Story

It was more than a year ago.
Over twelve months since that hot and humid day when she and three others had stood and watched her mothers' coffin lowered into the ground.
She stood, looking at the small grave marker with the number stamped on it, (there was no money for a headstone), and wondered what to do next. Every week she came, placed a small bunch of wild-flowers on the grave, and spoke to the earth, telling it her news. She did not believe her mother was there, that she heard, but it felt like the right thing to do. Better this than talking to herself in the street, she reasoned.
Now, though, there was a change. She had a decision to make.

The last twelve months had changed her in ways she had not expected. She was alone now, and felt the loneliness of someone who has had their only certainty in life taken away, but she also felt stronger, surer now than she had for many years. Looking at the almost level plot of earth before her, she did a quick mental calculation and came up with twenty-four years. Almost two and  half decades of uncertainty and hiding, until today. Yet even now a different uncertainty lingered.

She had been almost sixteen when her mother, driven to despair by her past, had succumbed to her fears and fled. A victim of abuse as a child, then married to a tyrant, she had finally broken away and found sanctuary with a gentle, patient man, who fathered the child now standing by a country grave. He had loved quietly, and supported the mother in so many ways, but he was no match for the terrors that haunted the woman's' mind, and eventually she ran. She had begged her daughter to go with her; "Just for a little while, 'til I'm set up, then you can go home", and Ruth had agreed. She loved her mother despite her faults, as all daughters do, and although she hated leaving her father, it was only for a little while.....

Every time they moved, Ruth made certain her father knew, and she also made sure her boyfriend knew. Her father swore he would always stay in touch, and her boyfriend promised undying love. She believed both of them. Her boyfriend finished High School and went to University. She wrote to him every time she moved, and he occasionally replied. Her father changed jobs, moved cities, even States, but still the contact remained.

Then, in one mad six month frenzy, they moved incessantly, as her mothers' fears became a mania, and she could not escape the notion that she was being chased. Ruth could not calm her, could not reassure and comfort her, as she had always been able to before. From Motel to Motel they ran, staying a week, then days, and finally overnight, until the money ran out, and they slept in shelters, railway stations, under bridges, in drainage pipes, or didn't sleep at all, but sat in the cold and the rain, until finally daylight came. Always they moved, shedding possessions, identities, addresses, and memories, until finally they were completely alone, and unknown.

 Exhausted, her mother had broken down, and was admitted to hospital. Ruth became her Guardian, and her reason for existence. Now Ruth could never leave.
Ruth wrote to the two men that had been the anchors to her life, but got no reply. Both had moved on, tried to stay in touch, no doubt, but in vain. She searched as best she could, but her time and resources were limited. and she needed to find a way to live.

Her mother was released into her care, and Ruth began the long task of devoting her life to caring for another. There would be no room for romance, or career, and barely any socialising, either. The town was small, rural, nondescript and conservative. No chance of escaping into the bright lights here. She rented a cottage for the two of them, and for eighteen years she  faithfully tended to her mothers' increasing agitation. She handled her escalating paranoia, managed her increasingly erratic behaviour, and dealt with her demons so often that the local medical authorities issued drugs to her almost without question, and quietly admired her for her competence and resilience.

As her mother entered her sixties, it became obvious that the years of agitation were taking their toll on the slight frame that held so much energy. Her sleep was fitful, her waking hours fraught with tension and demands, and she lost weight steadily. Eventually, she passed away, gripping her daughter's hand in the afternoon light, as distraught and unhappy in her dying moments as she had ever been in life. She died as she had lived, a victim of the cruelty of others and unable to come to terms with her life. The irony, thought Ruth, was that she had inflicted the same trauma and disruption on her daughter that she had hated others doing to her. Ruth knew that it was unintentional on her mother's part, but it rankled nonetheless.

Now, over a year after she had bade her mother that final good-bye, she stood here, asking her advice.

The letter had arrived some months after the funeral. Hand written, and post-marked just the day before. Her hand shook slightly as she realised who the writer was, and she trembled visibly by the time she had finished reading.

He started by offering sympathies to her on the death of her mother, explaining that he had seen the death notice in a regional paper.(Ruth had been obliged, by law, to publish the notice, and it was required to be under her mothers' birth name). He asked if she remembered him, and finally, asked if he could visit her some time. Remember? Of course she remembered!! She felt ill with shock and sudden fear.
She hesitated for weeks before replying, uncertain which decision to make. Finally she had replied that he could visit, for an afternoon, to see how things went. He wrote back and thanked her, asking when would be convenient. She decided on Sunday.
Ruth worked now. Financially, she needed to, and there were no other constraints on her time. She had found a job at the local Library, as a trainee Assistant, and revelled in the work. A lifetime of dealing with impossible demands meant that normal interaction with the public was terribly easy for her, but it was the children that gave her the joy. Never having the chance for marriage, or children meant that she unearthed a new joy in the delights of discovery, and the pride in small successes that children find every day, and her time in the Children's Corner of the Library were the highlight of her day.
Sunday was her day off, and she knew she could handle one afternoon with this almost stranger..

