The stool is solitary in the middle of the room. The light is dim, the only shred of sunlight falling from the slit window in the wall, but even this is interrupted by the bustling feet of people, to and from in meaningless monotony.
The girl is gone. Company of the stool, she had sat with it on many a long night, warm comfort from her body the stool’s only life in a cold, dank basement.
Faint murmurs from the outside world break through the walls in soft waves; the constant grating of the clock keeps their rhythm. Occasionally the stool sighs, a creaking sound, as if remembering the shifting of her body as her pen ran across the page, crude sketches of unknown places brought to the plain room, narrow beams of light somehow brightened by the images.
The clock thunks on, and the stool sighs again.
In the corner lies her pen, ink almost dry and paper gone, it is as solitary as the stool, but untouched by light. It too remembers the waves, not waves of voices from the footpath above, but of water and faraway places unknown to the stool. It hears the soft laughter of the sea and the crunch of sand under her foot, bubbles of children’s play it had brought to life, onto paper through her hands. The drawings are gone now too, burnt, and mingled with her ashes in the sand of the place she had loved so much.
With the sighing of the stool, the pen aches inside, longing to be held again as the stool longs for her warmth.
The clock’s face remains expressionless as it marches on, each tick a death knoll for its listeners. Outside, feet continue to brush the path and the sun bows to the moon, their dance of time kept by the clock and the music of mingled voices.
In another world she stares out the window thinking of the girl. The hallway seems closed and oppressive, empty, echoing footsteps a dim recollection of a house forgotten. Concrete walls are replaced with sand, people exchanged for birds that talk to the sun on the water. The sun in turn smiles down on them, nestled in a white blanket of clouds, caressing her skin. Soft shadows fall on the picture at the window, the girl so young but smiling at the camera. Light is in her eyes, but this is met by sadness in the lined face looking down on her. Waves keep the rhythm here, swishing in and out, gently nudging shells that play on the sand in its wake. Time is irrelevant, and on the beach she sees the girl.
Her hair is wet, matted together by salt; it hangs at her neck and clings to her skin as she skips in white foam, frolicking with the shells. Voice light, she cries to the woman, laughter mingled in waves and the calls of the gulls. She bends and gathers the shells that catch her eye, shimmering greens and purples smile in her hands, face lit by the baby teeth that glisten in her mouth. Her hair’s blonde, like the sun that kisses her head and plays in damp ringlets, her eyes reflect the green of the deepest sea.
Pattering footsteps up the gravel path, school bag dumped unceremoniously, thick shoes and socks peeled off small feet, and thrown into the bushes. Her hair is darker and longer, wildly flying out behind her as she runs instinctively toward the rushing sea. Her school dress is soon soaked, the hem already falling down from capers through tangled tea trees in sand dunes. She remembers gentle admonishments that became scoldings, increasing as she grew in her own independence. Sun no longer plays in blonde curls and baby smile is gone. Instead serious green eyes peer out from a subdued face, hidden by paper while pen scribbles shells dancing on sand.
The sea screams and yells, pounding in fury as if wishing to escape its own confines. Inside, walls reverberate with shrieks. As the wind dies down outside, so does the storm inside, quiet peace mirrors the happy burbling of the calm sea. But storms come and go, and the house still shakes with the final crash of the slamming door that ended them all.
It was the last time she saw her. No word came for years, not a card or phone call. Happy face on the sill a reminder of a little girl lost. She continues to sit at the window, watching the sea, hoping to hear the pattering of footsteps on gravel once again.
Rain whipped the trees outside into a frenzy of leaves and splitting wood, rolling rings of the phone nearly lost in their cries. Deep sympathetic voice, words lost in confusion of dim recognition. The smooth wood box arrived a few days later. Silky grey ashes that run through arthritic fingers, flying away on a sea breeze, mingling in the sand and joining shells that swim in the shallows.
That had been a week ago, and she has barely moved from the window since then. Sun and moon bowed to each other and she watches them in silence, the photo at the window her only company. She looks at the card that had come with the box, all she has left of her, the address stares out, and, finally, she leaves her seat, and the sea.
The house glares out from the street, amongst newspapers and fast food containers, surrounded by buildings that looked to the sky. Lines of black-suited people, marching from one building to the other remind her of ants running between anthills, in constant bustle of endless business. Squeaking greets her ears as she enters through the rusted gate in a red brick wall. Beyond it the yard is concreted, weedy plants in cracked pots provide the only shred of green, and broken bricks lie where they have been knocked from the wall. The door crookedly gapes open at her, windows like dark eye sockets in a dead face. Shadows of people drift slowly on the paint worn porch, features sunken like the face of the house. The girl’s name shows her to a narrow flight of stairs disappearing down into the dark. Searching fingers find the light switch and follow the rail, steadying her on the old wood.
The pen in the far corner is caught by the light; fresh breeze from the open door stirs its blanket of dust. The stool is highlighted alone in the middle of the room, contrasting with its otherwise emptiness. All other traces of her have been removed, her few belongings thrown or taken, the stool a last reminder in a room soon to be occupied by another seeking refuge. She looks at the window, seeing the continual movement of feet from above, and then walks slowly to the stool. Wrinkled fingers run over the rough, worn wood, and she could almost imagine she feels the stool shudder at her touch. It creaks under her body, though she sits still without the shifting of the girl. The air breathes the fumes and murmurs of the city above, the silence of the basement room broken by the relentless ticking of the clock. It sits on the wall near the window, stern foreboding face like an old school headmaster; it is as strict in its job. It taunts her on the stool.
“Tick, here is the mother.”
“Tick, your daughter is dead.”
“Tick, soon you will be too.”
“Tick, I will count down your time.”
“Tick, alone on the stool, just like her.”
Pain wells up like an aching in her heart, recognition of her own mortality, and that of the girl. Rising, she launches the stool across the room at the unfeeling face. It cracks from nine to four, and the stool comes to rest near the pen in the corner. The clock however, maintains its stare, a mocking smile now splits its face as the sneering voice continues.
“Tick, there is nothing you can do.”
“Tick, I count down time.”
“Tick, count down your time.”
Ignoring the clock now, she moves to the corner, seeing the pen near the stool she pockets it, and then rights the stool. As leaden steps move back toward the stairs she hears the stool sigh again, and takes the last reminder of the girl from the room.
The clock continues to smile and tick.
The photo of the girl sits on the stool beside the window. The sun plays on her smiling face, reflections from the frame dancing across the pen that lies next to it, unused but its aching fulfilled. She smiles out the window, looking across to the sea. Gulls talk to the sun on the water, and the gentle swishing of the waves nudge the shells on swirling sand. The girl is gone, but she who came from the sea has finally returned.
Written by Rachel March 2005
