The Other Shore: Two Stories of Love and Death

Susannah, it was really only then that I saw how truly unhappy I'd been. And I saw that I had a chance at something I didn't know existed for me anymore. I had a chance to be happy, a chance to be in love again. And, since you kids were grown by then, I made a choice. It wasn't an easy choice because I knew that your mom wouldn't take it well, but I felt I had to do it for the sake of my own happiness, and, honestly, to restore a little sanity back into my life. Besides, I didn't think it was possible for your mom to be any more unhappy, and we all know that there was nothing we could do to turn her around, least of all me.

  "And you may believe I made the wrong choice. You may blame me for what your mom did, even if I think that's unfair. But I need you to know that I do not regret that choice. I have had more than six years of happiness with Susannah. I am happy, even now. But the one thing I do regret, the one thing I haven't been at peace with these past six years is that I haven't tried harder to be part of your lives. I'm sorry for that—deeply sorry. But I need you to know that I never stopped thinking about you and your sister. It was just… Just… I was—"

  "You don't have to—"

  "No, please, let me say this,"Sy says, and turns his head a little toward the window. "I was a coward. I've always been afraid. I've spent most of my life being afraid."

  "What could you have done? You are who you are."

  "That's what I used to think, but I don't believe that anymore. I think that's an excuse I was happy to use for too long," Sy says, sounding even more labored now than a few minutes ago. "I used it as an excuse when you guys were kids—when I wasn't around. I used it to stay at the university a few hours longer everyday, or to go to the office on weekends. I made work for myself so that I didn't have to come home. I should've been there for you guys more than I was."

  "It would've been nice, and I can't say your absence wasn't felt, but I think I always knew— " Simon stops himself. "I was going to say that I always knew it wasn't about me and Maggie, but that's not true. I didn't always know that. I still don't."

  "It wasn't you. I could easily blame it on your mother, but that's not fair, either. This is what I mean when I talk about being a coward. I was too much of a coward to leave a bad situation. I didn't love your mom for many years after our marriage. Being around her endless sadness made me endlessly sad, and I just couldn't bear to live in it. So, I escaped. Every day I tried to find a new way out, just so I wouldn't have to face the problem I knew I had."

  "What could you have done? Could you have changed that part of yourself that had to escape?"

  "Maybe not in that situation, but I could've changed the situation. I didn't know it at the time—I was too scared. But if I had left your mom, things might've been better for all of us," Sy says. "And I know this now because as soon as I left your mother, I was immediately happier. Things were clearer in my mind, and I could look to the future without fear and trepidation. And, most importantly, I could be present. I stopped trying to find ways to escape myself, my life."

  "And it happened that quickly."

  "It did. I mean, there were some bad habits I had relied on, like working long hours and neglecting my personal life, but Susannah helped me through all that."

  "So, you think it was just as simple as being with someone new?"

  "No, see, that's what I'm trying to get across. It wasn't just about your mom. It wasn't about Susannah. It was about me. I didn't love her. She no longer loved me, though she may have thought otherwise. We were together simply out of inertia, and I was too much of a coward to do anything about it. But when I met Susannah, I found my strength. I wish I hadn't needed her to show me the truth and the depth of my unhappiness. It wasn't fair to her, and it made her look like the bad guy. But that's just the way it happened."

  Simon pulls the chair beside the bed and sits.

  "What about you?" Sy asks.

  "What about me?"

  "Your sister says you've been with the same girl for awhile. How's it going?"

  "Not great."

  "In what way?"

  "She wants something from me I'm not sure I can give her."

  "Why's that? Why can't you give it to her?"

  "I don't know."

  "Sure you do."

  "Why don't you enlighten me?" Simon asks with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  "I can't do that," Sy says, ignoring the sarcasm. "My guess is you already know what the problem is."

  "I don't think I'm happy."

  "Sounds like you may need to rephrase that."

  "I'm not happy."

  "Then it's already done."

  "But I'm not—"

  "Simon, believe me when I tell you that time is not on your side. It's never too late to start over."

