September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Creative Nonfiction
Today was Different
Clouded hints of richly brewed coffee fogged my glasses as I raised the cup to sip. Milka and I shared an adoration for traditionally brewed coffee.
“Nescafe is Starbucks’ smarter older sister,” She chuckled between sips. I giggled too, despite having not the foggiest idea what she was talking about. Dare I say I actually liked the bitterness of a Starbucks Americano? Apparently, something about the tea biscuits stacked on the crystal plate tasted sweeter in Nescafe, so I continued sipping. The afternoon glow in the early days of fall cast golden shadows through the courtyard trees. They stretched across the wooden table where we sat. “Kid, remember when we painted the courtyard trees last fall?” Milka reminisced, nimbly breaking a cookie in half. “It was almost a year ago now.” I traced my thoughts back to the first time we sat on the balcony and painted. Milka outlined the trees and I painted from memory — canvases layered thick with colour, while we chatted until the white glow of the sun turned amber and then a deep orange. Almost like how it looked today.
However today was slightly off. Well, not off, but different — maybe it was because the lights were shut. The lights were never really left off, but the natural light gave the apartment a brighter glow.
It made Milka’s wrinkles sink just a little deeper, and my skin a little paler. Her eyes were glassier when she smiled at me. As I reached for a cookie it began to sink in — that the whole atmosphere was different, I mean. “You know that phenomenon where you can’t see the stars at night; something about street lights polluting the sky?” I offer, to shift the conversation. “Ambient light,” she smiled and nodded. “Kid, we should paint from the balcony again soon. I’d love to finish our paintings from last fall.” I adjusted my placemat and reached for the pitcher to refill our glasses. “I know you won’t leave the apartment, but don't you think it would be nice to paint from the courtyard?” This conversation was familiar and, more-times-than-not, seemed to always end the same way. “You know I prefer to sit on the balcony,” she’d say. Then we’d sip our coffee and the sound of Art Pepper on the saxophone would play backup to Shadow and Birdie’s chirps coming from their cage in Milka’s bedroom. But today was different. Today, I wasn’t just a teen serving my community hours. And Milka wasn’t just a Holocaust survivor who received my weekly visits for the past year. Today I was a dear friend whose voice would catch in the throat of my pending question. “Milka, can I ask you something?” I hesitated. “Sure, kid.” “Why do you choose to never leave?” “Leave where?” “The apartment.” I breathed shallowly, staring at my plate. She smiled regretfully — the kind of smile I knew was genuine but forced. She was preparing.
Milka cleared her throat, smoothed her placemat, and rested her hands on the table. Birdie swooped in, bringing a gust from the other room. She pecked at Milka’s fingernails until Milka finally decided to wave her away. “Tsk, tsk. Silly Tsipora, silly bird.” She sighed, “Kid, I have lived a bountiful life, and it’s been a beautiful one at that. Did I tell you about the time I travelled to the Dead Sea with some girlfriends?”
“I don’t think so,” I felt my cheeks flood with colour as her eyes gleamed. “…The year 1953 — we were sunbathing on the shore, I was nineteen maybe twenty, and we wore the most beautiful suits. It was bloody hot out too,” Milka chuckled, shaking her head. I could see her tight, silvery-black curls bouncing with her breaths. “Then, we see this handsome dark man walking down the hill. Ben — that was his name — he was travelling from Uganda for work; he needed directions to I-don’t-even-know-where. All I can remember five hours later was the sun setting and realizing we had talked all afternoon. We polished off the picnic — all the sandwiches we had packed. Want to know the sweetest part?” I nodded. “Fifty-something years later and we still share a picnic over the phone. Once a month we spend the afternoon.” “That’s wonderful,” I said. “You’re right, kid. It is. The wonderful thing is never knowing where you’ll find a companion. A good, intellectual companion. That’s Ben: a big man with a voice like velvet.” I could feel the dampness of my sweatshirt as I leaned forward. Despite the sun’s heat on the back of my head, goosebumps crept down my neck. I tried my best to ignore the chill. “It’s like he’s a part of the family,” I offered. “He met my Rami when he was just a toddler. They connected immediately,” She replied. “Listen, when Rami was born I was only eighteen. When he was maybe three years old, he would run around the house like a real daredevil. But you know what? I never worried. Not once did he ever hurt himself,” she laughed again, pursing her thin lips. “That boy, he had a talent for staying safe.” “He never got hurt?” I asked. “Never.” She responded proudly. “I was about your age when I became a mother. You’d think I had any idea what I was doing; you'd be wrong — Kid, I was so desperate for a family after I lost