It was a strange day on the twenty seventh. Marc had
uncharacteristically decided to take a different route home; one that had
involved thinking. He had a lot to ponder that day. He’d been offered a
temporary job at a hardware store in town for the summer, and was
simultaneously debating between buying bar or liquid soap the next time he’d
run out. The autumn wind had stung
Marc’s delicate face through his dense glasses his, and Marc had realized his
shoelaces had been left undone. He had carefully crouched down next to the
familiar oak tree as he had began to tie his once white sneakers, which trapped
the fallen pumpkin leaves as he had noticed something sticking out between a battered
leaf. It was Lily’s ballpoint pen. A certain joy had surmounted Marc, as he and
Lily had argued over the topic of the missing pen in previous weeks. He had insisted that she examine her
schedule step by step, and look for the pen at all the places she had been.
Lily had been far too desolate to do so though. For a wintry second he
remembered the hopeless look that empowered her eyes and sent her running to
the bathroom in tears during Social Studies. He had never seen her break down
like that before, and he had thought that his discovery would bring Lily
happiness, if only for a while.
Marc had run very quickly, pen in hand, over to her house.
With his customary three knocks, he had notified the Brenslins’ that he was at
their door. Strangely, on that particular day they had not opened the door
within their usual time interval. Again, he had knocked. His heavy knuckles had
pounded anxiously at the wooden door; he remembered thinking that he’d dented
it. Mrs. Brenslin had appeared at the familiar doorway with a foreign
expression on her face. Her normally glowing eyes held a pale, vacant
expression that still haunts him on those odd Saturday nights. It was an awful
moment for him, to see eyes so known yet so empty, he could barely recognize
her. His left hand had still been clutching the plastic black pen when he was
told. Even after, he didn’t dare to let it go.
That was the day that Alexander Marc
Ricardo received the news, on the twenty seventh of October, at precisely 4:45
PM. Alexander had always preferred
the name Marc, and so Lily had always called him Marc. They had spent most of
their lives together, from kindergarten all the way until the eleventh grade.
Marc had planned for them to find a small apartment together after high school,
but apparently Lily had other plans.
“She jumped.” He repeated to the child who
had been questioning him for the past hour. Little Henry was curious as to why
his father kept a pen on his desk when he wouldn’t let anyone (not even
himself) use it. Henry had never
seen his father, or any other man for that matter-cry. Watching his beloved Dad
now reduce to tears made the little boy question what he was taught. Men
couldn’t cry, could they? Poor Henry had been looking forward to growing up.
“But who was Lily?” the child asked,
finally.
Marc sat there in silence, letting one last tear trickle down
his face. Whenever he heard her name out loud, his heart would weigh down just
a little heavier than it already was. He turned his hazy gaze back to her pen,
a possession he found more valuable than any jewel. He had loved Lilly. Even
after what she had done to him, he could forgive her. All she had to do was
come back. He had rehearsed this fantasy in his head many times: they would run
some tests on the body, realize that it was her cousin or something, and
everyone could rest in knowing Lily was out there somewhere. They’d know that
she’d be back, that it wasn’t she who had jumped from the ledge. One day she
would run through Marc’s door, tears in her eyes, they would laugh, hug, and
Marc would finally give Lily back her beloved pen. He would finally again feel
the warmth of her skin as she would sit on the black couch, telling him all
about her adventures in Africa and the Caribbean. She would be a little tanner
than he remembered, but even more beautiful too. They would kiss, and she would
be his again.
Sadly, he had always been too intelligent to believe in
fantasies, too intelligent to believe in happy endings. A sudden wave of anger
burst through Marc. Using Lily’s pen he furiously scribbled
why on a clean sheet of
paper. But he did not stop at one. Marc made sure that no one could even try to
make sense of the word that had been repeatedly scratched in. Softly sighing,
he looked down at his monstrous creation.
Why?
Lily was perfect: stunning, intelligent, thoughtful, and witty. He fiddled
some more with the black pen in hand; lucidly remembering how every word she
spoke would flow like pearls through her lovely, petite mouth. She had the most
beautiful eyes, too. Whenever she was sad the little balls of blue and green
would dilute, as if you were looking at a globe that was about to shatter with
grief.
Everybody would’ve
understood her situation. It wasn’t an uncommon sight to see a pregnant high
school girl these days. And besides, it was Marc! Everybody loved Marc too. He
would’ve been a great father to her child, and a great husband to Lily. She had
just needed to give him a chance.
A long, awkward creak invited itself to the dusty room as the
door slowly opened to uncover Marc’s wife, Theresa, sympathetically smiling at
him.
“You okay?” she asked cautiously.
“I thought I heard something. I meant I
thought I heard you, downstairs.”
Marc hastily used his arms to cover the scribbled mess in
front of him,
“No, I’m just working on something.” He
managed to cough out in a somewhat neutral tone.
“You sure?” She paused, “I was just
talking to Henry…he seems to think something’s bothering you.” Theresa gently
pursed her lips in another useless attempt to urge Marc to openly reveal what
he was feebly hiding.
He looked up at her beautiful brown eyes, and for a beautiful
second she thought that Marc had been convinced.
“Just one of those days.” He responded, tenderly
notifying her that the conversation was now over.
Theresa pathetically smiled back, nodded and gently closed
the door, a routine she had since perfected. Marc sat still in the darkness of
his study, and suddenly the room felt a lot emptier than he had remembered it
to be. He loved Theresa too. Someday he would love her entirely. He finally
placed the timeworn, black pen into its coffin-like case and wondered why we've
been taught how to love, but not how to stop.
