Anna, Beth Stafford [books to read in your 30s .txt] 📗

Anna

    This time of day always has a serene kind of quiet to it, when it’s not quite day and it’s not quite night, either. The last muted rays of sunlight are streaming down through the trees above, filling the park with an ethereal yellow glow. Anna’s caught in one such ray, the fading light illuminating one half of her face. Her eye is a translucent pool of blue when caught in the sun, and for a fleeting moment I get the sense that I’m staring straight into her soul. The light is making her auburn hair burn a brilliant red, speckled with flecks of radiant gold. Her mouth curves with the hint of a smile, and she takes my hand in hers. But the sensation of her squeezing my fingers is numb and distant. There’s nothing I wish for more than to truly feel her touch.


    I suppose, in a way, Anna and I were always set on a crash-course, like two planets circling a star on the same orbit. And our collision was everything you’d imagine it to be; fiery, chaotic, and infinitely beautiful. I’d been eighteen at the time – a freshman – still grappling with the awe of my first year at college. The first time I saw her she’d been hard to miss. She was drenched in red paint, as if someone had spontaneously tipped the can over her head. And yet she breezed through campus as if nothing was out of the ordinary at all. In her wake she left a trail of scarlet footprints, snaking from class to class. When I asked her about it later, she claimed it had been a demonstration of the decay of modern society. In all reality, she’d more likely done it simply because she’d felt like it.
    It wasn’t until the next week that I finally worked up the courage to speak to her. She’d been sitting beside a small man-made pond, methodically plucking pebbles out of the water and skimming them across the surface. There were still traces of crimson paint in her hair, clinging to the few remaining strands as if they truly didn’t want to be washed out.
    “Can I sit here?” I asked, indicating to a nondescript patch of grass at her side.
    She hesitated for a moment, her fingertips resting in the shallow end of the pond. “If I said no, would you sit here anyway?”
    “Probably.”
    “Well then, by all means, sit.”
    At first we didn’t speak at all, and she continued to skim pebbles as if I wasn’t even there. It’s strange, the details of a person you only notice when you view them up close. With Anna, the feature that fascinated me most were the delicate, pale freckles that adorned the bridge of her nose. For most people freckles are a blemish, markings to cover with make-up, but Anna seemed to wear them like a badge of honour.
   “I’m Ezra,” I offered, mustering a forcefully polite smile. “And you are?”
    Her mouth twitched. “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together,” she said, turning to me. Her cyan eyes seemed to be burning with a mischievous sort of amusement. “I. Am. The. Eggman.”
    I didn’t know what to say. This was proving to be very different from other conversations I’d had with other girls. We were silent again, but she never broke her gaze with me. Her stare was unnerving and entrancing all at the same time.
    “So you like The Beatles?” I asked, fighting hard to keep my voice steady, and failing.
    “So you like Einstein’s Theory of Relativity?”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You’re excused.”
    I broke our seemingly endless eye contact to stare at the palms of my hands. She was playing with my mind, and I didn’t particularly like the feeling of her toying around up there. And yet I didn’t leave. It was almost as though she had her own gravitational pull, but I was the only one it lured in. Just being in her presence made me feel content. Just to be near her was enough.
    We sat together for the rest of the afternoon, long after the shadows around us lengthened and were eventually chased away by the onset of twilight. But to me, it felt as if a few mere minutes had passed, not hours.
    “I like you,” she said, rising to her feet. She ruffled my hair slightly, as if teasing a child. “I’ll see you around.”
    “Wait!” I called after her, awkwardly scrambling to my feet. “I still don’t know your name. Or your number! Wait!”
    She turned to face me again. “Just let it be,” she said, flashing me a cocked smile. “Everything doesn’t have to be so black and white.”
    The way she spoke in riddles frustrated me to no end, but it only seemed to make me want to see her more.
    From that day on, we saw each other almost daily. At first we’d just sit by the pond together, basking in each other’s silence. From there we moved onto Gary’s Grill—the most critically acclaimed café on campus—or the boardwalk that lined the beach, or the steps of her dorm, or the room of her dorm, sprawled out on plush violet cushions and debating the meaning of life. And despite the fact we never engaged in getting-to-know-you small-talk, I felt like I knew every intricacy of her personality, and she mine.

