The wishing well

Margaret question’s her grandfathers bitterness, and learns that even through many years, love never dies.

The wishing well

                              

                       

                                                

“Mom, why do we have to come here?” the young boy grew restless, standing beside his mother.

 

Margaret looked down to her son, seeing his impatience. “Go play with your sister,” she told him, and he ran off toward Annabel, who embraced her doll as Michel sprinted to her with quickening speed.

 

Margaret turned back to what she’d been looking at. A well was placed at the middle of the garden, surrounded by various plants. Bushes here and there, with trees with brilliant green leaves sprouting from the outstretched branches. It wasn’t as beautiful to see as it would have been in the fall, where the leaves brightened with color. Yellow to orange, orange to red, streaming with color…

 

It had been year’s since she’d last visited her grandfather’s home; her grandfather that no one talked to, or talked about. She recalled him, remembering him as the man that was once a stranger to her, the one her family lost contact with so many years ago.

 

It was his attitude that no one liked. He was a bitter old man, his best qualities soured from the years passing.

 

She remembered when she was a young girl that her father and mother, and her siblings, had first began to visit the grumpy old man. At first, her two brothers started a game; one that involved Grandpa always. They’d tease him often when they thought he didn’t hear, and other times they’d dare themselves to see who could stay near Grandpa the longest without getting hit.

 

Grandpa didn’t like people getting too close, he often pushed them aside, or yelled, to make them leave him alone. It scared them sometimes, Margaret included, and eventually they let him be.

 

Sometimes, however, there were moments when he was not so ill-tempered, when he did not scare her so much.

 

            “You’re such a baby,” her older brother had once said, John, with William, the middle child, at his side. They were all visiting their Grandfather with their mother, which was something they rarely did because the boys always grew restless and impatient.

 

            “Give me that,” William demanded, reaching for her doll, which she had named Molly Doll. He took the toy by its hair made of yarn, grabbing it and jerking it away from her.

           

            Margaret released her fingers on the doll, not wanting to break it. “Will…” she said, willing the panic out of her voice. “Give her back,”

 

            Instead of handing the doll back, John snatched the doll from William, dangling it in the air by the ankle. “Look at it,” he waved it back and forth. “Why do you carry this thing around?” he sneered.

 

            William grinned beside him and took the doll back, this time taking it by its hair. “It’s ugly,” he mocked, tugging at the doll’s legs.

 

Margaret was trembling now. “Give her back to me,” she demanded, hands shaking at her sides, her small fingers curled into tiny fists.

 

“Fine,” Will murmured, his voice light and teasing. “Here,” he held out the doll, but when Margaret reached for it hopefully, he quickly pulled back, laughing as he did so. “Baby,” he called her when her face turned down, and tears began to emerge. 

 

John laughed with his younger brother. “Grow up, Margaret. It’s just a doll,”

 

No, thought Margaret, it isn’t. This doll was special to her. This doll that was given to her because she was the girl out of the three, the one their mother chose to pass down her beloved doll to. With this thought in mind, Margaret lifted her eyes to her brothers, and she lurched forward, reaching to swipe her precious doll from them. 

 

But the doll was tossed into the air, only to be passed between the two harassing boys, back and forth, like a game of keep away.

 

 “Give Molly back!” Margaret yelled, no longer hiding her tears, her sobs, her useless begs to plead for her loved doll.

 

A hard hand clamped down on William’s shoulder, and he spun around to see just who’d done so, only to regret it instantly.

 

The old man stared down at the boy, then to John, then Margaret and back, his stare then turning into a fierce look. His eyes were worn, aged, but his face was stern and unwavering. Grandfather pushed William aside, his thick eyebrows furrowed in irritation, glaring at the two boys who suddenly went very still.

 

            “Mind your manners,” the old man spat.

           

            John’s eyes widened. William swallowed loudly. And then the two of them took off toward the house, like misbehaved puppies with their tail between their legs.

 

            Margaret, with her cheeks wet with tears, watched as Grandfather then turned to her.

 

            “Stop crying,” he murmured to her, more irritable.

             

The little girl wiped at her tears, trying to stop, trying to listen. She picked up the doll on the ground, which was now covered in dirt, and held the toy to her chest, protecting it. Although she struggled to listen and do as she was told, she couldn’t help the few tears that escaped from the corners of her eyes, and she looked at the man’s shoes to avoid his incisive gaze.

