Dating : The Wish

Please note this is a trigger warning as this story explores the topic of self-harm and suicide.

I met my Uncle Tim for the first time last night for Thanksgiving dinner at my Grandma’s. I thought I heard of him before, and my Grandma said he was in the loony bin for a long time, which is why I never met him.

The knock came as Grandma was carving the turkey on the countertop. She wasn’t expecting anyone else, so she sent me to open the door just in case it was “those annoying early carolers” to send home, or stand politely and listen. When I opened it, I thought I was seeing a ghost — he looked just like Pop. Mama said they were identical twins.

As soon as Uncle Tim set foot beyond the threshold, everyone in sight hushed their voices, as if their words were shards of glass about to pop a balloon. No one came to hug him, except me at first, because he looked like a spitting image of Pop. His gaunt brown eyes, low bridged nose, his bony long fingers, even the birthmark on his left cheek resembled Pop. He even moved and grunted the same way when he sat down in Grandma’s ratty floral armchair, weighted, like a marionette fighting his master just because he’s so damned tired of dancing.

“How did you get out of the straight jacket?” Grandma called from the kitchen, almost in a huff. She didn’t seem surprised, as if this exchange happened every year.

“They let me out for a good assessment,” Uncle Tim fired back, unfazed. His speech was deeper and slower than a normal person’s, the words seemed to ooze from his voice box.

No one in my family looked remotely happy or surprised to see him. I thought he maybe announced his arrival beforehand, but I later learned that wasn’t true. He just showed up like it was normal. I felt like the family had been keeping him a secret from me.

“How’d you know to come here?” squeaked my little sister Rosie, bounding into the room and popping her head above the arm of Uncle Tim’s chair. She was 10, and in an exploratory phase, so she was curious as much as she was fearless. She started talking to strangers, even when Mama told her not to.

Uncle Tim reached over, and stroked her head softly with his bony hand. Brave Rosie didn’t recoil at his touch. “Grandma always makes Thanksgiving dinner, honey,” he exclaimed in a cushioned voice.

“How come I don’t know y — “

“Enough, Rosie!” Mama interrupted, agitated. “You ask too many questions!”

Mama wore her heart on her sleeve so much, she might as well have sewn a heart into every blouse and dress she owned, just to tell everyone. They could write an encyclopedia of emotions with just her face, demonstrating each and every nuance of feeling. When she was angry, her brow furrowed and created three deep canyons in between her eyes. When she was jubilant, her beam could generate power in solar panels.

“How come we don’t know you?” I asked, continuing Rosie’s question. Mama tried to shush me too, but she wasn’t quick enough.

Uncle Tim stayed silent. He was looking straight at Mama, as if he wanted to say something, but he needed her permission. There was some kind of underlying respect they shared.

“That’s your Uncle Tim,” Mama sighed. Her canyons began to soften. “He’s daddy’s twin brother. Will y’all be alright while I set up for dinner?”

“Yes ma’am,” I replied dutifully.

She moved into the dining room to help Grandma and others set the table.

Rosie seized the opportunity to feverishly stick out her hand. “I’m Rosie!” she exclaimed. “Nice to meet you!”

Uncle Tim grinned and took her hand, brought it to his lips, and pecked her knuckle. “I didn’t know we had a princess in the family,” he cooed.

“Me either!” Rosie giggled. “Call me your highness!”

“Okay, your highness. Can you do me a royal favor?”

“That depends.”

“Would you like to trade me a cold glass of water for a piece of candy?”

“Tim!” Grandma barked, stomping into the den with a potato masher in hand. She waved it around as she bellowed, sending bits of buttered potato around the room. “Don’t you dare give that child any candy before dinner!” Grandma had the hearing of a Cocker Spaniel, nothing got past her.

Uncle Tim raised his hands in submission, the corner of his lip slightly twisted into a half smile. She made the I’m watching you gesture with her two fingers, and quietly retreated backward into the kitchen. I followed, going for that glass of water.

