Aunt Olivia ( SHORT STORY)

Aunt Olivia looks forward to the arrival of the community carer Lara who comes three times a week to help her with the shower and other little things she can’t do herself after her hip operation.

Twenty-three years old Lara is the only human connection Aunt Olivia has left with anyone other than her two nieces who take turns in dropping food. Their trips are short, conversation to the point and often loaded with instructions on how long to heat the food and what to do in case there is an emergency. It is Lara with whom Aunt Olivia gets to have a chat she so much needs.

‘While you are here would you mind rubbing some cream on my legs? They are prickly like cactus.’ Lara, a second-year nursing student, who works as a carer on the side, obliges.

‘Tell me how that boyfriend of yours is going?’ Olivia asks enjoying Lara’s young finger massage her wrinkly skin.

‘He is doing fine. These days he is helping his dad repair their house in Braidwood. I hardly see him.’

‘Not good dear, not good. You two ought to get married by now.’

Lara smiles. Each week, at least once, the conversation goes in the direction of marriage. It seems that when old people have nothing left in their own lives, they start meddling with others.

But Lara doesn’t mind Aunt Olivia prying. She has a way about her that was nudging but not intruding. That is perhaps the reason why she is an aunt to everyone.

‘We have talked about this before, Aunt Olivia. We are too young to get married. Besides both, Alex and I do not have regular income yet.’

‘Too young,’ scolds Aunt Olivia, ‘how old you want to be when you have children. Thirty-five. Goodness golly! You two have been living together for five years. Didn’t you say that to me?’

‘Yes.’ Lara wipes the extra oil from Olivia’s legs with a towel and pulls the pyjama down. ‘But none of my friends is married yet. Neither is his. Besides what marriage has to do with having children?’

It takes Olivia a few moments to comprehend that piece of information. Then she responds with a sigh ‘You might be right dear. What marriage has to do with having children?’

Then in a lower tone adds, ‘In my days — everything. Having children outside of marriage was enough to ruin not only mother’s life but that of the child’s as well.’

She walks slowly with the help of a walking frame to the living room where Lara helps her to settle in her favorite couch.

Olivia asks Lara to hand her a decorated brown wooden box from the dresser. It has a pile of old photographs. Slowly she reaches to the bottom of the box to pull out an envelope with a black and white photo of a young man. She looks at the photo with affection before handing it to Lara. A tall young man in casual pants and checker jumper is staring at the camera half leaning against a wall. He has an air of carefreeness about him.

‘I left marrying to him too late. I wasn’t sure. I thought we were too young. He went to war. Before leaving he came one last time. He wanted to go to the war as a married man. But I wasn’t so sure. He never came back.’

The photo has turned pale with time. Its edges have worn out with constant handling. Lara stares at the photo for a while. The young man in it looks very familiar. As if she has met him somewhere but couldn’t recall where.

‘Did he die in the war?’ she asks knowing Aunt Olivia was not married.

‘He went missing. I kept waiting that one day, he will come back.’

‘You didn’t find anyone else?’

‘I got too old.’ Aunt Olivia lets out a laugh. ‘First I was too young and then I was too old. Some came forward, but I was looking for him in them. Obviously, there was no one like him.’

Lara looks up and Aunt Olivia holds her gaze. ‘There is an age to get married. My mother used to say and I didn’t listen to her. She said that if you miss that age, marriage has no charm.’

Lara nods and gets up to leave, the photo still in her hand. She asks Aunt Olivia if she can borrow it.

Aunt Olivia gives her consent with her eyes closed. Suddenly she is too tired, either from all the effort she has put in this morning or from the flood of memories.

Two days later Aunt Olivia hears a knock at the door. It is not her day for a shower and her younger niece has brought the food for the week already. Who can it be?Before she can shuffle to the door, the key turns and the door opens. Lara walks in followed by a young man.

‘Aunt Olivia, I would like you to meet my boyfriend, Alex.’

There is no mistake in the resemblance. The face, the eyes, the shape of the jaw, even the color of the hair is the same. Only that her John was a bit fairer. This young man is darker, perhaps from working in the sun. Aunt Olivia runs her hand on his face with tears clouding her eyes. While Olivia is inspecting Alex, Lara goes out to help someone else come through the door.

‘Aunt Olivia, this is Alex’s father.’ I drove to Braidwood yesterday to bring him here.’

Stands before her, a man slightly older than her. He is still tall. His shoulders still broad. His skin still fair. The face which is forever young in her memory in fact has aged. But it is still the same face. They don’t know how long they stand there looking at each other, not believing what they were seeing, unaware of the presence of others. Then Aunt Olivia breaks the silence.

