The Long Walk Home
One day I left. Just got up and walked away. Away from the pressure, the perfect little world where I was the perfect princess. Where everyone was Lili this and Lili that; it was fake, all of it. My name is Lillian, not Lili. I walked out of class, went home, packed a bag and left. No one looked, no one cared, so I just kept walking. In and out of towns, wherever the urge drove me. I worked when there was a job and slept wherever I could.
This town was not special, just another dot on the map. It was just before dark as I wandered down Main Street, looking for a Help Wanted sign. I found one in the window of a shop on a corner: Joseph’s Used Books, proclaimed the sign, read a piece of someone else’s story. I gave a small tired smile; books were the things I missed most and I indulged in them whenever I had the money. As I wound through the shelves, I inhaled deeply: the smell of old books and coffee infused the air filling me with warmth and a measure of optimism as I approached the counter at the back. There was an old man behind the counter, reading glasses perched on the bridge of a long nose and a book balanced in one hand. As I got closer, he held up a long finger in an unspoken one minute I’m almost done. After a moment, he turned the page then folded the corner before looking up at me, almost as if to gauge my reaction to the folded corner. I just smiled; some people were bothered by folded corners but to me dog eared pages where a sign of a much loved story. It seemed as if the man was not going to speak first, so I introduced myself.
“Hello, I’m Lillian and I am looking for a job. I’ll work for food, money, or a place to stay." There was a long pause and the man looked me up and down. I just stood still and tall. Scrutiny was something I was used to. Everyone was hesitant to hire the random girl off the street who carried her life on her back.
“O.K," he said in a slow measured voice that makes people listen despite it’s soft quietness. "I have a place you can stay though, its not necessarily a bed, and I can cook a little extra and give it to you. Your work schedule is up to you in the same way that the store is open whenever I and now you feel like it. I’ll show you around the shop then let you rest. Breakfast will be behind the counter. There is also a coffee machine.”
The shop was small but every available space was jammed with books in a loosely organized system. "Your room is back here" said the old man at the end of his tour then turned to leave.
“Wait," I called, "how much do I charge for books?”
“Whatever feels right.”
“What do I call you?”
He paused and seemed to think about it: “For you … Grandfather, yes thats what it is. Grandfather.” He turned away and disappeared up the stairs at the back of the store, evidently expecting me to figure things out on my own.
My room was little more than a closet, a storage one from the look of the wall of boxes that arced out towards where I stood in the doorway. I pulled my dinged up flashlight out of my pack before easing the door shut. I flicked my light on and as I skimmed the beam of light across the barricade I noted how the boxes were expertly arranged to form the ramparts of a fortress. After locating the entrance to the castle I crawled inside, burrowing myself into the nest of blankets that were heaped inside.
When I woke up, I fumbled for my watch for a minute before succeeding in lighting up the screen, it just confirmed what I already knew: I’d only been asleep for a few hours. Having always been an insomniac I wasn’t surprised when the sleepless nights returned once I had left the sleeping pills prescribed by the doctors who made my already pathetic nickname worse by putting poor in front of it. I eased myself out of the fortress and straightened my clothes before walking out into the shop, grabbing my folder on my way out.
I filpped the sign on the door to Open; if I was going to be awake I might as well open the store – not that anyone would come in. I flicked on the lights and turned and sat down with a coffee in a chipped mug from behind the counter. I drink my coffee black, I like the reminder that people like to sugar coat things and that I’m the exception to the rule. I spread out the contents of the folder, it was old and worn, but it held what kept me going – my writing. It was mostly on loose lined sheets of paper – that's cheapest – but there were also napkins and scraps of paper. My only two pens were tied to the folder by a fraying piece of string. Soon the book shop took shape on the page in letters, punctuation and the space between the words.
There was a soft tinkle as the door opened. I glanced up and saw a man, an old man without footwear and in his pajamas; but the unbridled look of joy on his face could only rivaled on the face of a child. He wandered over and picked up one of my poems. “You write. I used to write, way back when they still taught that kind of thing in school.” The bell jingled again, more forcefully this time and a woman burst in, saw the old man, and sighed in relief.
“Father, you can’t be here. It’s time to go home,” she gently took his hand to lead him to the door. The man’s face fell into confusion, then quickly flashed to anger, “You're not my daughter! I can do whatever I want.”
Instinct led me through the shelves to a book I had barely glimpsed on my tour of the store, but when my hand hit the spine of a well worn book it just felt right. I walked over to the young woman who was still struggling with her father and held out the book.
“I don’t want to buy anything,” she snapped.
“Just take it,” I replied, “It’s on the house” she looked surprised and then grateful as she read the title before slipping the book under her arm and cajoling her father out the door. Soon the odd pair had joined the store on the page.
A few other people wandered in but none of them were at all memorable. Grandfather came down mid-morning and I slipped away into my closet around noon.
My days soon fell into a routine: work till lunch, sleep till 8 then start all over again. Months passed and thoughts of leaving occasionally slipped into my mind but I always pushed them into the back of my brain. I was scribbling busily at the page in front of me when the bell jingled. I glanced up and saw a boy. He looked just a little older than me and was carrying a large backpack – not unlike the one I used. “Hello, he greeted me. The owner is my grandpa, I’ll just head up to tell him I’ve arrived.”
“Konrad, right?” I queried, “You built the castle.” He just looked at me not surprised necessarily but more as if he was sizing me up. “My name is Lillian, I work for your Grandfather."
