untangling the messy structures - Part 2

Your past is always your past.

Even if you forget it, it remembers you.

― Sarah Dessen

We sit on a bench under the strong, thick branches of an old oak tree opposite a sturdy-looking, red brick building, soaking up the remaining sun's rays. The place seems to be standing there since before the first world war, slightly warned out but extremely solid. Safe. Reliable. Full of history and stories I think I would love to hear. The hour isn't late, but the nearing Winter had its own rules, forever eager to step into the shadows of the night even before bringing any traces of snow. I tilt my head to the side and inhale the air deeper. Charlie's grandmother had lived in a beautiful place. It seemed so peaceful, even in the middle of a busy city. Almost as if the greyness of the town didn't reach the five-story building or the street filled with old things and memories that you could breathe in if you just focused enough. I sit up more straight, hands deep in the pockets of my jacket, and then ask without turning right to face him. Instead, focusing on the rusty color bricks and their peculiar patterns.

So, should I look you up in the yellow pages under a healer or a health masseuse?

I can sense him tense a bit, even though my tone was meant to be light.

It's just a word, Nora.

Yes, and yet we are sitting here for a reason. It's okay, you know. In comparison with me, you are merely a toddler in aisle one of the madness market that I own. Trust me, anything you will say, won't cause that much effect on me. I'm immune to nearly everything by now.

Well, it's new to me.

Okay, then let's make it a bit more familiar. Tell me when you knew, or at least sensed something different about you. There must have been something.

Why? Are you asking me when the radioactive spider first bit me?

I can sense his gaze on me and smile a bit.

No, I already know you were sculptured by angles and the creators of "The house on the prairie"*.

You want to hear about it, or do you prefer mocking me instead?

I put two fingers across my heart and master a serious expression.

My natural bitter and sarcastic nature shall not intervene in your story. You have my word.

He looks at me doubtfully, eyebrow slightly lifted.

Nora.

I sigh and nod.

I mean it, you have my word. I really want to hear it and apologize for the always-present bad habits. You won't hear a sound from me until you are done.

I bite my lower lip, holding back any natural sarcastic response that could roll off my tongue if not monitored correctly. My voice turns gentle as I speak.

Charlie, I mean it. Please tell me. I'm here for you.

He nods slowly in response and stares into the distance. He's silent for a while, probably gathering his thoughts before he speaks. Unexpectedly, he turns back to me and searches for something in my eyes, causing me to blink faster, my cheeks flaming up without warning, God knows why. Finally, he smiles, satisfied, and then looks up at the building.

It happened when I was a kid. But I guess, over the years, I must have put it into the back of my head, not dwelling on it for a long time. Kids have a talent for quickly moving on to new things, that's just how it is.

I listen to his warm voice and feel myself sink into the story slowly, showing my hands deeper into the pockets.

There was this older woman living down the street from us. Polite, quiet, but you could see something was wrong in the way she carried herself. Her face always seemed so pained, as if the expression was stitched to her features permanently. Each wrinkle like a note that shouted, stay away. I was 9-years-old then. And for some reason, felt a need to help her out. Not a common trait at that age, but probably due to the way I was brought up.

He exhales slowly before continuing, remembering things I might never have access to.

So, I shoveled the snow from her front yard in Winter and mowed the lawn in the Spring and Summer. Once a week, I would do groceries for her and got paid four dollars for it, even when I said it wasn't necessary. Though being just a little brat, I did enjoy having some money of my own; it made me feel important, and more like a grown-up.

The corners of my lips lift at those words. A tiny grown-up, Charlie. Already the

responsible one.

I remember that at first, I was a bit scared of her, but my grandmother said never to judge someone by their appearance and focus on what's inside. At that time, I wasn't completely aware of what the 'inside' really meant, but I didn't want to upset her either. Therefore, I helped as much as my skinny hands and legs let me, at the age of just nine. And when the Summer came, I was slightly braver and no longer feared to say 'hi' to her or ask questions. I was just hoping to ease the permanent scowl on her face and maybe earn a bit to buy a used skateboard, so I could spend more time with my friends.

