Dear Camilla,

13: Evermore

Dear Camilla,

It was still raining when Oliver and I got to the hospital.

Inside, a nurse ushered us into a private room where I sat on a bed covered in thin paper. The doctor assessed my foot and advised me to lay back while she worked. I felt a needle prick my skin in several areas around the wound. Soon, I was only numbly aware of the pain. She pulled the shard out while the nurse stopped the bleeding with a gauze. I looked back at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling while she stitched up the cut. Even though Oliver was there and I appreciated his presence, I felt alone. If only the wound from your absence could be numbed and surgically stitched up like this.

Pain can indeed be beautiful at times. For example, the most beautiful part of a piano song happens when the high notes are cut by the low. Or when there is a pause after the crescendo. I wonder how can something so delicate, so intricate, so pure and good and full simply... stop. I'm comforted, though, knowing that the song's lows and the pauses are only temporary too. Like while watching a cartoon, you know all the problems, no matter how absurdly insurmountable, will be solved in the end. Life is not like that. There is no guarantee that the pain will only be temporary. Is there still beauty in pain if it is everlasting?

"Alright, you're finished!" The doctor said a tad too cheerily, "I'm prescribing you antibiotics to prevent infection, you can pick them up at the pharmacy. You should feel comfortable walking again in around a week, you're lucky the cut is on the arch of your foot, not the part that makes contact with the ground. I'll give you two a moment to rest here before you check out."

She and the nurse left, leaving Oliver and me alone.

"Would you like to be alone? Should I take you back to your hotel? Where are you staying? I feel awfully responsible."

"I was supposed to stay with my friend Camilla, so I don't have a hotel..."

"Where does she live? I'm glad you'll have someone to take care of you, though I wish I could do it myself."

"I actually... uh," I looked down, embarrassed, "I actually don't know where she lives. She was supposed to meet me that first afternoon in the park, but she never came. She hasn't returned my calls, either."

"That's a shame... Well, you are, of course, more than welcome to stay with me if you'd like."

"Really?" I asked meekly.

"Really," he answered confidently, "let's get you home to rest." He squeezed my knee for reassurance and smiled softly. "Plus," he added, chuckling, "you look just a tad ridiculous in my heart boxers right now. You're soaking wet, poor thing!"

I laughed, realizing my strange appearance for the first time. It felt good to air out the seriousness that hung heavy and gray like cigar smoke in the room. To extend the piano metaphor, the high note of that moment made the lows from earlier look beautiful in hindsight. I blushed like a schoolgirl finding flowers in her locker.

"Come on, I'll carry you again." Before I could object to the practicality of that means of transport he swept me off my feet and up into his arms. I felt as comfortable and proud as Cleopatra must have on her golden chariot across the Sinai desert. I was high in the sky, and I felt, then, that there were still beautiful things.

Was it that I had swam out past where my feet could touch? Swept away by the riptide of time? Was he a pallbearer? Where is your island, Camilla? Where is my grave?

Maxine