"We cannot decide to love. We cannot force people to love us. There is no secret recipe, only love itself. And we are at its mercy - there is nothing we can do."
― Nina George, The Little Paris Bookshop
***
MIA POV -
"My name is Mia, I'm from Indonesia... I like playing guitar and singing," my voice was hoarse but I still continued, "Alya idolized me, but she's dead. And Marc..., he broke up with me."
Tears finally fell one by one down my cheeks. "He kissed me for the first time in the apartment kitchen, he once took me flying," I said. "250 km/h on a motorbike. We fly."
My voice trembled. My whole body was shaking, but I still tried to hold on. I took a deep breath.
"He accompanied me to meet Alya for the last time," I said. "After that we-"
My heart suddenly sank. Like being cut by a knife, I was hurt inside.
"We..., we did...," I bit my own lower lip, keeping my voice steady. But, I can not. I can't say. The memories are both too beautiful and too painful for me now. So I decided to skip that part, even though it felt almost impossible to forget.
Then, I swallowed my saliva slowly. "We want a boy. He wants it badly," I said. "But he broke up with me. He said I was a slut."
I covered my face with both hands while sobbing a little. Then I caught my breath.
"Continue Mia, if you're still up to it."
That's Doctor Cynthia. Her brown eyes looked at me seriously behind her square glasses, covering the slight wrinkles under her eyelids. Her black hair reached her shoulders in the booth, making her look 30 years old, even though her actual age was 44 years old.
She is a psychiatrist at my hospital too. I'm doing mental therapy―keeping my sanity straight.
We do this therapy once a month, because I've always daydreamed since I first came to this hospital.
The development? Almost nothing. I still cry when I have to mention Marc's name.
I raised my face and looked at Doctor Sintia who was sitting next to me carrying white paper on a mat to write down my progress. Meanwhile I was lying on my back in a special chair.
"2 weeks ago he came here," I said. "He asked me to come back."
Doctor Sintia was surprised while looking at me. "Is it true?"
I nodded. Then took a hard breath, then continued. "He said he had separated from his fiancé because he still loved me," I said. "Just―just like I separated from my fiancé too."
I lowered my face again, then wiped my tears.
"Now I will advise you as a friend, will you listen?"
I looked at him again.
"Go back to him, Mia," said Doctor Sintia. "Honestly, I'm worried about your condition. You're seriously depressed because of it. Even though we've had therapy many times, you've made little progress. I'm sure that if you get back with him, you'll be back to the way you were before."
"I'm not going back to him," I said. "I swear to God, I won't go back to Marc."
I never take my vows with God lightly. For me it is like a binder and a protector. Moreover, when I said it the first time, I was angry and hated Marc to death. So that's all I can think and say over and over again.
Doctor Sintia avoided it. "But what if God wants you to be together again?"
I raised my face.
"What if God really created you to be together?" she asked. Doctor Sintia looked at me straight.
I smiled bitterly then shook my head. Then Doctor Sintia came closer to me and grabbed my shoulder.
"Don't try to deceive God, Mia. I also know that you still love him."
I turned to look at her. "But what if it's the other way around? What if Marc and I weren't made to be together? If we date again, we'll only hurt each other again."
Doctor Sintia chuckled. "Didn't you see the signs? You said you broke up with your fiancé, so did he. Then he came here to meet you. God must have guided him."
She stroked my shoulder gently. "Go back to him, Mia. Don't make God angry by not following God's plan."
I can't say anything else. My lips were locked tightly in my confusion. It took me a while to be able to step foot into the mess. When it was getting late, I decided to go to bed early.
I hate the fact that I have to wake up because of a nightmare. While I was still gasping for air, I saw that the sky outside was still dark. I don't know what time it is, and the wall clock in my mess room is off.
It doesn't matter if I have to look at the clock on my cellphone which is on the nightstand. But the nightmare just now made my body feel numb. I think it was the worst nightmare I've ever had. Vaguely remembering it made my arms and legs tremble again.