He arrived early, but she had anticipated this, and was ready. Answering the knock, she opened the door to see him standing well back, as if to lessen the impact of his presence. He seemed hesitant, and offered a half smile as he said "Hello, Ruth.", waiting for her response.
 "Hi", she said, remaining in the door frame, waiting.
He stepped forward, "It's good to see you", He leaned forward to kiss her, but she recoiled and said "I'm not ready for that", then smiled and said, "It's been a very long time".
"It has." he agreed, and nodded, understanding. "Sorry"
She nodded again, seriously, but reached and took his hand to lead him into the cottage.

She sat him at the table, made tea and coffee, and sat and talked. Then came lunch, then more tea and coffee, then dusk. He rose to go. "I have to work in the morning, and it's a four hour drive.." She thanked him for coming, and he said, "There's so much more we need to talk about, Ruth, Do you mind if I come back next week?"
"I think that would be ok," Ruth said quietly, "Same time?"

So the pattern was set. He would arrive Sunday morning, spend the day talking, remembering, gently touching hidden strands that were sometimes joyous, sometimes painful, and sometimes forgotten. They sat and talked, walked and talked, and sometimes sat in silence. He never again attempted any intimacy, and she never offered, except to hold his hand when he arrived, and as he left, enjoying the warm strength in his grasp.
This continued for weeks, until one day, as he entered the cottage, he asked if he might stay the night. "It's four hours driving each way," he explained. "Then I have to get up early for work. If I could sleep here, I could drive straight to work and it would be easier."
She considered for a while before agreeing. It was another step, and not of her choosing. Despite this, she agreed, "Ok. You can have the second bedroom. I'll make it up." She had long since moved into her mothers', larger room.
He readily agreed and went back to the car to retrieve the things he had brought in anticipation.

In the early hours of Monday morning, she heard his movements as he left the place and drove away. Later, entering the second bedroom, she found the bed made neatly, and the backpack containing his things gone.
So they moved into a new phase; he stayed Sunday night and left in the early hours of Monday. Their personal relationship moved much more slowly. There was so much uncharted territory between them after so many years. So much needed to be said, but could not be broached, for fear of raising accusations and defensive reactions. So much conversation was a tactful, delicate ballet, sensing the approach of high emotion, and backing away at the last moment. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him, or cry, but she held her emotions in check. She was still in control, still in charge.

One day, months after he began to sleep in the house, he reached across the table and took her hand. "Ruth, I want you to come and live with me." She looked at him in shock. "We've missed so many years" he continued, "I want to have the chance for us to have a proper relationship while we still can." He looked into her eyes intently. "I really want this."
She stared back, silently.
"I can't make that decision now." she said.
"I know. I just can't keep doing this for much longer," he said, "The driving is getting too much, and I really think you'd like it at my place..."
He released her hand, "Tell you what" he said, "Think about it for a couple of weeks and let me know".
He rose from the chair, "I better get to bed"
"Goodnight" she said, not moving.
"'Night" he replied, going to the bedroom.

So now she stood at the grave,two weeks later, and asked the earth the question she did not want to know the answer to....
After considering it all; her suffering, her devotion, deprivation, surrender, sacrifice and finally, freedom, she made the decision on her own. She turned and walked home in the afternoon light.

She sat down across the table from him. He had turned his chair sideways and had his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, watching his index finger as it tilted and rolled a salt shaker on the table top. "I've decided to stay", she said.

He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.

As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.

He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."

When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.

After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gathering gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.

Three weeks later, she sat at the table, unconsciously tilting and rolling the salt shaker, unaware of her mimicry. She sat in the dark, staring through the open door at the stars visible above the tree-line.
Initially, Ruth had felt a wild exultation as she celebrated her freedom. For the first time she was not needed by anyone! Nobody was calling her, clutching after her, requiring attention. Her time was her own, her space was hers to fill as she pleased, and she suddenly felt younger than her years.
 He had made several calls over the weeks, but she had ignored them, and had not answered his messages. Her time was here and she felt defiant. She would talk when she was good and ready!

Suddenly, the elation had faded, and loneliness overwhelmed her. In just a few days she had plunged from care-free and exhilarated to almost melancholy. She suddenly recalled that she had not held his hand as he left that last time. The memory of that strong, reassuring grip came to her mind, and she inhaled sharply.

Had she been mistaken in thinking that he was another who was going to demand her time, her energy? She suddenly felt the need to hear his voice, to ask him. Impulsively she grabbed for the telephone and shakily found his number. As it started to ring she glanced at the time. "My God! Three a.m.!!", but before she could hang up, he answered. "Hello? Yes?" his voice was thick with sleep, but urgent, concerned, "Hello?, Who's this?"

"It's me", she said, surprised at the tremor in her voice. "Sorry to wake you..."
"Ruth! Hi, what's wrong?"
She took a breath. This was harder than she had imagined. "Remember you said to call you if I was stuck?"
He thought a moment, "Yes, of course. Why, what's wrong?"
Again she breathed deeply.
"It's just that...." She trailed off, then tried again, "I don't know..."
She suddenly sobbed, and suddenly she was crying into the phone.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know what to do! I need you...I need you to....to come and get me"
Come and get me, Dad"

His response was immediate, "I'm on my way."