Gilda

Gilda

  A Short (love) Story or A (short) Love Story

  By Thomas Harrington

  Copyright 2014 Thomas Harrington

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  I saw Gilda for the first time the night my wife died at the Massachusetts General Hospital.

  The doctor shook his head, confirming that life had gone out of the hand I held. I placed Karen’s lifeless hand on her stomach and kissed her warm lips for the last time. Her battle with cancer had also taken her beauty, but her spirit and character had remained strong to the end. What would I do without her?

  I bit my lip to fight back tears and turned my head to avoid a sight I did not want to see. A candy striper lurked in the doorway, surely waiting for instructions from a nurse or doctor. Although inappropriate, I thought of something my mother would have said: cute as a button. But, her sweet face was etched in sadness, which expressed exactly how I felt. I decided that the situation must have saddened her, because she could not have known Karen. Our eyes met; she pursed her lips: a display of sympathy, a show of emotion, or a sign of empathy. Her expression caused tears to rise, so I turned back to look at Karen for the last time. The love of my life had not lived to see her forty.

  On the way out, I could not keep my gaze from the young girl. She had a flawless face that can carry off a pixie hairstyle, which surely also highlighted that beauty. She had lowered her eyes, so she did not notice me staring. My thought was that, at a moment of life showing its worst side, this young girl affirmed that beauty also exists, like a brilliant rainbow following a thunderstorm. Once in the corridor, my thoughts returned to Karen, all I must do, and my new situation in life.

  *

  The second time I saw Gilda, we met by chance.

  On Wednesday evenings in the summer, lacrosse players—college kids or former college kids—met at an MIT athletic field for a pick-up game. Enough show up each week for two sides, with a few reserves left to relieve the winded old guys. I had missed several games, unwilling to leave Karen during her final days and then dealing with the funeral. After so many unpleasant weeks, I was happy for the distraction and exertion. Once the game ended and the usual post-game banter had trailed off, I decided to drive to a spot beside the Charles River, where I could park and watch the sunset. I wanted to delay the return to my empty apartment.

  I walked along the bike path to a break in the vegetation, where I would have an unhindered view across the water to the distant horizon. I spotted a biker, which I mistook to be a young man, standing at the river’s edge. This turned out to be a dark-haired woman with a pixie hairstyle. A suspicion of recognition suggested acquaintance: she could be a former student that I had not seen for a few years. Many lived in the area or stayed on for college. I guessed her to be in her early twenties, so she would have left prep school a few years ago.

  She must have heard me approach, because she turned. A smile lit up her face, whose beauty I could not deny.

  “I remember you,” she said.

  “Do I know you?”

  “You wife died.”

  The proverbial light flashed on in my brain. I was slightly embarrassed that she had to remind me how we had met—or, rather, seen—each other before.

  “The candy striper.”

  She nodded, still smiling. Her openness provided a license to stare. Her face captivated me.

  “You looked so sad,” she said, now pouting. “Well, it was sad. But, I felt so sorry for you. I’d seen people die before, but for some reason, you touched me. I wanted to hug you, but we’re not allowed to.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s the rule—”

  “No, why did I touch you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because your wife was so young. No one knows why the brain works the way it does, why people react the way they do to any situation, or—”

  “Philosophers do. Or psychologists.”

  She shook her head.

  “They think they do, and all have opinions, but no one knows for sure.”

  “That’s an opinion.”

  “Which is all anyone can have. No one knows how the brain works, which is why I want to find out.”

  I appreciated her spunk, but was skeptical. I had experienced enough young students with crazy and unrealistic dreams.

  “As a nurse?”

  When her face changed, I realized that my question had been sexist and, perhaps, prejudiced. I could have only assumptions about her, after having seen her only once and having exchanged only a few words.

  “That’s just a summer job. I’m studying to become a neurosurgeon.”

  “I’m sorry. I was wrong to assume.”

  She shrugged.

  “No problem. You couldn’t have known…like philosophers.”

  I was forced to chuckle.

  “Touché,” I replied. “By the way, my name is David. David Hunt.”

  We shook hands.

  “Gilda Rubin.”

  “Gilda? What kind of name is that?”

