Thirty-three Years

... is a long time. Or yesterday.

Words: 1666

"Thirty-three years," she muttered to herself, and then counted them out on her fingers to make doubly sure. "Thirty-three years."

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the hard wooden chair. There was no 'give', no comfort to be had - this furniture was meant for work, not relaxing. But she wasn't relaxing, or attempting to relax. She was wallowing. Wallowing in self-pity at the thought of this day thirty-three years ago.

When he hadn't answered her frantic phone-calls. There had been no mobile phones then, she had been ringing his landline. He was avoiding her calls, and presumably, everyone else's calls. Why? What had happened in the two days since they'd last met, and discussed which flavour of ice-cream to serve at the pre-wedding celebrations? These celebrations were to coincide with her birthday, and he had quipped he'd get the flavour 'lady in green' since he'd gifted her a green saree on their engagement day, and had thus nicknamed her his lady in green.

A loud bell sounded, breaking into her thoughts. Her eyes opened and she sat upright, massaging the small of her back. Hurried footsteps and the librarian was there, handing her a pile of papers.

"I got the photocopies you wanted," the librarian told her. "The kids will be here any moment, anything else you need to set up?"

She shook her head in an attempt to make the memories go away. She managed a weak smile. "Thanks, this is all I need. Ah, here they are. Good morning, students!"

They were soon deep into her favourite poem, Walter de la Mare's 'The Listeners' - reading it aloud, interpreting it, illustrating it. She had come a long way in thirty-three years. She had gone from being a copywriter in an advertising agency to being a librarian in a school to her present occupation of conducting Library Activities part-time, in the same school. And she couldn't be happier. She was doing what she was passionate about in an environment where she felt she could really make a difference. At least six of these teenagers now listening to her had the makings of fine poets themselves, if she could only guide them correctly.

This was what she was meant to do. Guide other people's kids, lead them on to greatness. She wouldn't have been able to do that if he hadn't broken their engagement, thirty-three years ago. She'd have married him and had a couple of nice kids of her own and settled down to look after those kids. She'd probably have retired from advertising, become a full-time Mom and prattled about her children's achievements to anyone who would listen and then suffered empty nest syndrome when they packed off to university.

'Tell them I came and no one answered, that I kept my word,' he said.

But he hadn't kept his word. He had broken the engagement, she had returned the teddy bear and the letters and thrown away the faded red rose. And now, she was happy, encouraging budding writers in their literary pursuits.

Another loud bell. 'Good afternoon and thank you', lots of footsteps and she was alone again on the hardbacked chair.

"Aren't you taking the van, Miss? It'll leave without you if you don't hurry!"

She couldn't recall closing her eyes again, but she opened them now to find the janitor leaning anxiously over her. "You all right, Miss? Anything I can get you?"

"I'm fine - van. Got to get the van," she mumbled, picking up her handbag and hurrying out. She made it just as the van was pulling out of the driveway.

Noise.

Everyone chattering about the day they had had in school or the evening they were going to have at home. It was Prema's son's birthday and her husband was going to bake a chocolate cake. Prema chuckled as she described her husband's earlier attempt at baking, and confided that she had ordered a back-up cake from the patisserie just in case.

The kids were talking about swimming class and guitar class and even homework. One lot was planning to study together for a forthcoming test.

Everyone had a plan. A plan that involved other human beings.

Except her.

Her plan, if you could call it that, was to go to an empty house and watch old episodes of Three's Company. She might prepare for another Library Activities session, except that she was planned for the rest of the term and didn't want to think too much ahead. She looked at Prema's beaming face and suddenly felt a stirring of resentment. What right had Prema to have a husband who bungled up baking a cake, and a son for whom to order a back-up cake, when she herself couldn't even keep a fiancé? She didn't even have the green saree anymore, it had been returned with the teddy bear and letters.

She had an empty house to go to and was suddenly overcome by a sickening wave of envy for those who had birthday parties, swimming classes and even joint homework sessions instead.

"Isn't this your stop? Aren't you getting off?"