“Don’t you dare sneak any of that turkey before we sit down,” she warned me. “That’s why you’re so chubby.”

Grandma used to be a pageant girl, so shape and appearance were everything to her. She was tall, thin, and beautiful — even for her age. She nitpicked everything I put in my mouth, but always overfilled my plate, expecting me not to finish it. I thought of it like a challenge, stuffing myself until I felt like my skin could burst.

When she had her back turned, I snuck a piece of turkey anyway, and hurriedly exited to the den, still chewing. I handed Uncle Tim his water, which he used to help him swallow pills from his pocket.

“Why do you need those?” I asked.

Uncle Tim swallowed a few more gulps. “Because I’m sick,” he gurgled.

“Well, what do you have? I know some remedies.” I quickly flipped through the inner list in my head of things Mama did when me and Rosie were sick.

“It’s not the kind of sick you think, sweetie,” he said, wearily. “There’s no remedy for this.”

I was perturbed by his secrecy. I must have furrowed my brow like Mama because he quickly followed up.

“It’s in my head,” Uncle Tim said.

“What is?” Rosie prodded. I almost forgot she was there, which never happens.

“Your highness, I think your Queen is calling you from the dining room,” he fibbed. She bounded into the dining room, forgetting all about our conversation. It was just me and him now.

“You’re 15 now, right?” Uncle Tim asked me.

“Yep! I’m gonna be 16 in April!” I exclaimed.

“Wow, does time soar!”

“Wait…you knew me when I was younger?”

“I was there when you were born, held you after your Mama and Papa passed out from exhaustion in the hospital. I went away for work but sent you gifts every year. Do you remember the rocking horse? Your Papa told me you loved that thing.”

I didn’t remember the rocking horse, but I trusted him, because everyone else seemed to enough to leave me alone with him. I wanted to hear more about Pop. Mama didn’t talk about him since he took his own life when I was a kid, and Grandma shushed me whenever I asked.

“What was Pop like?” I inquired.

Uncle Tim leaned back into the arm chair, his hand slowly dragging down his face with a sigh.

“Your Papa was my other half,” he said. “I don’t know how to say it any other way but that way. When I got laryngitis, he was my voice. When I saw sadness in his eyes, I could cry for him. He was full of life, springing on any chance to make someone laugh, and I was the quiet one. Now he’s just missing.”

I sat at his feet, listening intently.

“But, he was sad just like me,” Uncle Tim continued, gruffly. “We both had it tough. We supported your Grandma after our Papa died, working all types of the dirtiest jobs. We once gutted a whole 2-bedroom house for fifty bucks apiece. It took 3 days but it put some food on the table. We didn’t want Mama with another man, so we did the work ourselves to make up for his help.”

“Mama is like that too,” I said quietly, of my mother. Uncle Tim nodded, as though agreeing with her.

“She probably heard a mouthful from David,” he said with a grin.

That was the first time I heard my Pop’s name, in reference to him, in a long time. Seeing my Uncle Tim saying it out loud put me in a bit of a trance, like I was talking to my Pop and not his twin.

“So, why are you guys depressed?” I continued. I always got in trouble for my inquisitiveness, and it’s probably where Rosie got her curious side from.

“The doctors say it’s something wrong with our brain chemicals,” Uncle Tim replied. “But…”

“But what?”

“I tried to take my own life too. Right after your Papa did. I just didn’t succeed. Multiple times.”

If I was slouching, I sure shot upright, as if that puppet master controlling my uncle pulled the right string to make my back straight.

“What do you mean multiple times?” I inquired.

“I mean I kept trying and failing,” he said.

“Like you couldn’t go through with it?”

“No, like there was something preventing me from doing it. Maybe a week after your Papa’s funeral, the depression was overwhelming. I couldn’t get out of bed, I couldn’t eat, and I smelled like a fresh bag of fertilizer. I decided the only way to stop this pain was to join him.”

