Lilacs

A taxi ride with no destination.

 

“Where can I take you... sir?”  The taxi driver looks at me in the rear view mirror. And looks again.

“Anywhere you want,” I say.

He hesitates, opening his mouth to speak.

“I mean, just drive,” I add, not caring to explain. “Away from here. Please.”

                As clearly as if I have eyes in the back of my head I can sense the house disappear behind me as the car pulls out of the driveway. The house with all its familiar smells and familiar items. Like her perfume. Like the warm, damp smell in the washing room. Like the cold steel of the front door handle. Like the mirror in the hallway which catches the sun from the window and throws the rays all around the room. Sunspots on the walls and the floor, and on the passers-by. Usually meaning me and her. Usually.

                How ironic that the scent of the lilacs in the garden has never been stronger than this. I can still feel it in the car as we remove ourselves from it. It clings to me, to the clothes I wear. All this... nothingness. A nothing that fills everything. These familiar, yet so unfamiliar clothes. That perfumed smell. Those hollow flowers. This hollow dress.

The dress feels tight in all the wrong places. And hangs loose where a distant memory convinces me it should cling to the body. My lips are dry and cracked under a thin coat of lipstick.

But I feel oddly clearheaded.

The taxi driver keeps shooting glances at me in the mirror, but I pretend I don’t see it. He draws his breath as if to speak every now and again, but always changes his mind. So we drive on in silence. Through familiar streets, past familiar landmarks.

“I’m gonna need a destination soon... sir,” he says finally. Hesitantly. I feel his eyes on me, but don’t look away from the window. My eyes are glued to nothing in particular. Everything has memories attached to it, and I avoid taking it in. Any of it.

“Surprise me,” I murmur. I don’t know if he hears what I say, but he seems to acknowledge the importance of it somehow.

“Out of the city?” he suggests. This time I meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Yes,” I say, a sense of urgency rising up inside me. “Out of the city. Yes.”

He nods.

The car runs almost soundlessly, and the old bumps and pot holes in the road can only be felt as a slight cradling. Calming and soothing. Distracting.

“What’s your name?” the driver asks, as curiosity gets the better of him.

“Jonathan,” I say.

For I am Jonathan, I realise. For twenty-seven years I’ve been Mr. Sayers. But without her, I’m just Jonathan.

“So... What’s your story, Jonathan?”

I shake my head dismissively. He sees it in the mirror and apologizes. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.”

I stare out the window and keep shaking my head slowly.

“No, it’s not,” I whisper to myself.

I have no sense of the time that passes. Nor of the money it will cost me. None of it matters, and none of it crosses my mind at all.

“Do you mind if I turn on the radio?” the driver asks, cutting through the long silence. He needs it to be broken by something, I can tell. He’s uncomfortable.

I don’t care.

I shrug.

The deep baritone voice of a podcaster replaces the initial radio static, and the taxi driver leans back against the seat, relieved. There’s not much traffic, and he navigates the car smoothly through the suburbs, heading for the surrounding countryside.

I no longer recognize where I am. Not because I’ve never been here before, but because the memory of it isn’t as immediate as that of the city centre.

 It’s getting darker and soon all I’ll be able to see in the window is my own reflection.

“This dress belongs to my wife,” I say.

I never planned to say it. I wasn’t even aware that I said it out loud until I heard my own voice. Now I sit and stare into my lap. The thin fabric falls off my thighs and creates a burgundy valley between my legs. This is why women keep their knees together when they sit, I think to myself. This looks terrible. It never looked like this on her.

The driver glances at me in the mirror again. He watches me watch myself. In silence at first.

“It’s a nice dress,” he says in the end. He’s unsure again. Wanting to ask, but not wanting to intrude upon my privacy. Giving me time to think about what I want to say. If anything at all.

I take a deep breath. Prepare myself to hear the words out loud for the first time. Knowing it will hurt. Not sure exactly how much. I feel the palms of my hands sweating, though I’m freezing.  A deep feeling of cold that’s coming from the inside, and has nothing to do with the immediate atmosphere. I’m physically aware of a warmth practically burning against my cheeks. But a prickling in the back of my neck, and down my spine, as if pricked by a million frozen needles at once, prevents me from absorbing it. Like a memory in the back of my mind, that I cannot fully grasp, or a word at the tip of my tongue that will not roll willingly off it. The muscles in my legs tensing so much they’re shaking. This intense feeling of loss... It doesn’t matter anymore if I say it or not.

“She died.” The words provoke a strange taste in my mouth, and I wonder where they come from. “Last night.”

He doesn’t say anything. Prepares to, but waits.

“Cancer,” I add. Surprised that my voice still holds.

I don’t know why I’m lying.

As he kindly offers his condolences, I feel a scream building up inside me. It’s so sudden, so raw and so unexpected that I find myself unable to breathe. Trying to draw my breath I stare right into the neck of the driver. Right into his dark, thinning hair. I stare until I can tell every single strand of it apart.

And I realise I wish it was true. Her death would have been easier to handle than her leaving me. Easier to understand. In admitting this something breaks loose inside my chest. A little piece of me that just falls off and leaves me crippled, only half a person.

Her dress hugs me, but it’s a hug filled with empty promises.

Her lipstick kisses me, but I know she hasn’t actually worn it for years. And if she did, it was for someone else. Not Jonathan Sayers.

I cry.

I can’t remember ever crying before, but now I do. I cry.

“Are you sure there’s not anywhere I can take you,” the driver goes on, worried now. “Any place in particular?”

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand.

“Just anywhere,” I say. “Anywhere but home.”

Author's Note

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Reviews

[hannah]

This is so sad..you should join my contest about heart wrenching stories !!! haha