Page 30 of Nights Without Night
When I shut the door behind me, the click sounds final.
*****
I search for information on veterans of the Special Ops. I find almost nothing.
I think,what can I do?
Living in an individualistic society builds a very particular illusion around you: You Can Do Anything. Even if we don’t believe in ourselves there’s a little voice in our heads. “You could do it if you actually applied yourself and tried”. Possibility is an obstacle away. It’s a sense of power that doesn’t feel like power.
I can do anything if I try hard enough.
But I can’t.
*****
I quit the job at the bar, but my head is still filled to the brim. Life doesn’t slow down for us. I go to class and studio, trying to keep up with the homework, but it’s like I’m running with a millstone like a noose around my neck.
Every spare thought is Isadoro’s. No amount of exhaustion will help me sleep.
I check the food obsessively, counting everything so I know when something goes missing. A banana. Two pieces of bread. The jar of chocolate spread.
I make him arroz con leche, a treat my mom used to make us when we were kids. The smell of cinnamon is an almost unbearable ache. I wait to see if the scent draws Isadoro out, but his door stays shut.
Maybe it doesn’t even reach him.
It comes out a little mushy, but I shrug it off. We always preferred it cold, so I wait until it cools down and then put it in the fridge. In the late evening, I take two of the small pots out. My lungs and my stomach are heavy, but I ignore them as I walk to Isadoro’s room. Balancing the pots on a plate, I knock on Isadoro’s door and call his name. Silence answers me.
“I’m coming in,” I say. The door opens, and a familiar scene greets me. The smell and the darkness are thicker, making me pause at the entrance.
“Isa,” I say, just to hear something in this silence.
My steps are muffled as I walk inside. Isadoro is in the same position, and I kneel beside the bed, placing the plate and spoons on the bedside table.
“I made you some arroz con leche,” I say quietly. My pulse jumps as Isadoro shifts, but he doesn’t turn around. I wait a few more seconds.
“Please. I…I promise, it’s better than my lasagne,” I try. When that doesn’t work, I press a hand against his hidden back. “Please.”
It works. I snatch my hand back as he turns around, grabbing a dessert pot and a spoon. When he’s facing me, he just blinks at my face for a moment, before looking at the arroz con leche in my hands. He looks different, a scraggly beard on his face, but I’m just glad he’s looking my way. I hold my breath. With obvious effort, he sits up, back against the headboard.
I have the sudden, insane urge to cry.
“Here,” I say, handing him the pot and spoon. He takes them. Our fingers don’t brush.
I get up from the floor to sit at the edge of the bed, watching him closely.
“Quit staring,” he says, pointing at the other pot of arroz con leche on the plate. I take the hint and pick it up, making a considering noise as I eat a spoonful.
“Not bad, right?”
“It’s good.”
We eat in silence. I pretend to look down as I watch him from the corner of my eye. He’s eating slowly and methodically, eyes unfocused. The taste doesn’t seem to be taking him anywhere. It’s just food.
When he’s done and has placed the empty pot on the plate I decide to push my luck.
“Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll change the sheets?” At my suggestion, Isadoro closes his eyes. He slides down, turning back to his original position. His back towards me.
I sit there for a while, just watching him. No words come to me.