****

Tim’s apartment was in a building near an iron mill. It was small, old, but filled by sunlight and haze almost daily. Tim couldn’t tell if the haze was smoke from the factory or dust. He didn’t smoke cigarettes, but he didn’t cough either, so he ignored it.

The day Tim came to the decision to join his brother, he awoke to a familiar sight. The sunlight had penetrated a hole in his curtain he swore he’d fix one day, and cast a beam over his right eye. It was noon, or around that time, he no longer kept track of the days. Tim would toss around for a bit, trying to drift back to sleep, or just lay there stuck in his head, fixed in the endless cycle between the guilt of doing nothing again and the justification for doing nothing.

It was 33 days after Tim returned from his brother’s funeral. He bathed the night he came home, to get smell of his sister-in-law’s perfume out of his skin, and went to bed. He didn’t shower since. He only arose to putter around his apartment, use the toilet, and snack on whatever dry food was in his cupboard, just to keep his stomach from grumbling.

Tim couldn’t fall back asleep and needed to use the bathroom. He dragged himself out of bed and out into the hallway of his building to the shared lavatory. As he was returning to his door, his eyes heavy again, he stopped and peered over the banister of the staircase descending below his feet. The idea came almost immediately, as if it were there all along. There were enough steps to do the damage, and it would be too late by the time anyone found him.

A wave of relief washed over him. He had made up his mind, and for the first time in 38 days, he grinned. He took a few steps toward the top, pulled in his breath, and leaned forward. As soon as Tim felt that his balance was about to give, he opened his eyes and quickly stopped himself by grabbing the banisters. His heart was pounding, and he felt short of breath. ‘This is the endgame, c’mon Tim,’ he thought to motivate himself.

A phone ring echoed and startled him. ‘Someone better pick that up,’ he thought, annoyed. He waited. The ringing continued until Tim realized it was the phone in his apartment. He wasn’t sure why, but he walked back to his apartment to answer it.

“Tim?”

It was David’s wife.

“Hi,” he said.

“I just wanted to call and make sure everything was all right,” she said, her voice soft.

“Everything is fine, for what it is,” Tim uttered, repeating what he’d heard in other conversations after a loved one passed. “How are you and the kids?”

“Kid,” she countered, correcting him. “Rosie is just about done cooking.”

“Right, right, sorry, I’ve lost track of time.”

“I know that feeling. Your Mama got a call from your job, hoping everything was all right. You haven’t showed up for work since after the funeral and we started to worry.”

“I’m all right, just getting things together is all.”

Tim didn’t want to promise he’d be back to work, because he wasn’t a liar. He asked about his mother, and heard about his sister-in-law’s plans to get a job after Rosie was born. She had some savings left to sustain the family before she needed to give birth, and he promised to send her money. It was the least he could do.

When Tim hung up, he told her to take care, as he was bad at goodbyes. He went to his bedroom, opened the safe, and stuffed all the cash he had into a manila envelope. As he sat down on his bed to write her address, he took a final look at his apartment and sighed. ‘This is the only way,’ he convinced himself.

He stuffed the envelope into a mail chute on his way to the staircase, and found himself at the top once more, looking down. He didn’t want to chicken out again.

Tim tried throwing himself, but he caught the banister just in time, his knuckles white from gripping so hard. He knew this was going to be his final challenge. He steadied himself, sipped in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and flipped forward. ‘This is it. It’s gonna be over. Finally.’

Everything stopped. He felt nothing. Then, a familiar orange-red beam hit his eyelids. He opened them.

Tim was still on the staircase, but further down. He had landed on his feet. The sunlight was streaming through the skylight in the ceiling. He shook his head and smacked his cheeks to check if he was dreaming. He was awake.

He ran to the top of the next flight without bothering to stop and hesitate, and threw himself forward. Again, he landed on his feet further down. He tried one more flight, once more with a flip, and cursed himself when the soles of his feet ached.

Tim clambered up the three flights back to his apartment. He had a handgun, that would be simple. He hastily loaded it, closed his eyes to prevent compunction, and pulled the trigger. His ears were ringing. He missed.