I quickly looked away and forced myself to squirm. Once quite satisfied, with a lazy movement I checked the time on my cell phone. It turned out it was almost dawn. I thought I shouldn't bother trying to sleep again and struggling with the nightmare just now. After all, the day has changed. That means activities will start as usual.
I moved my muscles and joints for a while. I haven't been able to sleep well for months. After showering, I walked to the kitchen. I intend to make breakfast with the hospital cook.
There were two people, both women. Fifi and Pen. Fifi is quite stocky, while Peny is quite thin with wire teeth. They were genuinely nice to me―not because I owned the hospital. We are usually able to sink hours into cooking food for the kids. Chicken soup, smooth porridge with shredded chicken, fish or shrimp, several desserts such as colorful jelly, to peanut cakes and brownies.
Doctor Sintia came at eight o'clock and asked Peny to make coffee. She saw me and greeted me. We chatted for a while and she reminded me to have breakfast, after that she came out of the kitchen with her coffee.
I like cooking. And without me realizing it, Doctor Sintia had entered the kitchen again, which meant it was eleven o'clock in the afternoon. She usually comes during breaks to help herself to some snacks she likes.
"Oh, are you still here?" she asked.
I nodded while smiling. My hands are still busy mixing the cake dough.
"Aren't you from dawn? Get some rest, Mia."
Without reducing my respect for her as a doctor and friend, I just agreed indifferently. Because actually I can't just keep quiet. That would make me think about bad things again. Actually, I don't know what I was thinking. What was clear was that it would make me daydream and in the end, Doctor Sintia dragged me back to the psychiatrist's office.
I know she's worried about me. Actually, I'm also worried about myself. My stomach started to rumble. But I'm too lazy to eat. So I just greedily licked the cake dough that stuck to my fingertips.
Shortly before Doctor Sintia left the kitchen, several children, around 5 boys, came running into the kitchen. That's Kim―she's about 7 years old, since he was a baby he's had back and forth transfusions at this hospital so I recognize him.
If you think from his name, Kim has narrow eyes and pale white skin, you are wrong. Because he one hundred percent has big, round black eyes like marbles. His skin is brown and his hair is bright red. But not because it was polished. This was due to complications from the disease he was suffering from.
Kim came with his friends. They must have had a transfusion. Instead of holding toys like most small children, they were holding newspapers.
The five of them sat at the dining table with Kim spreading out his newspaper and reading it intently silently. That made the friend on Kim's left side, the smallest one―who is 2 years younger than Kim, a little angry.
"Read it out loud, Kim! Who won last week?"
Doctor Sintia and I smiled and then curiously approached them. "What is it?" asked Doctor Sintia.
One of Kim's friends turned to look at Doctor Sintia and answered shyly. "Motogp."
My heart feels like it's sinking. I'm afraid to ask, is it true that they are reading news about MotoGP? It's been a long time since I closed myself off to that world. The word MotoGP itself feels like I haven't heard it for centuries, it seems so foreign now.
Then for some reason, my curiosity grew bigger. What are they looking at? Last race result? Where is the final race? Who is in the current standings? Is... still Marc? Where does it stand in the final race?
I hated the fact that I apparently couldn't stop my mind from finding out about Marc. Since he came here two weeks ago, after I rejected him, I should have forgotten about him.
But because of my discussion with Doctor Sintia in the psychiatrist's room yesterday, my heart became a little shaky. Back to him? I think... I still need time and think again. But, knowing a little more about him now, I think it's fine.
"Who's on the first podium, Kim?" Kim's tiny friend asked again while pulling his arm.
Kim was silent for a moment then his eyes narrowed. "Number 25." Kim pumped his fists in the air and grinned happily. "My hero!"
I smile. Maverick Vinales. Great, Mack, I thought.
Doctor Sintia, who I'm sure actually doesn't know anything about MotoGP, pretends to be interested in making the children happy. She sat next to Kim's petite friend.