           

            He didn’t move. The girl focused on the shine at the tip of his shoe, waiting for it to shift as soon as he turned to leave. But he didn’t.

 

            When Margaret looked up, she saw that he wasn’t watching her, but her doll she held so tightly, so close. His face was no longer cold, but softer than it’s ever been, less angry.

 

He panted her on the head as he walked past her - the first time in months he’d ever showed affection to anyone - and disappeared down the path with trees surrounding the path, full of wildlife; the same path he took at every visit, disappearing for as long as a half hour.

 

Grandpa hardly ever gave hugs or shared kisses; something he’d never done in all the past visits before. He had turned cold when he was once warm, full of life like the trees surrounding his home. But that had changed recently. Or so Margaret had heard once, from her parents when they were arguing in the last few weeks; “I don’t understand why we bother,” father had muttered, frustrated. “We go out of our way to help him, and he still tells us to go away,” Mother, in return, replied, “He’s been through so much in these past months, he’s heart broken. Even though he’s turned bitter, he’s still my father and I love him,”

 

Mother had told Margaret stories of the time when she was little, of when she and Grandpa played outside, when he’d push her on the swing set, or when they’d go out for ice-cream on hot summer days with Grandma.

 

Margaret didn’t get to see her Grandpa like he was in the past, before he had turned cold and bitter. She had always wished she could’ve seen what he’d been like.

 

            When they’d left, the boys did not say their goodbyes and Grandfather did not wish them well. Mother was quiet, but her face was stressed, as was father’s face; neither spoke after Mother gave one awkward kiss on Grandpa’s wrinkled cheek, and they all ventured back into the car to drive off. None of them looked back. No one spoke; there was no sound in the car except for John’s and William’s hand-held video games, buzzing and ringing wildly.

 

But Margaret watched from the back of the car as they drove away, watching the elderly man as he sat on the old rocking chair, outside on the porch. He did not wave, but Margaret felt the smile at the corners of her lips as the car drove away, and the old man on the rocking chair became smaller and smaller until he vanished from sight completely.

 

            After that visit, Margaret had asked her parents if they could go back more often. Her mother and father, surprised as they were, didn’t question it. Their visits became more frequent, sometimes they’d drop her off and pick her up later, and at each visit Margaret began following the old man where he went everyday when he thought no one was looking, at exactly the same time, at every visit.

 

“Grandfather?” she once asked him, stopping him from continuing down the dirt path. “Where are you going?”

 

The elderly man looked surprised by the question; a question that no one bothered to ask a grumpy old man such as himself.

 

            She expected him to shoo her away, like he always seemed to do to her brothers, but he didn’t. Instead, he stuck out his arm for her. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”

 

            Margaret held Molly Doll close to her side, and quietly took her Grandfather’s hand with the other, which was so cold, so fragile to her that she was startled by this. So startled that she asked, “Why are you so cold?”

 

            “I am an old man,” he answered, walking forward with her. “My temper is short,”

 

            Margaret thought of different questions she could ask as she looked ahead of them, down the pathway that weaved through the trees. But when she opened her mouth to ask another question, Grandfather spoke first, and she listened.

 

            “Where did you get that doll?” he asked, without looking at her.

 

            Instinctively, Margaret’s hold tightened on the doll, and she straightened her posture as she walked with him, filling with pride. “Mama,” she said.

           

            And then, so quietly Margaret had to lean forward to hear, Grandfather said softly, “Your Grandma use to make dolls,”

 

            Margaret looked up at him, watching him in surprise, excitement. “She did?”

 

            The old man nodded, and then grew silent. Margaret saw something on his face, but it quickly vanished before she could think of what it was.

 

            They stopped then, and Margaret’s hand grew tighter on Molly Doll, but not out of fear.

 

            They were in a garden, with plants surrounding them, mostly flowers that bursted with colors; red, yellow, orange, white. And there, at the edge of the garden, was a wall made of bricks that formed in a circle, unmoving, aged. The height of it was tall compared to Margaret, but she was just barely able to see over the rim of it. She stepped onto a large rock near her, without breaking her hold on both her grandfather and Molly Doll, and was surprised to see what lay inside.

 

            Water.

 

            Grandpa took something from his pocket, something small and shiny. He closed his eyes, holding it in his frail hand, and it was quiet for a few moments. Then he opened his eyes again, and tossed it into the water.

