The Tenderness of Being Alive

1

It goes like this:

Car. Driveway. Road. Work. The cursor blinks lazily at me. I count the seconds on my hands. I’m itchy. Someone stops by my desk and asks if I want coffee and I say yes without thinking about it. The mug sits on my desk, untouched. I don’t like black coffee. I’m sure there’s creamer in the break room, but my legs don’t move to find some. The coffee gets cold. Another person stops by my desk, asks me if I want to go out with the others this weekend. I say no, I have plans. The cursor blinks at me. My back has a dull ache somewhere behind my shoulder. I take my lunch at my desk and wipe the mayonnaise that slides slick across my fingers onto my pants. It’ll stain. I haven’t washed the pants in a week. The cursor blink, blink, blinks. I’ve finished documents, put them in the proper tray. I feel like I’ve done this document twenty times before. I type. The sound my fingers make on the mechanical keyboard helps the seconds go a little faster.

Car. Road. Driveway. Garage.

The door’s slow to open and slow to close. I go into the kitchen. It’s messy, but it’s always messy. Mom hadn’t done the dishes before she and Dad went swimming. They had scrambled eggs and toast. The crumbs are still on the counter, and the pan she’d made the eggs in is still on the stove, greasy and specked with dried egg. I put my bag on one of the stools at the bar and make myself a bowl of cereal. It’s what I always have. This kind has the sugar icing on it. I guess I felt courageous last time I was at the grocery store. Usually I get plain.

Then the crossword. I sit in Mom’s armchair and coax myself through the clues. Angelic trilby, three down, four letters. Halo. It gets too dark to write. I make myself a mug of green tea, sip at it, and go to bed.

2

Car. Driveway. Road. Work. No one tries to talk to me this time. The coffee is still on my desk. I decide to throw it out during my lunch. It becomes a personal goal of mine, even more pressing than the sandwich getting soggy in my briefcase. I think about how all that muddy liquid will look swirling down the drain, think about how it’ll smell. I type a little faster. The seconds move with a walker, all hunched over and bad knees. Lunch comes. I take the cup and pour it down the drain in the break room. At the same time, someone comes and turns on the faucet so they can rinse out the container they had tuna casserole in. I can’t smell the coffee, and I can’t see it, either. I go back to my desk.

Car. Road. Driveway. Garage.

I’m out of cereal. I make myself a cup of tea, fill out some more spaces on the crossword. Old wound, eight across, four letters. Scar. It doesn’t fit. Needs to end with an L, from the answer to six down. It gets dark again. I didn’t drink my tea. I throw away the bag and pour it down the sink and go into the hallway. My parents’ bedroom door mocks me. I go to bed.

3

Car. Driveway. Road. Work. Boss comes in. She’s friendly. I think she went to high school with Mom. She asks me all cordially how my folks are. I give her the best smile I can muster and tell her they’re living the life. She likes that. She thinks it’s funny. She leaves. My hands are shaking. I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, but all I can think about is Mom’s wet hair, the way the water glistened on Dad’s skin, the blue of their lips and their eyelids and their skin and their

Car. Road. Driveway. Garage.

I curl up in Mom’s chair and I don’t move for a long time. The sun sinks lower. I finally get the courage to look out at the river, and I see something strange in Dad’s garden—a foot. Brown. I can’t see anything else.

I get up. My legs move me toward the sliding glass door before I can understand why. The foot wasn’t moving. Whatever foolish dreams I had as a child are bubbling up in my chest now like the carbonation in a soda and bursting in my throat. I slide open the door and go outside. The closer I get, the more I can see. The browness of the foot isn’t just from the skin tone. The foot’s dirty. Like it’s been walking around in soil. Not Dad’s garden, I hope. Standing above the body, I see it’s a man, shirtless, lying on his stomach on top of the bushes. There are huge wounds on his back—cauterized gashes, like someone had taken a knife to him and then burned his flesh shut. Sloppy. I went to school for only a couple years and I could’ve done a better job than that.

My hand hovers at my side. I’m ready to pull out my phone and call for help, but I don’t reach into my pocket. A voice that sounds a lot like Mom whispers to me that things can be different this time. There will be no phone call. No wet hair. No blue lips.

I hook my arms under his armpits and take him inside.

