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christinesplace · 11 months

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SHORT STORY: EMMA

I did it because I liked the way it made me feel.

The transaction pleased me even before the idea became a reality.

The see-saw of our friendship now tipped in my favor- I the one swinging her legs loftily, gripping the handles with sweaty palms. Looking down on her smiling face as she crouched uncomfortably, waiting for her turn to rise.

I did it because 23 years of knowing and loving Emma had taught me that she was regarded as the kinder and uncompromising one, she the one who went the extra mile, she the one to outdo me with birthday surprises, gifts, encouragement. And even when I tried to balance the scales it just somehow didn’t land in the way I wanted. Like the time I got her a pricey bottle of wine I could have sworn she'd mentioned, only to remember weeks later that Malbec wasn’t her favourite. She drank it anyway.

Or the time I got us both tickets for the sky garden and completely forgot she wasn't a huge fan of heights. I took my brother instead.

She had sat with me through long evenings, as I moaned about work, my lovely but predictable husband Alasdair, or our two tweens (her godchildren) and their personal dramas. I occasionally managed to return the favour and assumed the same posture for her as she shared her heartache at yet another broken relationship, another hope deferred, another wasted chapter.

She would come round to mine after work, help me clear the kitchen, chat for a bit with whichever child of mine would reciprocate. Then we would sit, drink, and laugh “ always bloody laughing those two” as my Dad used to say of us. But more and more, the laughs turned to tears from Emma. The wretched admission of loneliness, the restless longing for motherhood.

I would find her gazing blankly at our walls studded with family portraits.

Our collective joy recklessly goading her.

I loved her and in between the chaos of my life I longed to be better, do better, for her.

The idea to save Emma would begin as a germ- something I conceived following a radio interview, then after that, a magazine article.

Two grinning faces, a baby in arms. A cameo of sacrificial love. I sent a link to Emma one sunny afternoon- I remember loitering over the send button for a good while. She called back within the hour, her voice swelling with emotion- great sobs flowing through the lines to me. I felt the waves of gratitude, I made jokes about Alasdair's DNA and was she completely sure she wanted it?! I cried with her, made sure she could tell I was crying too, sharing it with her.

Made sure she knew my arms were open and this gift, his gift, was hers for the taking.

And what would be would be. We would take it step by step, approach the altar together, humble ourselves before the gods and wait with baited breath to see if they were pleased with our offering.

Then came the hurdles. Research (I made a file). Speaking with a clinician. Understanding our rights. I even called a lawyer friend.

Alasdair was unsure to begin with but noticeably did not fly off the handle. There was a chink, I could sense it. I started showering him with online testimonials, a book on the basics.

We watched a movie which was strikingly relatable; it made us cry. And he started to get on board. He was always more altruistic than me, and I had to admit that his growing compassion for Emma and his determination to help was actually really attractive to me.

But really the final nail in the coffin was going round for dinner at hers, just the three of us.

She cooked Alasdair’s favorite lamb Tagine, and had really gone to town. Right down to little bowls of pomegranate seeds, flatbread, his favorite lager. Looking back, she had even gone to town on herself, she looked more radiant, more composed- better than I'd seen her for months.

The grief of her singleness had been slowly desiccating her and she’d kind of started looking older (though I never would have said it to her) she had even been favoring more comfortable, dated clothes that hung off her. Shroud like. But that night was different- she had clearly gone out to get new clothes, had her hair and nails done. She looked good , but more than that, her face carried something beautiful and bright and it was hard to not keep staring at her..................

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christinesplace · 11 months

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SHORT STORY: THE WALK

Alice was everywhere, until she wasn’t. Just like at first, she was nowhere until she was. The absence of her before I knew she existed, was nothing. Now, the absence of her shrouds everything. Like a guest who never came to dinner; a stormy sky that didn’t deliver. Nothing can wash away the void where she used to be. This is what I’m thinking about the first time I take The Walk without her.