"Who are the second and third podium finishers?" asked Doctor Sintia.
Kim read the newspaper again and looked at Doctor Sintia. "Jorge Lozo, and Pet.. pet.. ci..."
I smiled amusedly seeing him trying to spell a name which was quite difficult for a 7 year old Indonesian child to pronounce. But a second later, I realized. Something's wrong here.
There is a name that should be on the podium one to three. But from Kim's statement, his name was not there. Usually he would make it to the podium, right?
Doctor Sintia glanced at me as if she knew what I was thinking. Even though she doesn't know about the world of MotoGP, she knows―Marc is a MotoGP racer too. Before we had finished exchanging ideas through our eyes, someone forcibly took the newspaper from in front of Kim.
"If you want to borrow it, tell me first, Kim!"
I looked up, and saw a 15 year old boy standing in front of us. That's Rahmat - a regular patient at this hospital too. Even though he had thalassemia, puberty did not stop. He was the same height as me, but his body was thin, like bones covered in skin.
The plaster on his hand showed he had been given a transfusion just like Kim and her friends. But his face looked more pale. It could be that these children finished their transfusion first and they took Rahmat's newspaper while Rahmat was having a transfusion.
"Just borrow it for a moment!" Kim persisted and struggled to grab the newspaper from Rahmat's arms. Rahmat didn't want to let go and instead hugged the newspaper even tighter.
I broke it up and for some reason, I sided with Kim. "Sorry, please lend him a moment. Let him read."
Rahmat looked at me for a moment, then he sighed. With a slightly annoyed look at Kim, he handed him the newspaper and ruffled Kim's hair in excitement.
Kim smiled broadly and sat back in his chair as before. He reopened the newspaper still on the same page and continued reading.
If Marc doesn't finish on the podium one to three, I hope he finishes in fourth or fifth. I bit my own lower lip and tried to have the courage to ask Kim. "Number... 93 finished in what position, Kim?"
It took a long time for Kim to answer. Actually, I could easily borrow the newspaper for a while and read it myself. But... I'm still too hesitant to understand in my heart that I want to know about Marc.
"Nine three?" Kim frowned. "Who?"
I fell silent. My mouth felt locked tightly with that person's name hanging on my lips.
"Marc Marquez?" asked Rahmat.
My heart pounded when I heard his name called. I quickly turned my attention to Rahmat as if I had finally found someone who really understood MotoGP and knew Marc's motorbike number at the hospital.
I looked at Rahmat expectantly, hoping he would have known first.
"He crashed bad."
Just three words. I'm sure he only said three words. But for some reason, it felt like my heart had been punched until it stopped. I'm not moving anymore now. My hand which had been twisting the dough with a cake spoon stopped suddenly. While my other hand rested my entire body weight on the table.
I was unsteady, but I still tried to look at him seriously. "Crash?"
"Yeah, I watched the race on TV last week. He hit the wall, his body was dragged by his own motorbike and after that he was surrounded by a lot of people. I don't know what happened, because it happened so fast. But then, an ambulance took him and the picture changed to other racers. Shortly after that, the red flag was raised."
Red flag.
I know what that means. From years of working in the paddock, I know what a red flag means.
The red flag is a disaster. If the race has not started, it means it has been postponed. But if the race is in progress, and the red flag is raised, that means you can no longer see the racers continuing their battle. They had to stop because race direction told them to. Usually it's because of the weather, but in this case I'm sure it's because of Marc.
Little do I know about this type of crash. But if the red flag is raised, it means the crash could be severe enough to stop the race.
"The race stopped?" I asked trying to be sure.
Rahmat nodded and made my knees shake even more extraordinarily.
"It's been 20 laps. After Marquez crashed, the race was stopped. And finally Maverick Vinales, who was in first place at that time, became the champion."