When he tried again, he stared straight down the barrel. ‘David,’ he thought, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked and jammed. He pulled it again, and the gun wouldn’t fire.

‘It’s happening today.’

Tim raced down the seven flights of stairs to the street. He saw a car turn the corner, and decided he would jump out at the right time. Cars speed fast enough down this road that he’d have no issue.

As the car was inching closer, Tim leapt into the street. He turned his head toward the car, which stopped, and waited for a passenger five feet from where he stood.

“You better watch out or you’re gonna get hit real good,” the driver hollered.

Tim said nothing, and started walking in the street, hoping another car wouldn’t stop for him. He walked for half a mile without spotting a car or just missing them, before he heard a ringing.

It was the level crossing. The train couldn’t stop. Tim dashed to meet the locomotive, and turned the corner to see the caboose disappearing up the tracks.

He decided he would wait. It was a one-way line. The bells started to ring again and he saw another train rounding the corner on the forest-lined track. He stood up, eager, eyes open.

The pilot was a few feet from his face when a powerful gust of wind pushed him off to the side. On his bottom, he stared at the train as it flew by with just five cars, astonished.

He knew another five-car train would follow, as they always did. The bells of the level crossing were still going. He laid down, supine, in the trackbed. Nothing could push him over but the pilot now. Minutes passed, the bells stopped, and the gates were raised. It never came.

Tim stood and howled. He felt injustice. If this was the universe’s idea of good luck or divine protection, it was not the time. He scrambled toward the road and into the middle, hoping that no car had any other option but to hit him.

The sun was setting, and he was still alive.

He was exhausted. He sat in the middle of the road on top of the two yellow lines, defeated. At some point, Tim fell asleep or was put to sleep, because the next time he opened his eyes, he was in a padded, white room.

****

I remembered that evening all those years ago, returning from my Pop’s funeral. Mama put on mascara for it, which she seldom wore. By the end of the night, there were black lines branded into her cheeks. She made me wear this navy velvet dress that looked like a nightgown, and shiny, black Mary Janes that were maybe half a size too small, so they kept squishing my toes and cutting into my heels.

At the church, my Grandma’s neighbor, this older boy named Jeffery, told me how my Pop died. I kept hearing the word suicide but I didn’t know what it meant. He told me to duck next to him, between the pews, so he could whisper its meaning. I asked him why people did it, and he said he didn’t know, some people were just crazy. But I knew my Pop wasn’t crazy.

In my head, it must have been an accident. He must have been using that rope to hoist something up the stairs and tried to check if it was strong enough. But if it was real, if Jeffery was correct, I had to prevent it from happening further.

Mama didn’t send me to bed that night. She just sat at the kitchen table, wishing she had drink or a cigarette in her hand, something to keep her occupied. I waited until I got tired, and before I knew I was going to drift off, I bent over the edge of my bed, prayed, and made a wish.

That wish put Uncle Tim in the loony bin. This was the hardest thing I ever had to say, but I needed to say it.

“Uncle Tim?” I questioned, using the same eggshell voice my family used when he walked in.

“Yes, sweetie,” he replied.

I felt my body trembling with nervousness. My nails were digging into my palms.

“That was my fault.”

“Now honey,” he purred, scooping me up off the floor and putting his hands on my cheeks. “You didn’t do anything. How could you have put me there?”

By the time he got to the staircase part, I already knew.

“When Pop killed himself,” I started. “I made a wish. I didn’t want anyone else in my close family to die like he did. Mama always talked about how life is so precious and he just…” I sipped in my breath, trying not to cry.

“Took it all away with the end of a rope. He left everyone behind without saying a word.”

At that moment, I thought Uncle Tim was going to squeeze my face and make my head explode, because my cheeks were still in his hands. Instead, he wordlessly pulled me close into the tightest bearhug I’ve ever felt. I don’t know if he whispered thank you, but I’d like to believe he did.