The Other Shore: Two Stories of Love and Death

nights he got home in time to put Simon to bed.

  Simon always wanted to be a writer like his father. He wanted to make his own books, not collect the books that others had made.

  But here he is.

  As he steps into the main office, he can tell immediately that something is wrong. Cindy, the department's face at the front desk, is wiping her eyes. And, when she sees him, she stands up and gives him an awkward, somber stare. She has a bad news look in her eyes.

  "What's wrong?"

  "It's your dad," she says, handing him a note.

  He unfolds the the note. It reads: Dad is sick. He has days—not weeks or months. Please come home.

  "What is this? Who is this from?"

  "Your sister. She just called a minute ago."

  Cindy moves from behind her desk, tears fresh in her eyes, and embraces him. Simon looks around the office as if he's afraid someone might be watching them.

  "Cindy, it's alright."

  She's crying now, and he can tell that she's not crying for him or his father. She doesn't know anything about them. She's crying because she's viewing the situation through the prism of her own feelings toward a father—her father, probably. This has nothing to do with Simon and everything to do with her.

  She backs away from him and wipes her eyes with the backs of her hands. Simon pulls a tissue from the tissue box on her desk and hands it to her.

  "You alright?" he asks.

  "Me? What about you?"

  "I'll be alright," he says, but he wasn't sure this was true. In the moment, he doesn't feel particularly sad. He's not scared or anxious about the news. He's a little stunned, but mostly, he just feels vacant.

  "Did you know?"

  "Did I know what?"

  "That he was sick."

  "No, this is the first I've heard anything about it," he says, and sits on the edge of her desk.

  "What are you going to do?" she asks through tear-stained eyes.

  "I guess I'll have to go back home."

  Back at his house, he's packing a bag. He tries to keep his mind on what he needs for the trip, but he can't help painting a scene of what he's about to face. He has no idea what condition his father is in, or what happened to put him in that condition. Was it an accident? A stroke? Cancer? He should call his sister and find out more, but, for now, he's trying to focus on getting out of town.

  As he grabs another handful of clothes from his drawers, he hears a car in the driveway. He closes his eyes for a second, knowing that it's probably Rachael. He moves to the window, looks out, watches her get out of her car. He leans his head against the cool glass and wonders what he's going to tell her.

  She should be at work. The fact that she's here means she knows what's happened. That means that Susan, one of his co-workers, and one of Rachael's best friends, must have called and told her the news.

  He listens as the front door closes and hears her footsteps clamoring up the stairs.

  "Simon?" she calls out.

  "I'm in here."

  When she reaches their doorway, she stops and leans against the doorjamb. "Already packing?"

  "Susan called you."

  "She did. Why didn't you?"

  "I was going to."

  "When?"

  "Soon."

  "Well, let me grab some stuff and we'll call and book a flight," she says, moving toward her closet.

  "That's not necessary. I already booked a flight."

  "When do we leave?" she asks, pulling a small suitcase from the shelf at the top of the closet.

  "I'm flying out in a couple hours."

  "You didn't get me a ticket?"

  "I didn't."

  "Were you planning on leaving without telling me?" she asks, hugging the suitcase against her body.

  "No, I said I was going to call you, and I meant it."

  "From the airport?"

  "No, on the way, I guess. As you can see, I'm in a hurry."

  "Do you mind telling me why you don't want me to go?"

  "I don't even want to go."

  "That's not an answer to my question."

  "Rachael, I haven't seen my father in nearly six years. I haven't spoken a single word to him in all that time. It's going to be awkward enough for me to be there, let alone having to account for someone else."

  "You don't want me to meet your family?"

  "Yes, that's it. It couldn't possibly be the other way around, or the fact that there's no warmth in my family, or that this may not be the ideal time or situation for introductions. He's dying. This isn't some random social occasion."

  "I understand that," she says, sitting her bag on the floor.

  "Do you? It doesn't seem like you do."

  "If something were wrong with my parents, I'd want you to be there."

  "That's fine for you and your family. But my family is not your family."

  "Well, that just about says it all, doesn't it?"