I can no longer remember what form of hatred and disappointment I had towards Marc that had been lingering in my mind for weeks. What I'm thinking about now is the condition. Did he support his motorbike with his elbows and knees before falling? Are his vital organs still functioning properly? Is... he still alive?
Space and time lose their meaning to me now. I would have collapsed to the floor with cookie dough all over my feet. But just before I fell, Doctor Sintia held my arm and helped me to sit on a chair.
I controlled my breath, not sure my lungs were still pumping air properly. "But he's still alive, right?"
My eyes looked straight into Rahmat's eyes with a gaze that was more like pressure. In my heart, I desperately hoped he would say yes.
"I don't know. What I know is that he was critical after the race. After the race was stopped, there was no podium, everyone looked worried and anxious. After that I didn't watch TV anymore."
I don't know what shape my face looks like now. It must have been very messy with the heat I felt in every tissue of his skin. My face must be red like it's been boiled with tears and sweat falling without me knowing. The kids looked at me in surprise, probably thinking I really liked Marquez. Big fans. Fanatical fans.
But in my heart, it's more than that.
Doctor Sintia who knows everything. She hugged me and tried to calm me by stroking my shoulders.
"He must not die." My voice was more like a whisper.
"No. He's fine."
If only Doctor Sintia knew the truth about Marc's condition, I would be calmer now. But I knew those were just words he used to calm me down, because she didn't really know.
But as I expected, doctor Sintia helped a lot. Even more than I expected. She moved me to the sofa, laid me down and gave me a glass of water. Then she told Rahmat to do something.
"Can you find out what condition the racer who crashed is in now?"
Rahmat nodded then flipped through his newspaper. Trying to find out, maybe there is news about Marc there.
His hand movement stopped one page after the page Kim opened. His eyes moved from left to right reading a news column.
"He is being treated in a Spanish hospital, doctor," said Rahmat.
For a second I was happy, because that meant he was still alive. Although I'm sure, with a serious accident like the one I imagined, he's still critical now. Or the conditions are not very good for walking. Is he still able to walk?
So far, he has never hit a wall again after all these years. What the hell was he thinking? That question was racing through my mind. My chest has been tight since earlier and my brain can't think.
"You have to go there, Mia," said Doctor Sintia.
I shook my head hard.
"He needs you."
I know, I answered in my heart. But there was some kind of warning that shocked me. It makes my stomach feel like it's being stung and my veins weaken. I swear to God...
It wasn't my fault with God that made Marc so miserable, I held that belief firmly in my heart. But perhaps, God wanted to warn me. That I should have followed God's plan from the start―as Doctor Sintia said in the psychiatrist's room. And if it was like this, I would be afraid and quickly run to Spain.
But doubts hit me again. What if it's the other way around? What if he doesn't need me? I still remember very well, the last time he crashed, he broke up with me.
Marc had also actually warned me from the start when we shared these feelings. He took a risk.
I remember our first kiss in the kitchen of my apartment, Marc suddenly looked away while I was still next to the sink. I looked at him with a confused look. While his eyes looked angry.
"You can't love me."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I'm a racer. I could die at any time, Mia."
"Me too," I answered. He lifted his face to look at me. "Everyone is like that. Every second, we are getting closer to death. So what does it matter?"
"But I'm taking a risk, Mia."
"I like risks."
Marc sighed. "You do not understand."
"You want to lose me? You want us to separate even though we've only been together for five minutes?"
He chuckled. "No, I don't want us to be separated." Marc held my hand tightly. "I just..., I just don't want to lose you. I just don't want to see you sad if I―"
I immediately covered his lips with mine to interrupt his words when I saw his tears were about to come out. "You won't," I said. "You won't lose me, or see me sad when you crash. Because I trust you, you will always be careful on the track."
Well, now I really understand what he meant. I know how happy he felt when he was going lightning fast on the track, but he was putting himself at risk. So far he's been pretty good, more than good actually―he's been amazing. Because he was always careful and even became world champion many times. But he's human too, right? This is when I knew, Marc was right. He could die at any time.