  "You're right. I know you're right," Simon says, looking at his father.

  "I'm in a lot of pain right now," Sy says. "I'm going to have to take something real soon, and I still want to see your sister."

  "Right, let me get her," Simon says, standing up from the chair.

  "Wait. Before you get her, I want to ask you a favor," he says. "Could you go to campus tomorrow for me? My assistant is expecting someone from the family to take care of a few things for me."

  "What things?"

  "It's about my papers. I'm leaving them to the university, and, well, you know more about these things than anyone else."

  "Sure, I can do that," Simon says.

  "I'd appreciate that," his dad says. "When you get your sister, ask Susannah to bring the nurse."

  Simon opens the door to Felton Hall, the English and Humanities building of the university. Though the scent of the place is exactly the same as he remembers, it's had a serious facelift over the years. He feels disappointed, and maybe even a tinge of betrayal, that it's changed without him knowing. The paint on the walls is a shade of beige now—different from the soft green of his memories. The design of all the little things—doors, drinking fountains, bulletin boards—have changed so much that it almost makes him wonder if it could be a different building. Even the hallway floors, once covered with a speckled orange and brown carpet, are now tiled, and the sound of his steps on the floor changes the shape of the place somehow.

  But he's not fooled. The smell and the aura of the place are infinitely familiar.

  He chases his child's ghost up the same stairs he's run up countless times in the past. On the second floor, where his father's office is located, he stops and looks down the hall. He marvels at how small and unremarkable it is—and empty. It is summer after all. There are very few students on campus this time of year. But, still, the quiet surprises him. Maybe it's the sound of his steps on the tile that's making the place feel empty, or maybe it's that the familiarity of the place, and the time when he knew it, makes him feel like a child, makes the place seem bigger somehow, more uncertain. He remembers this hall being huge and majestic, long as a city block when he and Maggie used to run up and down it playing tag. He can recall traversing the streams of people between classes with a knowing ease, feeling as though he were moving through a big city.

  It's funny that being here brings such strong, happy memories. When he was here, it usually meant something was wrong at home. They usually only spent time here when their mom was sick. This was when they were still little—too young to be home with a woman who couldn't bring herself to get out of bed. He clearly remembers his dad kneeling down and letting him know that he was coming to work with him because 'Mommy's sick.' He knew what it meant when Mommy was sick. Too many times he felt that she was sick because of them, that she needed to be free of them long enough to recharge her happiness. Even now, though he knows he should know better, he still thinks having them around brought her more sadness than happiness.

  Still, walking down this hall, looking in the small windows of the classroom doors, he can feel how much of a refuge this building was for him then. The order of the place gave him comfort. It was his only evidence in those days that there was order in the world.

  Sy rarely
paid them any attention while they were here, but it was still nice to be close to him, to know he was near. Being here was like visiting their dad at his place, as if it were his other home. And there was a sense that they were going into a space where, even in the moments where it was full of the chaos of people and sound, it was still more serene and quiet than their house.

  He turns down a small hall, lined on either side with academic offices. All of the doors are shut—all but one. It's his dad's old office.

  There is a middle aged man sitting at a desk inside. His hands are holding his head over a large, open book. He hasn't noticed Simon. Simon looks at the nameplate on the door. It's not his dad's office.

  "Excuse me," Simon says, tapping against the doorjamb.

  The guy looks up, a startled look in his eyes.

  "Sorry," Simon says. "I'm looking for Sy Markham's office."

  "Oh, he's in the English department."

  "This isn't the English department?"

  "No, this is Classics and World Religions. English is on the third floor."

  "Thanks," Simon says, and watches the guy go back to his book as if he were never interrupted.

  Simon makes his way back down the office corridor, feeling aggrieved by this change. It's a small thing to move the English department up a floor, and for his dad to change offices, but this change feels like a violation of his past, like it's tarnished his memories somehow.

  As he travels the steps to the third floor, he feels as though he's walking away from those childhood