  "That's not what I meant."

  "It's not about them, Simon. Not really. It's about you and me. It's natural for someone to want their partner with them during a time like this, and I want to know why it's not the case for you and me."

  "You're looking at this the wrong way. You're looking at this as a child of parents who love you, and as a child that loves her parents. You see this as a tragic situation where there will be lots of crying and mourning. But, honestly, I'm not sure how I feel about him dying. I wish I could tell you I'm not ambivalent about it, and, yet…"

  "How can you say that?" she says, moving back across the room, closer to him.

  "You don't know the situation."

  "Tell me."

  "I don't have the time," he says, zipping up his bag.

  "So, that's it then?"

  "I really have to go," he says as he squeezes by her, bag in hand.

  "Just help me understand."

  "As hard as this might be for you to believe, this isn't about you."

  "But I think it is."

  "You know what, this is exactly why I don't want you to go. You always want to talk about these things, and you keep hammering away, and, frankly, right now, and for the next few hours, I don't want to talk to anyone. And I certainly don't want to spend the coming days dealing with you like this."

  "Dealing with me?"

  "Yes, dealing with you," he says, walking down the stairs.

  "Simon," she says from the top of the stairs. "What's happening right now?"

  "I'm leaving to visit my father. He's dying. Don't know if you've heard."

  "No, really. What's happening with us?"

  "Did you come here this morning planning to have this conversation with me? I could think of better times to have this discussion."

  "I came here expecting to leave with you."

  "So, this is just an impromptu argument at the absolute worst time possible."

  "If that's what you want to call it."

  "And you couldn't have thought about having this discussion at some point before now?"

  "It wasn't until five minutes ago that the problem I feared we were having became a problem we are actually having."

  "As you might imagine, you're not my top priority at the moment, and the fact that you believe that you are says a lot."

  "It does say a lot. The problem is that it's saying something different to each of us. What's it saying to you?"

  "You think you should be the center of my world, and it's just not so."

  "Now we're getting somewhere," she says, quickly shuffling down the stairs.

  "I've really got to go," he says, opening the front door.

  "No," she says, closing the door.

  "You really want to do this?"

  "Give me just five minutes," she says, standing beside him.

  He sits his bag down at his feet.

  "Did you even consider asking me to go with you?" she asks, her arms crossed.

  "I considered it only because I knew you'd see it as an affront to you that I didn't."

/>   "But you never thought it would be nice for me to be there with you."

  "No."

  "Then we have a problem."

  "It's not a new one."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Can't we talk about this after I get back?"

  "But we're talking now, and it's been months since we've talked—really talked."

  "You're right," he says.

  "Where do you see us going—in the future?"

  "Nowhere."

  She closes her eyes, really squeezes them shut. "Are you saying that just to hurt me?"

  "No. Right now, I don't see anything going anywhere. Nothing will change for us if we stay together. Things will be exactly as they've been for the past several years. We'll be strangers living in the same house."

  "How can you say that?"

  "How would you describe it?"

  "I certainly wouldn't say that we're strangers."

  "Have you been happy, though?"

  "I was once. And I think we could be again. We just need to... I don't know," she says, easing away from him a step. "I don't know what to say."

  "Neither do I," he says, picking up his bag again. "But I know I have to go."

  "Tell me you don't love me."

  "Rachael, I can't—"

  "Just say it and I won't be here when you get back."

  "I do love you in a way, but not in the way you want me to, and not in the way I want to love someone."

  "So, it's over?"

  "It's been over for a long time. We're just now letting each other know what we've both already known."

  "I really did love you once, you know," she says, tears welling up in her eyes.

  "I loved you, too," he says, walking out the door and off the porch toward his car. He turns back toward her. She's standing in the doorway, watching him leave. "I'll call you, let you know what's happening."

  Simon has parked down the street from the house where he grew up. He sits in his rental car and stares at the place—allows the nostalgia to wash over him.

  There was a flood of pictures and feelings that ran through him as he made his way from street to street, approaching ever closer to this place he spent the first half of his life. And once he