“You're up late,” he noted, giving only a nod of recognition in regards to my name.
“Yes I am but I could say the same to you.” That earned me a smile and he bid me goodnight before climbing the stairs. When Grandfather came down the next morning he greeted me then informed me without preamble about his grandson.
“Konrad’s been in a bit of a bad place; not sure if he is coming or going, let alone his destination. He will be around; put up with him if you can.”
And that‘s all that was ever said about him, he was just kind of there. Konrad kept a schedule much like my own and I quite often found myself engaged in heated debates in the early hours of the morning. A favorite point of his was my writing, he insisted that I should send it off, share it with people. I always refuted him. We were often annoyed with each other but never truly mad and the store was constantly filled with our good natured competition.
Then things changed. It was not a subtle shift per se, nor was is a change either of us acknowledged, it just kind of was. It was heralded by the low creaking of the closet door opening, a beam of light slipping in closely followed by a body and then the door closed once again. I knew instinctively that it was Konrad, but waited for him to speak.
“I’ve missed the castle, I needed to come back here. Please don’t make me leave.
“I won’t,” was all I said. He crawled into the fortress and wrapped his warm body around mine and then we lay there in a strange limbo somewhere between love and friendship. We slept like that all night, managing a full night of rest without our typical bouts of wakefulness and when we awoke, there was no awkwardness. Soon Konrad’s presence in the castle was routine, but as our respect and affection for each other grew, a change came about Grandfather.
He began to look old and worn out. Then one evening he sent Konrad out on errands that didn’t need doing and I knew that something was coming. I was sitting at the back, my writing all spread out, just like it was any other day, even though the atmosphere in the shop was decidedly tense. Grandfather sat down beside me and patiently waited for me to finish my sentence. “I’m sick,” he said.
“You’ll get better. Konrad and I will help you get better,” I put in hoping he would say of course, rest was all he needed, but no such luck.
“I’m not getting better he replied, the doctors say it’s only a matter of time. I knew you would notice so I decided to mention it to you, but let‘s not tell Konrad. He is at a difficult point in his life and needs some hope.” I gave him my word and he drifted away. No more words came that night, only the same four words poured endlessly over the page: Why are you leaving?
Life went on as normal after that. I became accustomed to sharing space with another person and did whatever I could to make Grandfather’s life easier, praying that he would beat the odds. Maybe I didn’t do enough or maybe it was just his time to go, but either way nearly two months later Konrad and I woke up to find that Grandfather had left us. It looked almost as if he had fallen asleep while reading at the counter, a book tucked under his head. I picked it up while Konrad called EMS, merely a formality at this point. It was The Five People You Meet in Heaven, there was a bookmark placed carefully in the last page and on it were the words, “I’ll see you soon.” That is when the tears started to fall. Konrad returned and took my hand as we stood side by side, silently watching the EMS arrive and pronounce him dead. Konrad went with them and the body, to make the arrangements; I stayed and kept the shop open. After an immeasurable amount of time the bell tinkled and a young woman walked in, one that I recognized, she was the one who had come to retrieve her father, the one whom I gave the book to. She approached me, a book in hand, “Hi, you probably don’t remember me but I came in with my dad one night. You gave me this book, I just wanted to bring it back. Someone one else can read it. It was perfect.” I thanked her and she handed over the book before walking out the door.
Konrad returned and saying nothing went upstairs. That’s when the little voice spoke up: it’s time to go, you‘re becoming everything you left behind. I crawled into the castle and gathered my things in an almost forgotten routine of leaving. Just as I was slipping out the door Konrad walked down the stairs; “Lillian, Lillian, wait! He left it for you, the store, the apartment, everything.” He was holding an envelope and I could just make out Grandfather’s spidery handwriting scrawling across the back. I paused and Konrad approached me, letter held out towards me. I took it gingerly and carefully extracted the message inside:
Dear Lillian,
I may be just an old man, not a graduate of even the lowliest university, but I have lived a long life and have amassed a few bits of wisdom. I was much like you when I was younger, you know, a wanderer. I spent my whole life running away, but now that I am not bound to the material world, I will return to stand vigil over the graves I avoided. Do not make the same mistakes I have, I’m not telling you to go, in fact I am urging you to stay, but pick up the phone – make the call home.
I have taken the liberty of sampling some of your writing and shared it with others. Turns out they liked what they saw – they want you to call about the dedications.
Perhaps you will stay, perhaps not, either way, I love you; you make me proud.
Love,
Grandfather
And I began to cry, not just for Grandfather but for everything. All the tears I held back since I closed the door to my parent’s house for the last time. Eventually Konrad and I crawled back into the fortress, safe, the world could wait until morning.
A few short months later I once again emerged from the fortress, a place where I no longer slept but still went to for comfort. I walked out the door and out along the deserted streets, accompanied only by the snow and the dark. When I stopped I stood before a simple stone, unadorned except for a single word – Grandfather. I looked at it and fingered the small book in my pocket searching for the appropriate words within the confines of my mind. In the end all that I found was Thank You. Then I left returning to the store and the man who accepted and loved me.
The night was left with a memory, some tears, and a book. And inside the book, a dedication:
For Grandfather, on the long walk home.
Coverage in Bronte's hometown newspaper
http://www.southwesternontario.ca/community/young-writers-long-walk-to-the-top-of-the-podium/