‘I waited for you.’ She says.

‘Do you think you are ready now?’ John asks.

That week minister performs two weddings, one in the church and one in Aunt Olivia’s living room.

© Neera Mahajan July 2014

Photo by Damir Bosnjak on Unsplash

The Flight – A Short Story

[This is the first of a series of short stories I am going to share on my site]

I picked up my book and picnic basket from the car and headed for a quiet corner of the park where I could sit and read. I have been doing that often lately.

My days have more hours in them than the chores, and I have been trying to pass the time by reading books I have been putting aside to read for a long time. But even reading doesn’t help me take away my mind from what I have been trying to forget.

I spread the checkered rug on a green patch of grass under a gum tree. Sun rays were filtering down through the canopy of leaves. I placed the picnic basket on the side and poured myself a cup of tea from the thermos. Fumbling with one hand, I opened the book and started reading from where I had left it before.

I read for some time but realized nothing had gone in. Closing the book, I lay down on the rug looking at the sky. Occasional clouds were drifting aimlessly against the light blue horizon. A row of pine trees edging the park boundary looked dejected. What has got into me! I need to get out of this miserable state! I knew that, but I didn’t know-how.

I got startled by someone’s cough and sat down. A book lying on my chest fell on the rug when I turned around to face the intruder.

“I am sorry,” an old, hunched man with a walking stick got embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to scare you like this.”

“It is all right.” I sat up on the rug facing him. He was a medium height man, seemed to be in his eighties, and dressed in brown trousers and a loose jumper. He probably came to this park often, and I was perhaps the one invading his territory.

“I wonder if you have some water. I forgot to have my blood pressure medicine this morning.” He reached into his shirt pocket from the neck of his jumper and produced a leaf of tablets.

“Yes. Sure.” I took out the water bottle and plastic cup from the basket and poured him some water.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the glass from my hand. He swallowed the tablet with the water and handed the cup back to me, asking, “Do you mind if I sit down here for a while. My blood pressure drops after taking the medication.

“Sure,” I made some space on the rug for him, and he sat on it with the help of his stick.

“You might need to help me get up.” He muttered, “It is easier to sit than to get up at my age.”

“No problem.” Any other time I would have regretted his presence, but today I was craving for human company.

We started chatting. He lived nearby. His wife had passed away a couple of years ago. Both his kids, a son, and a daughter, were married and lived at the opposite ends of Australia, one in Perth other in Cairns. Each year he visited them–one trip to the east coast and the other to the west coast. This way crossed the whole breadth of the country each year.

“Imagine how many frequent flyers points I earn.”

I smiled.

“My wife and I used to come to this park each evening for a walk. I can still feel her presence in the air when I come here. This was her favorite spot. We would bring our checkered rug, same as yours, and have breakfast here some mornings. When I saw you today sitting here, I had to talk to you.”

“I am glad you did.”

“My name is John.” He extended his hand.

“I am Jaya,” I said and shook his hand. He was pretty formal in his mannerism.

We chatted for some time afterward. I helped John get up, and he went for a walk around the park. He waved me goodbye before walking to his house. I started coming to the park often. As if watching from his window, John would also come soon after. We starting taking walks together, just like he and his wife used to. He was a sweet old man, and I didn’t mind his company. He told me stories from his past. His passion for his wife was clear from the way he described the things they did together.

***

One such day, after the walk, when we were resting on a bench, he suddenly said, “Enough.”

“Enough what, John?” I asked, wondering what was bothering him.

“Enough of your silence. You are a young woman who has plenty of life in front of you. What is bothering you? I can tell it is a lost love.”

I looked at him, surprised at the transparency of my demeanor. Was I still an open book. He was right. I have spent too long running from reality. I have to face it one day. Somehow it felt right to face it with John.

“I had everything a woman of my age and culture could desire,” I began looking at the white line that an airplane was creating across the horizon, “A husband, a son, a daughter, and a job in the publishing world.”

John followed my gaze and discovered the airplane just before it disappeared behind the pine trees. “What happened,” he asked.

“Last year, we went to India for a holiday.”

He listened without interrupting.

“On the way back, the plane was overbooked. They asked if we wanted to have a stopover at the airline’s expense.”

John turned so that he can see my face better.

“We were delighted at the opportunity, but then I remembered that I needed to be at the launch of a new book my company was publishing. I asked if there was one seat available.”

John said nothing.

“Next day, when I was launching the book, they put my children and husband were on Flight MH370.”

John put his arm around me.

Another airplane passed across the sky. This time we didn’t look up.

© Neera Mahajan Aug 2015

Photo by Philip Myrtorp on Unsplash