He’s lighter than I expected. It’s easy to drape him over the couch before I go into the hallway. My parents kept a first aid kit in the first closet on the right. That’s what they always called it: “The first closet on the right.” The second closet on the right is stuffed to the brim with towels and sheets. There are no closets on the left.

My hand shakes when I pull open the door, and then shakes more when I pull out the first aid kit. But those wounds keep getting in my head. There’s no reason that guy should be alive. And maybe there’s no reason that I should be alive, but I can at least help him now.

I go back to him. In the light, I can see his face. Sharp. Angled. His hair is filthy and curly and black. I clean the area around the wounds, apply some medicine, wrap him up in bandages. He still hasn’t woken up.

I try to do the crossword again. Old wound, eight across, four letters. Last letter L. Pain doesn’t work. I scribble on the edge of the newspaper until it tears under the pressure. He moves then. Spine arches, arms stretch. I expect him to cry out from the pain of those wounds, but all that happens is his lips part, brow furrows.

I ask him how he feels. My voice sounds like it’s miles away. He doesn’t answer. He gingerly pushes himself into an upright position. One arm moves to touch the bandages on his back. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t look at me.

I ask him his name. Still no reply, but he turns his head. His eyes are startlingly blue. Clouded. He’s blind. I forgot to check his pupil constriction. Maybe it’s better I didn’t finish school. I ask him his name again. He moves his hand from the bandage to his mouth. He taps his lips. Mute, too. I ask this time if he can hear me, and he taps his lips again. I don’t know if that’s a yes or if he’s hungry, but I ran out of cereal. Maybe there’s something in the pantry.

“I’ll get you something to eat,” I decide. When I get up, I feel a burst of something that doesn’t belong to me. The something I felt when Mom finished a scarf, or when Dad helped me with homework: gratefulness. It’s out of context, out of the blue. I look back at him and he’s sitting on my couch with his hands in his lap. He’s smiling. I go into the kitchen.

“Do you know any sign?”

No reply. He doesn’t touch his mouth. I take it as a no.

“I know some simple signs. I’ll teach you so we can talk.” Mostly I want him out of my house. I should have called an ambulance, should have called someone. He’s dirty and he’s going to touch everything. I know it.

There’s maling in the pantry. I cut it into thin slices and start frying them in a pan. Then I put them on a paper towel and take them to him. “Here. It’s still warm.” He takes one of the slices and delicately bites off a corner. He smiles again. “You like it?” He touches his mouth. “Good. Give me your hand.”

He puts the rest of the slice in his mouth and then holds out his hand, all obedient. He has pianists fingers. Like my mother, long and graceful. I close those fingers into a fist. “Hold it up like this, and then bend it like this. That means yes.”

He smiles wide enough to show crooked teeth. His fist bobs up and down.

“Understand?”

Up and down, up and down.

“This”—I extend his fingers—“Means no.”

He tries it out.

“Understand that too?”

Yes, yes, yes.

“Okay. Eat. I’ll ask questions.”

He eats another slice of maling.

“Are you in pain?”

Yes.

“Did someone hurt you?”

His brow furrows again. Yes.

“Are they still after you?” My phone feels heavy in my pocket.

No.

“Okay is . . . anyone looking for you? Family or anything?”

No.

“No family?”

No.

I blow some air out of my nose. “Yeah,” I say, “Me neither.”

He takes the last slice and holds it up to me.

“That’s for you,” I tell him.

No.

A smile twitches at the corner of my lips. I try to force it down, but it just gets wider. “No, really, that’s for you. Eat it.”

He bites off half, holds up the rest to me. When I don’t take it, he touches his mouth with his free fingertips and holds it up to me again.

“Fine.” I take it and eat it. “You should get some rest. I need some too. I’ll get you blankets. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

He gives me another toothy smile. His teeth are startlingly clean in contrast to the rest of him.

“You have to say yes or no.”

No.

“I’ll show you the bathroom just in case.” I go to the linen closet. My hand hesitates again on the doorknob. He still hasn’t moved from the couch. What if he does? What if he goes into my parents’ bedroom? What would I do? What would I do if he put his dirty hands all over the walls and the pictures and the quilt and the rugs and the

I take the blankets and go back to the couch.

4

Before work, I make him more maling and promise to bring more food home. Then I give him a reminder of where the bathroom is and tell him to not, under any circumstances ever, go into the other rooms.