My heart breaks thinking about it. It took several seconds, minutes, even hours to convince myself and accept Doctor Sintia's invitation to fly to Spain. But the longer I thought, the less time I had left to possibly see Marc. Throughout the trip I prayed that Marc's condition would get better, or at least not get worse.
The day had changed when I arrived at the hospital in Spain where Marc was being treated. I could breathe in the smell of morphine that was sharper than the one in my hospital. The walls of the hospital are painted pale blue and the atmosphere looks very relaxed.
Still in a state of unconsciousness and jet lag, we immediately went to the information room, found out Marc's room, told him that we were his close relatives so we could be allowed in. I thought it would take a long time to confirm that we were indeed relatives, but when one of the security guards saw my face, he seemed to recognize me.
The bald-headed security guard invited me in without saying anything else. But I had to walk alone down the hall to Marc's room because Doctor Sintia wasn't allowed in. Every step feels far away to me. Room 241.
I imagined what I would say to Marc when I saw him again for the first time after I kicked him out of my hospital. Or what should I say when I meet his parents. They must be looking after Marc. But when he was in front of Marc's bedroom door. I froze. This is exactly like my nightmare.
I held the cold doorknob while looking at Marc through the small glass on the door. He lay there not moving an inch. Beside his bed were many devices that had wires attached to his pale body. His right leg was hanging from something hanging on the rope. I've never seen him in this condition.
My tears kept flowing without being able to stop them. My thoughts wandered everywhere. Before I could stop all the bad thoughts in my mind, I faintly heard footsteps behind me.
"Mia?"
I quickly turned my head.
How surprised I was to see a man very similar to Marc standing right behind me looking straight into my eyes. Every jawline is exactly like Marc's. Hair and eyebrows are identical. But he is taller than Marc.
I blinked, a second later I realized. That's Alex Marquez―Marc Marquez's younger brother.
Alex invited me to talk in front of Marc's room―sitting on a metal chair.
"You don't know how bad it was at that time. Mom and Dad kept crying. Meanwhile, I was very confused about what to do," said Alex. "I can't imagine if―" he trailed off.
I saw tears starting to form in his eyes. He tilted his head, trying to keep the tears from falling. But his lips trembled, "if he dies," he continued. Tears began to fall one by one from Alex's eyes.
I couldn't stop myself from finding out more about the events of that time. Steeling myself, I asked. "What happened? Why did he get like that?"
I watched his face. He looks quite dull and his eyes are black under his eyes. Before he started, I imagined he would explain how Marc fell off his motorbike as explained by Rahmat. But he found it hard to say a single word about the accident.
"I know it's hard, it's okay if you don't want to talk, Alex," I said.
"No," he snapped quickly. I turned towards him. He looked at me too. "You should know, Mia."
he started. "I don't know what Marc was thinking. At that time he was in second place behind Vinales. He should have pressed the brakes, but he was too late," said Alex.
"I think it was at a speed of more than 270 km/hour, lap 20, turn 11. He hit the barrier wall and half of his body was dragged by the motorbike for 15 meters. I could see his helmet was slightly open. I thought he was dead. But it turns out he was able to crawling. Honestly, I think it was God's intervention," explained Alex. His voice grew weaker. "If I had been there, I might have died, Mia. I would have died."
I choked up hearing Alex's explanation. It felt like it was really hard to get air out of my lungs.
When Rahmat explained about Marc's fall I felt very sick, but when Alex explained it, it felt a thousand times more painful. I'm sure what Alex said is true because he is a racer too. He knows in more detail what happened and the condition of the track.
"After that, the ambulance immediately took him to the hospital. He was critical for 3 days," said Alex. "Mother never left this hospital at that time. Until Mother got sick."
Alex took a breath, then stared blankly ahead. "Papa and I were always beside him. We never slept, or rested and left Marc. Then Laia also came here. But when she woke up―" Alex turned his gaze towards me, "she was just looking for you."