   My reverie fades, and I’m in the park once more, my hand still clasped in hers. A breath of wind catches in her hair, and I notice a faint bloom of goosebumps on her arms.
    “You’re cold,” I say.
    Despite the fact my words are beginning to slur, Anna still understands me with ease. “Don’t accuse me of such things!” she says, letting out a soft peal of laughter. “But maybe I’ll put my jacket on, just to please you.”
    She helps me to my feet, a necessity these days after lengthy periods of sitting. I reach down to pick up the picnic basket while Anna folds up the blanket. I wrap my fingers around the handle, but each time I try to lift, they slip away. I try with both hands this time, and I manage to get the basket a few feet off the ground, but without warning my hands go slack and it falls away, half-eaten sandwiches spilling out onto the summer grass.
    I don’t think Anna notices, but every time I drop something the furrow between her eyebrows grows deeper. But when she looks up at me it’s gone, her face radiant once more. The momentary knitting of eyebrows is so fleeting I doubt it’s even voluntary.
    “Don’t worry about that,” she says, her voice light, but laced with a hint of forced laughter. She picks up the basket and nestles it in the crook of her arm.
    I’m staring at my hands, willing them to work again. But the harder I try to flex my fingers, the more leaden my movements become.
   

***

    I eventually stumble into wakefulness, clinging to the last remnants of my dream as they fade from my mind. I’ve never been able to understand why this room has to be completely white; I’ve always thought waking up to a subdued, pastel colour would be more soothing.
    Doctor Tipton is leaning over my bed, clipboard in hand, clutching a read-out of one of the monitors to my right. He mumbles something inaudible to no-one in particular, before ripping off the sheet and tucking it into the clipboard’s back pocket.
    Doctor Tipton is a peculiar man, with a broad, dominating moustache and thick, black-rimmed glasses. He rarely speaks, unless it’s to a nurse or a visitor. I suppose he doesn’t see the allure in conversing with a patient who can’t reply.
    The sensation of having air forced into my lungs is something I’ve never quite gotten used to, and the machine responsible wheezes dutifully beside me. I’ve been here so long that the repetitive beeps and whirring of machines is almost a comfort. I see them as my mechanical allies, although sometimes I don’t always feel that way.
    I barely even notice my mother sitting in the visitor’s chair until she clears her throat. I wonder how long she’s been here.
    “How are you feeling today, sweetie?”
    She insists on asking me this question every day, even though I have no way of responding. I can’t even look at her in a way that would suggest my irritation. I am blank.
    She gets up and walks to the bed, hovering at the end of it. She’s staring at me with morose eyes, and I can only hope she doesn’t start crying again. I’ve found it’s a lot harder to be around someone you love in distress when the only thing you can do is witness it, not comfort.
    A nurse bustles in, and I vaguely recognise her. I can tell she’s worked a long shift; her face is flustered, and tufts of blonde hair have fallen out from her tight bun.
    “There’s a phone call for you, Doctor Tipton,” she says.
    As usual Doctor Tipton doesn’t say a thing. He merely tucks the clipboard back into its place at the foot of my bed and breezes from the room.
    “How’s he been today?” the nurse asks softly, placing a hand on my mother’s forearm.
    “Much the same,” Mom sighs, flashing a strained smile. “Doctor Tipton says he doesn’t have long.”
    It always amazes me that no-one seems to realise that I can hear every word they say. It’s almost as though they assume I’m a vegetable, because I can’t speak or move. In all reality, it’s just my body that doesn’t work.
    Just as I thought she might, Mom starts crying. The nurse slings an arm over her shuddering shoulders. I wish more than anything that I could say, ‘It’s going to be okay, Mom’ but I can’t. Instead my respirator wheezes in place where my words should be.
    “He’s going to be twenty-one next week,” she says, wiping the tears from her creased face with her fingertips. She pauses to examine the tears glistening there, as if she’s surprised to see them. “It’s just not fair.”
    The nurse nods. I suppose she realises there’s not a lot she can say to help the situation. Everyone knows I’ll be dead soon. My body’s failing me.
    Without warning, a wave of fatigue comes over me; I’ve been sleeping a lot lately, probably because my body’s growing weary of this fight against itself. I drift off to the sounds of my mother’s sobs.

***

    The first thing I become aware of is the sound of sirens. The glaring, shrill scream of them all around, bearing down on me. There’s a warm breeze on my face, and the acrid stench of car exhausts fills my nostrils. I feel something fleshy and hard collide with my shoulder, and I’m jolted into opening my eyes.
    I’m standing on a street corner, surrounded by a sea of people weaving all around. By the time I realise I have control over my body, I’m already walking down the street, swept away in the human tide.
    I never thought I’d be able to feel my feet connect with concrete again, or feel the rush of wind on my face. Just the feeling of being able to breathe on my own is a revelation. I’m grinning like a maniac, and don’t really care about the stares I’m getting.
    And then I see her. In fact, I don’t know how I didn’t see her earlier.