Between Then & Now || Currently Editing for Wattys 2022

48.

For once, the ceiling is not staring back, and it is just a ceiling.

Ma returned back to work today despite Kai's attempts to persuade her to take just a few more days off. I'm not sure how much work she's actually doing, though, because for the last two days, her every hour had been consumed by funeral arrangements.

How ironic that she would be the only one left to plan a funeral for the man who abandoned her and her daughter over her sexuality.

I sit up in my bed, letting my body sink into the white fabric underneath me. The walls of my bedroom are a light, baby blue, dim sunlight bleeding in through my open window, and, as much as I wish it would be, my mind is not overcome by some vision of swimming or floating or whatever else artists would use to make a plain blue wall more than a plain blue wall. But, if I try hard enough, it almost looks like the sky is around me. Just a big expanse of nothing expanding on and on forever.

I'm not sure where my mind has been for the last few days, because it certainly hasn't been here. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing, though - for once, I wasn't concerned about death or a documentary or Thelma who Babcia had taken for the week under the guise that "she needed someone to take care of her" as if she hadn't fallen in love with her the minute she gobbled up one of Babcia's kołaczki.

My leg starts vibrating and I jump before realizing that it's just my phone which I had somehow completely forgotten existed. When I pick it up, I see about a million texts, some from Jo, and for a second I smile. At least one good thing came out of the trip. But I don't open them right away, sliding over to answer the unknown call just to get the buzzing to stop.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Ola! How are you?" I instantly recognize the voice on the other end of the phone and perk up before dropping my shoulders, remembering her faith in me and my feminist manifesto.

"Hi Dr. Walker," A smile still appears on my face nonetheless just because of how unexpected the call was. My mind walks around inside my head for a minute, having finally returned if even for just a moment, before I answer honestly. "I've been better."

"Oh, no." I can hear her kettle screaming in the background and she continues. "I'm so sorry to hear that - what happened?"

"Um," I pick at a piece of lint on my duvet. "Well, um, my father passed away a little less than a week ago."

There's a pause, and I can feel Dr. Walker searching for words. I brace myself for the I'm sorry for your loss but it never comes. Instead, she asks, "is there anything I can do?"

My mouth moves but nothing comes out. The words hit me like a soft cloud of warm, comforting air. "Thank you," I finally smile, my shoulders dropping in relief. "I don't think there is but just.. Thank you for offering."

"Of course." Her voice is soft and nurturing, and I momentarily thank whatever divine force for putting her into my life. "I would make you a cup of tea if you were here, but."

"Oh, that's okay," I laugh, wiping my eyes of the few tears I had left which had formed there. "My babcia's been showering us with pastries since I've come back, so that's good."

"Oh, you're back home! Well, at least, your mom is there. I know when my father passed, my mom was my rock." There's a pause as she takes a drink of her tea and swallows and thinks. "Loss really does sometimes bring people closer together. And it teaches you a hell of a lot."

My eyes widen at her language, and I nod even though she can't see me. "It does." I pause again, thinking about why she might have called. Then, I realise. "I'm so sorry, I didn't have time to make the feminist documentary you thought I would."

"Ola!" She exclaims, and I hear her setting her cup down. "Never apologize for taking time to take care of yourself. This is your time to mourn and grieve and heal. This time is for you. The documentary can absolutely wait." There's another pause. "You have plenty of time. I know it may not feel like it might right now and it might feel like you don't even know if tomorrow will come. And that's true, you don't. But if you don't give yourself today, you won't give yourself tomorrow, even if it does come."

I start to nod again then remember I'm on the phone. "Yeah, you're right."

"Besides," she continues, and I hear her take another sip of her tea. "You might just still make it. And it doesn't have to be about feminism. The fact that you, a woman, are making it makes it feminist in the nature of its existence. It could even be about your father."

For a moment, I don't respond, studying the way my curtains flutter from the wind coming through my open window. The edges flitter like butterfly wings, and I remember my grandfather with his butterfly feeder, and my father's white hospital bed. And I nod. Then, I remember again. "Yeah..." I pause, thinking. "It could be."

"But no rush," she reminds me. "Remember: this time is for you. Take it." 

"Of course," I smile, eyes still tracing the curtain.