paper cranes

The day I met him was a sunny one. The marble benches shimmered with a thousand facets and the grass glowed like the pregnant women wandering the courtyard. I was sitting on the edge of the fountain reading la morte d' arthur for the millionth time. The worn pages and underlined text felt comfortable in my fingers. It was familiar and comforting to be in Lincoln Memorial Hospital's garden everyday at two o'clock. I sat with my legs crossed leaving permanent red splotches on my ankles where my thighs pressed into them.

My obsessive compulsive disorder wouldn't have it any other way. I catch my finger tapping against the spine and force myself to stop. Just breathe in and out, in and out. I touch the soft cotton of my coca cola t-shirt, one of the first things my doctor told me to do is buy tons of different t-shirts. He order me to change them every single day. That was three years ago, when he noticed every one of my t-shirts were white v-necks. Little did he know I have a pair of jeans for each day of the week. Monday is stone washed, Tuesday is bright blues, Wednesday is black, Thursday is holey, Friday is skinny, Saturday is cuffed ends, and lastly Sunday (to get a little religious) is white. 

Just when I was about to turn back to the beginning to start my book over again he thudded down on the rock next to me. A little bubble of anger formed in the pit of my liver (I swear that is where it was). I kept on reading the same line over and over again; Chapter V: How Arthur was chosen king, and of wonders and marvels of a sword taken out of a stone by the said Arthur. The cage of my condition kept me from getting past the table of contents, because deep down I felt if I skipped it I might miss something that I hadn't read the other hundreds of times.

This strange boy didn't seemed to notice I was ignoring him and continued to inflate the anger bubble. “Hi! I noticed you sitting down here so I thought you might want some company. So I was thinking since we look- at the very least, to be the same age, that I could be that company.”He spoke in a curt brisk fashion that set fire to my nerves. “Oh yeah! My names ken.”

I finally turned and saw him for the first time. His face was filled with those gaping, almond shaped eyes and a smile that would scare the Cheshire cat. Thick ebony hair tickled his forehead and fell messily to the tips of his ears. The biggest surprise was the gauzy bandage covering one of those dark bottomless eyes.

Pop, went the rage bubble.

The sheer shock of his friendliness was enough to trick me into saying, “I’m Avery.”

*       *       *

A week or so later, Ken and I were sitting on the fountain in the courtyard. Although I wasn't reading my book, I kept it in my peripheral vision at all times. Even though I loved my new conversations with Ken, they weren't enough to satiate my compulsions.

Mainly our conversations were led by him. He was interesting and I was not. After all for, the last five years, my compulsive behavior had scared any would be friends away and that did not make interesting stories.

I learned many things about him. Ken was short for Kensuke. He was born in Osaka, Japan. He moved to the U.S. at the age of three to live with distant relatives. He was here to have a surgery on his eye. The surgery was risky at best and he was scared, because if it failed he would lose all sight in his left eye. 

That day the sky spit at us but we didn't move from the fountain. When I explained my condition he understood and he didn't mind to sit in the rain to make me more comfortable. I felt guilty but he never pressured me to do anything that would cause me to go into shock. I had realized after the second day that Ken was just lonely. He had wanted someone to talk to and I was the first he saw.

“Is there anything I can do to make you feel better about the surgery?” I asked breaking off a soliloquy about his trip to Rhode Island  and how amazing coffee milk was. 

He though about it for a long while, his brow scrunching in thought.

“a thousand paper cranes might help.”

*     *     *

For the next five days we sat at the fountain, little colored papers and string spread around us. The weather was bright and cheery. My book stayed stationary, although never far. It was always touching my skin, in some way like an anchor, tethering me to the earth.

Ken had explained the legend behind the thousand paper cranes. Apparently when you fold a thousand paper cranes a crane will come to grant you good luck. The luck was usually health related which is why the Japanese do this when family and friends get ill and injured.

The consistent folding and organized pattern that came with origami was strangely therapeutic. I loved every minute, and my life was improving in over all quality. Even my psychiatrist was noticing improvements. 

As we got closer to the promise day the anxiety of the deadline was starting to get to me. By the end of the fifth day, the day before Ken's surgery, we had only finished nine hundred cranes. It broke my heart. I finally made something close to a friend and I can't even do this little thing for him. Tears sharper than bees stung my eyes and not even the soft leather of my book could keep me calm. 

Ken just gave me a hug and told me “nine hundred is all the luck I need for tomorrow.”

I pushed away from the show of content and ran, grabbing my book and the cranes. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and like a motor my feet kept going, propelling me forward. 

“Avery!! wait!”

*    *    *

That night I sat folding and creasing in a hypnotic trance. The only thing in my head was my name, in his unique bilingual voice, bouncing back and forth.

I folded until my finger bled from the paper cuts and then healed just enough to slice open again. It was around six o'clock when I stopped, having just reached my goal of a thousand crisp paper cranes. They hung like angels from their mobile and moved with each step I took toward the hospital.

I walked straight in to the main entrance and through to the halls all sterile and white. That faint odor of detergent and bleach radiated from every surface. His door was open and I was so close. I took the last step into his room. Then walked back out. Then walked back in over and over again till I felt I had exhausted the compulsion. His black hair spread out on the pillow like a raven's wing. Soft snores escaped his quirky nose and his one uncovered eye was closed softly.

Don't wake him, he needs his sleep. I didn't dare ignore the voice. Even if my common sense hadn't said it I would have been to scared to anyway. 

Lithely, I tied the cranes to his bed post. Then I untied it and triple knotted it in repetition. Finally I felt horrible deep in my soul leaving things the way they were. We would never see each other and that's why this was so important. He would go back to his home after the surgery and I would fold back into my silent compulsory routine. I took the stationary by his night stand and wrote a single line so he would read it when he woke up.

Good luck.