"Happy Birthday to your son," she responded as she disembarked.

She'd do something different, she decided. Instead of Three's Company, she'd watch Different Strokes. Different, get it, get it? Her smile turned to a grimace - she knew she wasn't being funny.

Snack. Toast with lots of butter and ginger tea. "What you talking about Mr. D?" and Arnold's cute pout. Except it wasn't really cute when it was so contrived. Back to Three's Company. So much for being different.

A phone call. Telemarketing, or a real person? Excitement - a known number! It was Geraldine! Geraldine, who was so happily married and expecting her second baby.

She stared at the screen. Geraldine's was a known number because she had stored it in the memory. A name. A name that connected with a face. A face that connected with gestures and quirks of speech and memories and stories. She hadn't stored her own second number - it remained unknown. To herself, she didn't have a name. So she couldn't be connected with a face ... or with memories or with a future. She thought of herself in the third person ...

The phone had stopped ringing, but started up again immediately. This time, she answered.

"Geraldine? Sorry, I just got home and was ..."

"Never mind. Listen, I'm going into labour and that man is nowhere to be found. Can you come over now and babysit Lenny, or meet us in the hospital and then take him back with you or something? I'm desperate."

"How are you getting to hospital?"

"I've called a cab. That man has his phone switched off, I can't reach him! I swear, this is a bummer."

"Okay, I'll call a cab and meet you at hospital and bring Lenny back home with me. Does Lenny like peanut butter sandwiches?"

"Loves them. You're a sweetheart. See you at the hospital. I'm Dr. Mennon's patient."

*********

She slathered Lenny's third peanut butter sandwich with jam. She'd wipe his chin once he was finished, she decided - though if he ate a couple more sandwiches she might need to wash his T-shirt as well ...

Lenny hadn't spoken much. He'd been chomping each mouthful and swallowing, and then biting off another.

He gazed at her as she applied liberal quantities of jam and piped up suddenly, "My Daddy doesn't love my Mummy."

She dropped the butter-knife and bent to pick it up. When she straightened, he was still gazing straight at her. It was disconcerting, to say the least, a three-and-a-half year old looking at her with x-ray eyes.

"My Daddy knows my Mummy is going to have a baby but he puts his phone off."

"Er – maybe he's busy or the network ..."

"No. He doesn't love her. He doesn't love me, too. He didn't make sandwiches for me."

She pushed the plate back at him and turned to hide her tears. What does one say to a tiny child who thinks his Daddy doesn't love him?

Saved by the phone.

"Hello? A girl? And she's okay? They're both okay? Yes, her son is here, yes, I'll receive a video call ..."

"Lenny, look at your new baby sister!"

The little boy peered at the screen. "I can only see a bit of hair," he protested.

The nurse smiled, took the baby from the mother and turned her face to the phone. The child looked at his mother and his new sibling. Slowly, he smiled and waved. Geraldine waved a tired arm back at him.

"What do you want to name her, Lenny? You get to pick a name, so think of a good one."

"I know a good name."

"What?"

"Sania."

Sania jumped. This time, she dropped the jar of peanut butter that she had been putting away. Fortunately, it was made of steel and didn't break, but it did make a terrific crash. The baby heard it and began to wail.

"Oh, I'll put the phone off now," the nurse said hurriedly, and the screen went blank.

It was Sania's turn to gaze at Lenny. "You'd name your sister for me?"

"My Mummy says you're her best friend."

She hugged him and didn't try to hide her tears.

*********

Two days later, back at Geraldine's home, both parents confirmed their son's choice of a name. "And you'll be Godmother, like you are to Lenny," Geraldine said.

There was no satisfactory explanation given for the father's absence at the crucial time, and she didn't probe. He did have the decency to look apologetic and that would have to do for her.

But she had a name now, and a namesake. She was Sania, who, for more than thirty-three years, had been there for her friends when they needed her. She was Sania, loved by students and the children of her friends.

"You know something, Sania?" Geraldine confided when she was alone with her for a moment. "Sometimes I'm right down jealous of you."