mine, it became my life’s goal to fill the gap. It was my duty, what I lived for, to create a family and keep it safe.” Milka paused and drew in a long, deep inhale. “Do me a favour?” “Of course,” She motioned to the living room where her collection of paints and books were neatly piled. Bookshelves lined the walls, resting on a tightly woven African carpet which I’d always admired for its vibrant colours. The entire room smelled like lilies and traditional coffee; rich and homey. “Find the beige book on the third shelf,” Milka called from the table. I could hear her wheels shifting on the laminate as she rolled herself to meet me. “The Garden of the Prophet, it should say,” “Khalil Gibran?” I called from the bookshelf. “Yes, that’s the one! Have you heard of him? He was a brilliant philosopher from Lebanon; an incredible writer.” I dragged my feet across the hallway and plopped back in my seat. She followed. “I can’t say I have.” I admitted shyly. “Read it. He has gorgeous insight about life and death and the in-between. He’s why I firmly believe children are not raised by, but grow through their parents. Wonderful material, kid.” She slid the plastic-wrapped book across the table towards me. “Are you sure?” “An old friend gave me Khalil Gibran in the 60s. I read and adored every second of him. Now I want you to have him.” “Why?” Milka sighed and let her gaze drift out the window where the sun was beginning to set. “If you read a book, why try to relive it? Especially if reliving gives you pain,” “I don't know,” “Listen, kid,” She held her arms up and surrendered with bony hands, chuckling. “I’m surprised I held onto it for so long,” “I don’t see what you’re trying to say,” “What I’m saying is I don’t need so many books or things anymore. They’re worth very little to me now.” I think she could tell by my silence that I wasn’t understanding. So, I choked on the dryness in my throat as she continued, “I think I’m sick.” I paused. “Sick, sick?” “Something in my stomach. Last time I saw a doctor they wanted to run extra tests. I wouldn’t have that. What’s the point?” I could feel the air escaping me. I could have sworn she was calm, but how was that possible? “Couldn’t chemotherapy be an option, Milka? Don't you want options?” I no longer felt the chair underneath me. “I don’t need options. Hospital life is depressing and being pushed in my wheelchair is painful for my back. I lived and I travelled and I’m happy. It’s my decision and I’m okay, kid.” “But Milka, your family,” I stuttered. “Kid, listen to me. I. Am. Okay.” She placed her hand on top of mine and I felt her fragile fingers curl into my palm. The room was silent. Suddenly background noise wasn't noise at all. The lilies had a stench that thickened the air and made it hard to breathe. “Talk louder please,” was all I could think to myself. “I need to hear you. The logical you, the you that wants to be better. The you that outlines trees in crimson and paints clouds like it’s a mastered craft. The you that lived a ‘bountiful’ life full of colour like the canvasses lining your walls.” — But I didn’t say that. What the hell could I have possibly said to deter her? You have a life ahead of you?
And the next bit was the hardest. How do you react to a dying survivor? How do you respond to your friend’s determined acceptance?
All you can do is adjust the hood on your sweater, sit up in your chair, and nod understandingly. And choke back the tears you wish you could cry openly for her. You get up. You tuck in your chair — the one that’s a mismatch to the table you’re sitting at. You tiptoe to the kitchen, in case your heavy steps may be insensitive, or disturb this dying moment. You absently empty the coffee maker. Toss the soiled filter in the trash. You slide two ceramic mugs under the machine. Listen to the hum it makes as it begins to gurgle and awaken. You tap your foot to Art Pepper on the sax, like you imagine she used to do. You listen. You listen to the birds inside, then outside on the balcony beyond the pigeon net. You listen to her hum, then to the coffee maker; you listen to the coffee maker hum Art’s solo. You look over your shoulder at her, a blur in the background, even blurrier through your tears. You focus on the dying survivor sitting arthritic at the table — no, not dying. In pain, not dying. Definitely not dying. But you smile again because you know. You know she's living and breathing and outlining the emerald leaves in crimson. She still has stories. You smile, thinking about the day you met. How vibrant the light shone that day. How the golden patches of light illuminating the floor seem a little duller now. Because today they’re orangey and amber and real. And as the rich aroma of Nescafe fogs your round-rimmed glasses again, you will smile. Because today was different. Today we each drank two cups of coffee. |
LI-ELLE RAPAPORT is a first-year student entering an Honours Specialization in Psychology with a Minor in Visual Arts. Her passion for sharing others' stories was inspired by her personal relationships with loved ones. She continues to channel this inspiration into other creative non-fiction pieces as well as her paintings.