“I’m trusting you,” I say, halfway into the garage already. “Okay?”

He beams at me and shakes his fist.

“Seriously,” I say, “Don’t go anywhere.”

He shakes his fist again.

Car. Driveway. Road. Work. I can see him in the white spaces on my screen, ambling down the hallway, running his hands all over everything that isn’t his, those crooked teeth, his pianist fingers tearing apart the kitchen, his dirty smell overpowering everything I had left. My hands are shaking again. Someone asks me if I’m okay. I tell them I have low blood sugar. I didn’t bring a sandwich, I say. They bring me a burrito from the store downstairs. I eat it at my desk.

Car. Road. Driveway. Garage.

He didn’t go into the bedroom. I don’t think he even moved from where he was sitting. I come in and he’s still cross-legged on the couch, the plate of maling I’d made for breakfast still balanced on one hand.

“Have you even moved?” I ask.

No, he says.

“Are you hungry? I got actual groceries. I thought maybe I could make nasi goreng, maybe some eggs on top.”

He’s listening attentively. He’s blind, but I feel in that moment incredibly seen. It makes me want to hide.

“I can—I can look at the wound on your back again. Does it hurt still?”

No.

I make us some dinner to cover my discomfort, ignoring that peculiar of gratefulness that sweeps through my body again. While he eats, I peel back the bandages and check on the wounds. They’re healing very quickly, almost inhumanly so. No sign of infection. More gratefulness. I bandage him up again. Three down, four letters. I can almost see it above his head. He smiles at me, and I smile back.

5

We have leftover nasi for breakfast. I show him how to make sandwiches just in case he gets hungry while I’m gone. Car, driveway, road, work. I have a banana and one of his failed sandwiches in my briefcase. At lunch, I eat them both in the break room. The sandwich tastes good and fresh. Three down, three down. I smile again around all the bread.

Car, road, driveway, garage. He’s sitting at my mother’s piano, lightly stroking the keys, the tiniest smile on his face. His dirty fingers.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He jerks away from the piano, face contorting in surprise, frantically tries to get up off the bench.

“Wait.” I never told him he couldn’t touch the piano. Piano is in the living room. Same room he’s always in. “I’m sorry. You didn’t know. It’s okay.”

He settles, carefully, back onto the bench. I sit down next to him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m sorry.” I guide his fingers to the right keys, and when I press one down he inhales sharply. “Cool, right? I’m not very good. Mom said she was going to teach me, but—” The words catch in my throat. I swallow them back down. “Anyway, I know a couple songs. Listen to this one.”

Gratefulness again, and something else I can’t identify. Something that feels almost like I imagined Mom felt whenever Dad brought home orchids, potted up because she couldn’t stand to see anything killed for her. I think about the wounds on his back—the kind of wounds one would get if you cut off a person’s wings. I wonder if all angels are like him, sending emotions whenever they like and smiling whenever they get the chance. I wonder if he can feel my emotions right back, if he sees the crushing grief but still chooses to treat me like a person, still chooses to smile.

I guide his hands over the keys. My cheeks are wet, salty. I wipe my face with my sleeve and we keep playing.

6

No work today. I sit next to him on the couch and look for any information about him online. No one, as far as I can tell, is looking for anyone who looks like him. His leg is touching mine. He’s peeling apart an orange with the accuracy of a surgeon. He hands me a section, and I put it on my tongue. It’s sweet. Vibrant.

“Do you dream?” I ask. He smiles at me. Says yes. “I used to dream,” I say. “When I was in college, I dreamed all the time. I don’t anymore. Maybe that’s better. I feel like I would just have nightmares now.”

He takes my hand and holds it. Those aren’t words, but I still have no idea how to reply. He gives me another slice of the orange.

7

We spend the day on the piano again, and in the kitchen. He’s a quick learner. I try to find more songs to teach him. Before bed, I make him some tea, and he’s visibly delighted. The wounds on his back are closing fast.

8

Sliced fruit and oatmeal for breakfast. He makes me another sandwich, a little neater than the first. Car, then driveway, then road, then work. Someone tells me I look brighter today. The hours roll by on a skateboard.

Car again, and then the road, and then I pull into the driveway. He’s not on the couch, and he isn’t at the piano. I call out for him and I hear movement down the hallway. My heart seizes.

