Suspension of Disbelief

There’s a beautiful patch of green between home and work, and it reminds me of how I used to have happiness that was real.  That was before Beth and Dan died, before the life I knew was shattered.  Shops have been replaced and trees have been cut down and the old church was turned into a parking lot and the beauty of the neighborhood slipped away, like my youth, but no one ever touched that patch of green.
    I used to walk there, alone, and pretend Beth and Dan were beside me.  I would tell them that we were together now, that we were together and could spend the rest of the day walking or shopping or whatever it was complete families were supposed to do.  I didn’t have to work.  Work could wait for a little while; work could wait forever, if that’s what it took.
    I was always so organized, so meticulous, so stupid.  Everything had to be planned out to the last detail.  Everything had to conform to the restraints of time.  Well, time is meaningless.  We don’t need deadlines or schedules or plans…we only need each other, we only need now, and everything is so simple and so easy and if I only saw it then, maybe I could have changed it.
   
    I usually didn’t bother talking to patients with dementia, but Mr. Jade was a special case.  He didn’t always remember who I was, but I knew that he must have had a family and a job before age overtook him.  I wanted to learn about his life through him, but so much was shrouded in mystery.  Everything he said was confusing, though the names “Beth” and “Dan” were frequently thrown on trains of thought.  He would say that he had to go outside because Beth was waiting for him, that he had to move quickly or he would be late for his dinner date with her.  Sometimes he called me Dan, and I had to reintroduce myself at least five times a day.  Other times he seemed to be fully aware of where he was, though he still often mistook me for the doctor.
    I had already met all kinds of people like him.  But there was something that drew me to him, like we knew each other many lifetimes ago.

    One day I walked to the patch and waited, but something struck me as odd.  There was a person standing right next to me, only she wasn’t really there.  Just as I realized who she was, another person appeared, and just seeing him filled my heart with joy.   
    Now I didn’t feel the slightest tinge of surprise.  I saw them in my dreams.  I heard their voices around the house.  They called me at work.  They conversed with me every day as I walked home.  How could it possibly be surprising, then, that they took the last step in bridging the gap between life and death?  I knew that this was really them, and that our meeting was precious.  I didn’t question it.  I just told them what I wanted to say for so long.
    I told them that I was sorry, that I thought of them all the time and knew that they would return.
    Beth told me it was okay.  Everything was okay with her.  She was always such a free spirit, so carefree.  I was the uptight one.  I was the one who was always preoccupied with something.  Now she had come to comfort me once again.
    But Dan just stared at me vacantly, fading away with every passing second.  And then he disappeared.  Suddenly something fled from Beth’s eyes, like part of her died.  And she cried in my arms, cried and cried.  And I told her I loved her and that we still had each other, but she became cold in my arms.  And then she disappeared.

    I guess I started volunteering at the home because I was in search of answers.  I wanted to meet as many people as possible, because they were older than other people and therefore had more wisdom than any other people in the world.  I realized that most of them had a short memory and couldn’t speak in coherent conversations, but that only made things more interesting.
    I met Mr. Jade by the piano.  He seemed to love listening to me play, and he said that I reminded him of Dan (it was only a matter of time before he started calling me Dan).  He used to play a little bit himself, but eventually all he would do was pat me on the back, say I was “Very talented” or “A very good boy” or that “Mom would love to hear me play,” and he would try to play a few notes himself but would just bang the keys a little.
    I asked one of the nurses if she knew his story.  She said she didn’t, but gave me directions to an old friend of his.
    The man she directed me to was old and partially deaf and unfriendly, but when I mentioned Mr. Jade he instantly lighted up and invited me inside.  He told me that he had worked with Mr. Jade for years, but hadn't heard from him in a long, long time.
    And then he told me the story of Mr. Jade and Mr. Jade's family.
    Mr. Jade was a kind man and a good worker.  He had a beautiful wife and a great son who grew up fast.
    But one day there was an accident.  A car accident.  Articles indicate that Mrs. Jade was to blame.
    She survived.  Dan didn't.
    Mr. Jade tried to make her feel better, tried to be strong, but she couldn't overcome that one consuming thought that she killed Dan.  Nothing was the same.  It was just that thought, and that thought.
    There was a second accident.  No one knows quite what happened.  I doubt anyone wants to know what happened.  Maybe she was distracted by That Thought and didn't notice the curve approaching as she drove.  I like to think it was an accident.  This old friend, as he told the story, said he wanted to believe it was an accident. 
      And with that story, all the scattered pieces cane together.

    I realized that by going to that patch of green, I could relive the precious moments of the past.  I could be with my son again, and do all those things I never got to do with him.  I could dance with Beth again, when we were young and more alive than the dark times.
    The green patch grew until it occupied my entire world.  They were there, everywhere.  And they were like they were before, when we were happy.

    I took a moment and thought about my own life, and how we hold together and stand tall and hope for the best.

    Then I realized I could change the past.  The past was all around me, and now I could redo it.  So I told Dan and Beth we would stay home tonight.  They didn’t have to go out and buy us more milk and flour.  We could just stay here, at home, and not have to worry about anything.  We had what was most important.
   
    I was almost too late.  Mr. Jade was slipping away.

    And now I was back and I knew where I was but it was okay because Dan had grown up and gotten his own job and wife and family and Beth was still alive and everything was okay like we had planned it and I had made it okay and I had nothing to regret and I could just die now because I was so happy and I tried to tell everyone else I was happy and it was okay.  And the nurses were crying and there was a boy who visited me with flowers and cried and came back and he cried but I told him he didn’t have to cry for anything because he was so young and so healthy like Dan and it was okay now because I made it that way.

    Let's make a break here, because every time I tell the story it sounds a little too rushed—too rushed to capture who the man really was.  He's not here anymore, but he means so much more to me than a collection of memories.  Every time I saw him, every little conversation we had became something real, something that always stays real.  This little story doesn't capture him, doesn't capture each little memory.  But maybe nothing can.
    His death was something I didn't know how to handle. 
    At the funeral I was lost for words, so I just went with something short and generic.  I said that he was a good man and that we would miss him.
    I remember feeling like I wasn't sure of anything anymore.  I took one last look at the home and then left, unwilling to give his room another glance, unwilling to look at the piano and see him playing.
    And now he's just there, distant but there.  Not haunting—no, anything but haunting.  Familiar, alive, but...I just can't find the words to describe it.  He's just there.
    I still see him.  I still hear his voice and I still see his face and I still see him dancing there, somewhere, on a lone patch of green.