  “Jewish.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I’m an atheist, so don’t accuse me of killing Jesus.”

  “I wouldn’t,” I replied, stifling a chortle. “Does that happen often?”

  “It did where I grew up.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Long Island.”

  I did not want to get into a discussion about religion, and she seemed to be inspecting me.

  “You been doing some sport?” she said.

  “Lacrosse. There’s a pick-up game on Wednesday during the summer. A bunch of current and former college players.”

  “I like lacrosse,” she said. “I played in school.”

  I knew enough not to reveal my opinion of women’s sport.

  “You seem to have a low opinion of philosophy,” I said.

  “That was my major in college, that and psychology.”

  Surprise surely showed on my face. I shook my head.

  “I judged you wrong. You look young for your age, because I guessed you to be twenty or twenty-one.”

  “I’m 22.”

  I was incredulous. I had seen enough padded CV’s to be skeptical of anyone’s claims.

  “You’ve already graduated from college and are in med school?”

  “It’ll be my third year.”

  I did the math in my head…and came up with liar or genius. This young lass had graduated with a dual major—difficult ones—at 19 or 20, which means that she finished high school at 15 or 16. Improbable, but possible with a high IQ and drive.

  “Two tough majors,” I said. “You must have a high IQ.”

  “My mother brags to people that it’s around 200, but some tell me there’s no such score. I don’t know and don’t care.”

  “Well, I know one thing for sure: you’re too smart for me. Let’s watch the sunset.”

  But, the sky could not keep my mind from spinning.

  “Something doesn’t add up,” I said. “You’ve done two years of medical school, but you’re only 22. Did you lie about your age?”

  She chuckled.

  “I get that a lot. I finished high school at 16 and Radcliffe at 19.”

  “Your grades must have been good.”

  “I’ve never had less than 4.0.”

  Her matter-of-fact tone suggested boredom, rather than boasting.

  “I remember psych majors being weird, but you seem normal.”

  “I won’t ask you to define normal.”

  Her smile told
me that I had not offended her. I returned to the sunset, but questions kept popping into my head.

  “Did you also do pre-med?”

  “Not officially. I had advanced science—you know, chemistry and biology and physics—and audited a bunch of courses and took some in the summer. One of my professors was married to the dean of the medical school. Foolishly, he promised to admit me if I maxed SATs in the required subjects, which I did.”

  I could not help myself: I shook my head.

  “I guess a brain surgeon has to be smart.”

  “Becoming a surgeon is only the first step. I want to do research into understanding how the brain works.”

  “Why not try to cure cancer?” I asked. “That’s more urgent in terms of human suffering. You know, like pancreatic cancer?”

  “Perhaps, but that’s not as challenging—or have as far-reaching implications—as understanding how the brain works.”

  “Having just lived with cancer, it seems fairly challenging.”

  “Maybe, but I believe a cancer cure will be found in manipulating genes. Understanding the brain is bigger than just DNA. And, think of what it can lead to: challenging everything about human behavior, ethics, religion, law, society, you name it. Everything we do will be turned on its head—pun intended—when we understand how the brain functions.”

  I had gone from depressing thoughts about cancer—and Karen—to being impressed by a young woman and laughing at her jokes. Glancing at the horizon, I could see only the lingering glimmer of daylight. We had been so involved in our discussion, that we had ignored the arrival of nighttime. This would be no place for a young woman by herself.

  “Let me drive you home,” I offered.

  “I’ve got my bike.”

  “It’s dark, and I have an SUV.”

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind the dark…or a non sequitur.”

  “It’s not safe along the river.”

  “I’m not afraid. Besides, I can’t be, because I don’t have a car. I’ve lived here for five years without much trouble.”

  “Too many weird people out and around.”

  “If I worried about weird people, I wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning.”

  “At least walk with me to my car and the street lights.”

  “Okay,” she said, turning her bike to join me. “I like talking to you. And, it’s nice you worry about me. I don’t have anyone that does that.”

  I had not asked about boyfriends. Now, I knew. Not that it mattered. I found her very attractive, but the age difference was too great, and I was still mourning the loss of the love of my life. Still, it had been pleasant to talk to Gilda. Too bad that I would never see her again…