 

            It was a penny. Margaret caught sight of it, sprawling in the air just before it hit the water’s surface. It floated to the bottom, as if falling, sparkling and glowing as it did so. As it rested at the bottom, Margaret saw others, more shiny pennies that surrounded it, welcoming it into the group.

 

            And then she realized just what this was; a wishing well.

 

            “What did you wish for Grandpa?” she asked, turning to him.

           

            His eyes were fixed toward the water, watching the shine glisten above the water, like a thousand stars in a night sky. “That,”- he finally said, turning to her " “is a secret,”

 

            “Can I know?”

 

            The old man looked back toward the water, then to the trees, across the blossoms. “If I told you it would not be a secret, now would it?”

 

The girl watched him for a moment, somehow disappointed that he wouldn’t tell her.

 

The old man saw this on her face, and asked “Do you tell others what you wish for after you’ve blown out the candles on your birthday cake?”

 

Margaret didn’t need to think on it for long. “No, but-”

 

            “If I told you, my wish would not come true,” he added, interrupting her protest.

The girl didn’t answer. She turned back to look at the water, under its surface, at the glistening pennies that rested calmly at the bottom; her Grandfather’s secret wishes.

 

            “You will understand when you’re older,” he said calmly.

 

 

            Margaret was older now, twenty-seven, as she looked pass the trees, to her children playing in the distance. Her daughter Annabel, now five, held onto a small doll, keeping it close as she played in the grass with her older brother.

 

            It was a few days after her grandfather died, he had made it to his nineties, almost to one hundred. It had been a long time since she’d last seen him, so many years ago. She’d stopped visiting him after a while, when her parents no longer wanted to drive her, because that meant they would’ve had to see Grandfather, too; the old man that had grown bitter through the months they’d visited. Too many fights, too many arguments grew between father and daughter, between Margaret’s mother and grandfather. So much that her mother didn’t want to see him anymore; after months of trying to convince him to go to a nursing home, he wouldn’t go. Grandfather, who was so stubborn, thought that going was like admitting defeat, admitting that he was too weak to care for himself.

 

            But that wasn’t the true reason; the real reason that Margaret only new.

 

            She looked down to the small note between her hands, which look so fragile, so delicate that it was like any wrong move could tear it in half. The edges of the paper were creased, worn from the years of being folded and unfolded, of being read and unread.

 

            Next, she took out the picture that came with the note, the small picture with her grandfather in it, sitting on a bench with a smile she never knew existed. Beside him sat Grandma. Her graying hair down to her shoulders, the wrinkles on her face " they didn’t touch her, not really. Her eyes were alive, lit brightly like a sun. Looking at the picture, it was easy to see how much Grandpa loved her. His eyes solely on her, hands intertwined, seeing past the years of age.

 

Keeping the picture and note didn’t seem right because it did not belong to Margaret. Throwing it away was an even worse thing to do because it was Grandfather’s note, and Margaret didn’t want to throw away her grandfather; this note that he must’ve held so carefully between his fingers, thinking of her, of Grandma.

 

            After he’d died, a few things were given to Margaret, things she brought with her for one last visit; the reason’s why his heart turned cold. They were found, tucked away in his pocket when he passed, and now she looked down at the note, reminded of him, and remembering him.

 

            Opening it for one last time, it read;

 

 

Annie,

 

These passing days I’ve become more worn, I’m not like I was in my younger days.  I’m so tired, Annie. I feel so lonely; it is not the same without you here. I miss your smile, Annie, your hand in mine, our walks together… I miss you so much.

 

          Thomas

 

 

She knew now what he had wished for, as she carefully folded the note and the picture, placing them gently on the water, watching them sink beneath;

 

            He wished he wasn’t alone.

 

            He wished he was with Annie.

 

            He wished they were together,

 

            Because he loved her.

 

Reviews

[Colton O'Weekly]

Very nice! I loved it. Not usually what I read but still, very good! I liked the story, the way it went with a stream of consciousness was also very well done.

I did notice one typo where you said "panted her on the head" instead of "patted her on the head" - or at least I'm assuming that was a typo.

Other than the typo though... very nice. Very good writing. I liked the plot and enjoyed all of it greatly.

[Short.Nerd]

Very good:)

[GrownUpTime]

i read this already so ill just say that it was amazing and unexpected

[Omegax45]

This was a very sad story, speaking of the cruelty of time and o flovers torn apart. It does needa bit of a touch-up in the grammar department, but otherwise is very good. You protrayed Margaret's role very well.