One day, and I think it was the end of June, I drove over to her on my bike to ask if she needed anything from the shop and saw her crying on the porch, tears slowly streaming down the deep lines of her face. I remember the sound of my bike falling to the ground. And how my trainers seemed to squeak on the pavement as I ran up to her, then just standing there, not sure what to do next. I couldn't just hug her like I did my mom or say the right words because I didn't know the right words to soothe her pain. Instead, I did the only thing that came into my mind. I took her hand and squeezed it tight. I remember her looking down at me, surprise painted on her face. As if she forgot that anyone else was still living and breathing on this Earth. She stared at my hand for a long moment, her expression finally changing. The lines on her forehead and on her cheeks seemed to loosen up, her lips no longer just a tight, thin line... And right then, at that moment, I saw it; the always present grimace seemed to disappear from her face. I could see her relax as she gave me a shy smile. It was like experiencing the sun finally emerging from the thick, heavy clouds. I don't think I will ever be able to forge the sight. No matter how long I will live.

I shift slightly and tense up on the wooden bench, thinking that's how it always felt for me when he helped me, when he eased the pain. As if gazing at my very own sun; meant just for me. Silently, I gaze down at my lap while playing with my fingers.

I recall asking her. "Are you alright, ma'am?" and her words "I am now, son, thank you" Neither of us spoke of that day ever again, but something changed since then. I was no longer scared of her as if I understood her better somehow. The words of my grandmother forever echoing in my head. "Never judge, Charlie. See what's on the inside, not just on the top, dusty layer". I never forgot that lesson, and I still try to use it now.

I look at him thoughtfully and take his hand, the warmth as always filling me up in such sweet ways, but that's wasn't the reason why I was holding it. Thanks to his words, his story, I saw the person that he was as a child. And it was the same wonderful person that was still looking at me now. I couldn't be more grateful to have in my life.

Is that why you helped me that day? Because you saw something more than the average Joe

would?

Yes, I think so. I focused on the inside and a feeling that made me compose a conscious decision to do everything to help you.

Thank you for that.

I knew you needed me.

I still do.

And I am here to help, as always.

My body moves closer to him, my side leaning in. I kiss him on the cheek and smile softly.

I'm glad that you saw it before it swallowed me up completely.

Well, it was hard to miss.

What can I say? When I do something, I do it in a big style, with no exceptions.

Yes, and I've even grown to like that about you.

Then you must be just as mad as I am. Or more.

Perhaps, Nora, perhaps. But there's nothing wrong with a little crazy, right?

In your humble way, sure. But let's face it, you wouldn't be able to handle all of this.

I joke, getting up and doing a few small spins, pointing to myself.

You would be surprised.

Hmm, I don't usually like to be surprised, but for you, I will make an exception, Mr.

Evans.

Looking forward to it, Ms. Walton.

I cringe from the sound of my last name because it always made me think about my dad and our bad relations, but for Charlie's sake, I brush it off.

I should have never told you my full name.

You didn't, I made that happen on my own.

It doesn't make it any easier for me.

I smile at him for a moment, then grab his hand and pull him up.

Come on, your lunch hour will soon be over. It's a good thing that this place isn't too far from your job.

He stands up and slides his hand out of mine, pushing both of his hands into the pocket of his thick grey coat, following me with some hesitation. I turn around and stare at him questioningly.

You're going to tell me later something about the man that visited you today. I didn't like him one bit, Nora. I just didn't.

I nod a few times and bite my lip again.

I will, promise. Even if the less you know about him, the better.

His eyes narrow a bit, but I smile nonetheless at him, gazing at his face for a moment.

It's not easy to put all of my shadows in your open hands, but believe me when I say: I'm

trying. I'm trying harder than I ever head with anyone.

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https://theprose.com/post/230936/with-all-my-senses ( the beginning )

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Previous chapters :

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45. https://theprose.com/post/451637/things-that-find-their-way-to-the-shore

46. https://theprose.com/post/460038/the-shadows-that-still-lurk-under-our-feet

47. https://theprose.com/post/463200/untangling-the-messy-structures-part-1

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*Little House on the Prairie (later known as Little House: A New Beginning in its sequel season) is an American Western historical drama television series, starring Michael Landon, Melissa Gilbert, Karen Grassle, and Melissa Sue Anderson, about a family living on a farm in Plum Creek near Walnut Grove, Minnesota, in the 1870s, 1880s, and 1890s.