You stayed.”
“I stayed.”
“The disease is not to be discussed.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Unless there is crucial information you should know.”
Beth shifted her feet, her jaw tight. Sighing, she nodded. “Fine.”
Harrison nodded to the stand beside the couch. “You have a book to read.”
She moved to the couch, her eyes not leaving his. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to go for a walk.”
“In the snow?”
One pale eyebrow tipped up. “Is that not permissible?”
“Well, yeah, you can do whatever you want, but…”
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