I gasped. A few seconds later I tried to calm down and answered him. "I'm sorry because I wasn't available at that time," I said, looking down.
He replied. "I understand the situation is very difficult," Alex said.
"I don't know what kind of relationship you two are in now. What I see in Marc's eyes is that he has complete confidence in you."
My forehead wrinkled. "Confidence?"
Alex turned his gaze to me again and looked at me. "There is distance, but never forgetting. There is no touch, but there is always love. Only belief can make a relationship last long."
I shook my head quickly. "I don't deserve that, Alex."
Alex sighed heavily. "If you think Marc had an accident because of you, that's true. So, I beg you, go inside and heal him. I know you still love him too," said Alex.
I looked at his face. He's actually the same age as me. But I was very impressed with his mature attitude. No, I can't be weak like this. I have to see Marc.
"Okay," I said.
Alex led me inside. But he told me to wait behind the green curtain.
"Marc," Alex called Marc.
It took a few seconds for Marc to answer. "Yes?" His voice was weak.
"How do you feel?" Alex asked.
"It's starting to get better. I'm fine, Alex," answered Marc. I smiled bitterly. He definitely didn't want to appear weak in front of his sister, even though I knew for sure that he was still in pain.
"It's good that it's getting better. Actually, there's someone who wants to meet you," said Alex. "He―" his words trailed off. Alex was silent for a moment.
"Who, Alex?" Marc asked.
Only then did Alex walk towards me and tell me to come forward to meet Marc.
I stepped slowly towards Marc's bed. While Marc tilted his head towards the sound of my footsteps. My heart was beating so fast when our eyes finally met.
His face turned tense and disbelieving when he saw me standing a few steps away from him.
"Sit down, Mia," said Alex, breaking the silence.
I sat in a chair next to Marc's bed. Marc's eyes still followed me.
Alex cleared his throat slightly. "I'll buy Mia a soda first," said Alex, then after a moment he left the room.
Marc and I are now alone in the room. Our eyes met each other but neither of us said anything. The atmosphere was very quiet, until finally I couldn't hold back the sobs I had been holding in all this time.
"What the hell were you thinking?!" I asked in an annoyed tone.
"You," he answered expressionlessly while still looking at me.
"Since when did you become so weak?" I was still holding back my tears, but my voice had become garbled.
"Since I lost you."
I couldn't hold back my tears anymore. I cried in front of Marc.
"Why did you do that? You can't be so weak! You said I was your strength, not your weakness!"
He just remained silent then turned his gaze to the roof ceiling.
I continued. "You have to promise not to do that again. You have to stay on the motorbike," I said.
"I don't want to make any more deals with you," Marc said.
I took a breath. "Why?"
"Because you don't want to marry me," replied Marc
"Says who?" I asked while still looking at his face.
He turned his attention to me quickly.
"I want to," I said.
His facial expression suddenly changed. I saw his facial muscles pull up into a faint smile.
"I do, Marc," I repeated. I immediately hugged his body which was still stuck to the bed. He returned my hug by wrapping one of his hands around my back.
"You can't die, Marc. You can't," I cried as I continued to hug him tightly as if I could take away all the pain Marc was feeling now.
He was sobbing in my arms too. "I won't," he answered.
I let go of my hug slowly. Then he looked at me.
"We're getting married, Mia. This time it's really going to happen," said Marc. "I'll talk to Mom."
I nodded. I have no other answer. If death is a risk that Marc takes, then being Marc Marquez's wife is a risk that I take―because I know, I have to be strong, at least my heart has to be healthy so that I can survive when he sees him tilting 47 degrees on the hot asphalt and praying for death- die so he can survive.
I surrender now. But right now, that's not what I'm worried about. I'm more worried about meeting Mrs. Marc. If Marc's mother rejects me, I don't know what to do.
***
―TO BE CONTINUED―
RELEASED EVERY FRIDAY