No. No, no, no, no. Dirty hands, the walls, the pictures, the rug, the quilt, the pillows, the jacket, the wet hair the blue skin the blue lips the voice mail the phone call the cold metal table the roses the dirt ground the river the river the river

Something possesses me. I see my parent’s door open and something grabs hold. He’s standing there right inside, fingers feeling out the pattern on Mom’s quilt. I start screaming. I just start screaming. I grab him and I yank him back into the hallway so hard he slams against the opposite wall. I’m screaming, screaming, screaming, and he’s shrinking under the weight, and I’m gripping so tight onto his arms I can feel my hands bruise. The river, the river, the river, the river the blue lips the wet hands the RIVER.

Then sorrow. Not mine. Not the thing possessing me. I take a step back. My hands fall to my side. My head moves of its own accord, turning to look into the bedroom. I see Mom’s quilt again, Dad’s jacket thrown over it, the pictures on the dressers and the walls.

My legs give out under me, and he catches me from behind, his arms hooking under my armpits and slowing my fall. He holds me and everything comes flooding out. The river. It comes flooding out like that goddamn river. Everything I tried to protect just comes pouring out of my mouth.

I scream again, but it isn’t because of him. It’s because of me. It’s because of the river.

9

I take the day off. We start going through my parents’ things. I take the pan with the egg off the stove and wash it. I wipe the crumbs off the counter. I take the painting Dad always hated but Mom loved and I put it in their bedroom. I take the clothes they’d tossed in the bathroom and put them in the hamper. He stays at my side the entire time, peeling apart various fruits and handing me the pieces. I ask him questions sometimes, but mostly he just smiles at me and reaches out and touches my arms when I can’t remember how to breathe. I tell him about school, about the accident, about dropping out, about my job in that slow office.

“Do you think everyone is capable of changing?”

He smiles. Says yes.

“Do you think I’m capable of changing?”

He says yes again, and then he hugs me. I don’t know why I ever thought he was dirty. He smells like the earth after a rain, like the wet soil my dad used in his planters.

“Sometimes I just want to start all over,” I whisper. “Sometimes I want to just leave all this for a little while and try again.” He hugs me tighter.

10

I take another day off work. I ask him questions about what I should do and sometimes he gives me answers and sometimes he just tilts his head and smiles, like he’s waiting for me to make the decision myself.

“I’ll quit my job,” I tell him. “I’ll go back to school and I’ll get a job at the university. And I’ll move closer there, too.”

He smiles, smiles, smiles. His fist shakes.

“I won’t get a house, but I’ll get a two bedroom. Yeah? One for me and one for you. We can decorate it ourselves. Maybe bring Mom’s piano.”

He says yes, and then holds up one finger.

“Just one bedroom?” I laugh. “What, you still want to sleep on the couch?”

He laughs with me too, silently, his shoulders shaking from the effort.

“If you say so,” I tell him. “I’m sure you know best.” When I check on his back, I don’t bother putting bandages back on. The new skin has finished coming in. There will be scars, but it won’t hurt again.

11

I hand in my two weeks. My boss looks a little put out, says she might stop by and visit some time. The person in the cubicle overhears and says “We’ll miss you,” in a voice that could be reading numbers out of a telephone book.

On the way home, I get more groceries, and then I stop at the mailbox. There’s a letter in it from my old advisor, saying they’d welcome me back, that we’d just need to set up an appointment to figure out the details. I’m planning on asking her about sign language classes, so he’ll be able to talk with me even more. I want to learn his name, learn about where he’s from, have him tell me about his day when I get home.

I come into the house cheerfully and put away the groceries. He’s not in the living room, but I’m not worried about him wandering anymore. Yesterday he took to exploring my bedroom and I let him with only a mild feeling of discomfort. “You hungry?” I call out, and wait a moment. No noise for an answer. Usually he jostles something to let me know he heard. “You there?” I head down the hallway and start opening doors, peering into them. He isn’t in my bedroom, my parents’ bedroom, Mom’s office. Nothing, nothing, nothing. He’s gone.

I sit down at the bar with the crossword and the sandwich he’d made me before I went to work. It’s cut neatly into four equal triangles, like Mom had always done for me when I was still in elementary school. Had I taught him to do that, or had I done it myself?

I eat.