I met Alice at a dinner party, the raucous kind with wild guests, beautiful people glittering in late summer air on a second-floor balcony backlit by a September sky. We were all friends of Richard, and this was his brilliant attempt to make all the people I love come together. Or it was a lavish birthday party thrown for himself. You could never quite tell with Richard.

He was my hairdresser, but I was included among the people he loved the most, and so was Alice. From across the table, her eyes kept locking mine with interest: hers large and dark and layered with mischief. Her husband was older, serene. A balm to her boisterousness.

I know you from somewhere, she’d said, that night when there was both sweltering heat and a prelude of autumn in the air. We sipped deep, earthy Bordeaux and had the getting-to-know-you conversation. The what-do-you-do, are-you-married, do-you-have-kids variety.

A week later, on my morning run with Copper, I ran into Alice again and now we knew. This is where I see you! We both exclaimed it as we came into each other’s space on the trail, the wide, flat former track bed for trains. Copper panted at my side, not used to the interruption in our run. Alice was delighted. Although she didn’t run, I agreed to slow it to a power walk and changed direction, pulling a confused Copper along. The winds shifted: the weather and my life, simultaneously.

I had been passing Alice on the trail forever. Her Nordic ponytail, so blonde it was nearly white, had been in my peripheral vision for years. In the winter she was encapsulated in bright, good-quality warmth: red Patagonia outerwear and a multi-colored hat from another dimension, such was the insanity of its pattern. Her body was fit and lithe; ageless, from a lifetime of The Walk.

The Walk is so important, she’d tell me, but she didn’t have to tell me. I stopped running, and my knees responded with finally! For the love of God stop trying to break us, you aren’t young anymore! Alice, who I had flown by in summers before, barely noticing her, became my near daily companion and without the run, The Walk became essential. My knees, at age forty, were dissolving like broken concrete, but I still needed the exercise, and, as it turns out, the companionship.

We figured out that winter we’d been passing each other more places than the trail. We had circled each other forever, near collisions and missed encounters. Richard was the hub that had put us on the balcony that night, Richard who collected people like trophies, beautiful and successful ones. His Instagram had thousands of followers.

But he doesn’t really have friends, you know? Alice observed, and I agreed. Richard was a perpetuator of vanity posting and humble brags, king of the selfie with #nofilter. In person, you could see the ruddy undertones of his skin and his bleached hair wasn’t quite so effervescent. His need to be complimented was painfully obvious, like a giant cut that oozed blood and begged for stitches.

We discussed Richard at length, chiding ourselves for gossip but agreeing: what we talked about on The Walk, stayed on The Walk. It wasn’t only Richard. Soon, we discovered that we’d both worked in the same office building, for years. She: the owner of a tiny, liberal magazine. She had sat on comfy couches in jeans and sweaters drinking herbal tea and brainstorming how to get her writers to be better on the fourth floor. One level down, I had worn tailored suits in muted, professional colors—dove gray, classic black, the occasional cobalt blue. My hair was perfectly coifed (thanks to Richard) and I wore red lipstick and heels and traded stocks for rich people while advising them how to invest their life.

We must have seen each other a million times! I wracked my memory, trying find one in which Alice and I ride in the elevator together. I would have everything tightly in my leather bag, some feminized version of a briefcase, clasped with both hands in front of me, mentally running through the daily to-do list that forever plagued me. Alice would have been in leggings, a messenger bag slung over her body and a cardboard container with coffees for all her employees.

No memory came, but we could not get over how wild the universe was. We had shared that space for just under seven years, before Alice sold the magazine and retired and before I quit my job when I was faced with dragons to slay in the form of a mental breakdown.

But it wasn’t just work and Richard. We soon realized that we had both been at the wedding of Cassidy and Brian, who had also attended Richard’s party. Brian was a colleague of mine; I had known him for years. Cassidy was Alice’s neighbor before she married Brian. Both of us had frequently double-dated with them. Alice and the Zen husband who was placid like a golden retriever on tranquilizers. Me and David, before he died...................

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