Clockwork

The Gift

I stood there for a while; completely perplexed. What was she talking about? What does she mean my father is the reason I have insomnia? I looked at Mum. Should I ask? Then I looked at Jason. He looked at me as if he'd thrown a punch at my guts if I made another sound. I didn't know what to do. Why was I suddenly thinking about my father? Or have I always been thinking about him? All of a sudden, yesterday seemed ages ago from today even though I don't really remember what happened in between.

Then I realized all three of us had been standing still and silent for a really long time. I need to go out. I told myself.

I was sitting on one of the cold rocks you find beside the lake. I was still trying to bring back my senses. What was I thinking? Not asking about dad was a rule I had to follow at home. No questions asked. For all I knew, my dad could be dead or in another country with his another family. For all I knew, my mother and my brother hated him.

I was given every freedom in the world that a single mother could give to her child. In return, she asked for nothing more than to avoid asking about my father. And today, I broke that deal. I don't think I ever missed dad. Mum and Jason have been more than parents to me. That doesn't mean I would know what having a dad was like, does it?

I felt the blood rushing on my cheeks again. So what I asked her about it? So what I broke my silence? Don't I deserve to know?

But, look what you did? You ended up hurting the last person you wanted to hurt. Now she is devastated. You've ambushed her by that sudden topic. Why wouldn't she be devastated? She gave you all the love she could give, all the freedom you desired. Never did she scold you when you didn't score straight A's. She always gave you what you asked her for, even the things you didn't ask she knew you wanted. And you couldn't even keep your mouth shut, could you?

Maybe that is why I am angry. She treated me like a son with an expiry date, like someone terminal, like some freak who could drop dead any second. I never wanted all these freedom and love, I don't deserve them. I wanted to be shouted at when I showed up drunk. I wanted her to scold me when I didn't get straight A's. I wanted her to punish me.

My chain of thoughts was broken by a pat on my shoulder. It was the hand of an old man. I turned, indeed it was an old man. He was smiling down at me. "You didn't wave me today."

I looked across the lake. There was no one there.

"Oh! Um...Sorry... I was a bit distracted."

He chuckled as if he knew what was going on. It was strange though. He looked right into my eyes and it gave strange piercing to my guts like a kind of chills.

"You came all the way round here just because I didn't wave you back?" I asked.

"Well...you can take it that way." He chuckled again as he tried to find a comfortable rock to sit on.

This old man was a friend of mine whom I met at this very lake ages ago. Whenever I felt low, I used to come to this lake and sit on the rocks and watch the water for a long time. Almost every time, he used to be on the other side; either fishing or reading a book. And every time he saw me, he waved at me. As a friendly gesture, I used to wave him back. And that's how our friendship had started. Weird as it sounds, but these little acts of waving and waving back soothed me inexplicably. Like the feeling you get when you find something lost. I have never seen him closely enough before. Even though the old man dressed raggedly, he had a striking personality. His eyes were light blue like mine but he wore elliptical glasses with those cords on them. He wore a thick black overcoat over a check blue cardigan. For some reason he looked younger than I thought he would be. I mean, he looked older when he was far-away.

"Have you been crying?" he inquired.

I was embarrassed at first. My hands reached my eyes in reflex. They were indeed moist. But, I didn't wipe it or anything. Yes, I had been crying.

"Why does being loved has its own cons?" I asked, totally submitting to the fact that I was crying. "I mean, isn't it a good thing? To be loved? To be loved so much that it hurts. Why does it have to hurt?"

"I see, you're quite philosophical." He chuckled again. I think chuckling was his old habit. "You see, love is a very much of a complex matter. Of course when you are loved, you feel good. But there is also a part of love that does not exhibit itself easily. A part that makes you question if you're worthy of the love you're receiving. A part that resists that love. Something of a paradox, a defense mechanism, a morale that questions your morality. This part of love shows itself only when you suffer and make others suffer. And hence, it hurts. Not everyone gets hurt when they hurt others. And those who do, understand love the most."

"I've hurt the person I love the most. The person who loves me the most. How does that account for the love if I cannot reciprocate it?"

"You say you've hurt this person. And that is hurting you. You're as innocent as any other man. Its rational. You can only get hurt by the person you've hurt because of the love you have for this person."

I stayed quiet for a moment, trying to sink in what the old man had just said. It made some sense and none at the same time. Maybe I'm too young to understand this. 'A part that doesn't exhibit itself easily'. Maybe he's right, it doesn't make sense because it hasn't exhibited itself yet. What am I supposed to do now?

"I presume you've got someone to apologize?"

I almost jumped when he said that. It was like he was reading my mind. Some telepathy shit.

"Yeah, I gotta go apologize to my mum."

I got up and started brushing off my jeans. The old man stood up too. He had a book in his hand. He put one hand on my shoulder and made eye contact with me.

"Son, if it will be any help, write it down. Write your deepest thoughts. Just write it away. It won't make you feel lonely. Writing helps." With that he handed me over the book he was holding. It was a diary, rather old but its red jacket was soft as a pillow. I started caressing it, flipping it through pages. Before I could look up to thank this man, he was gone. I looked around but with no avail. That was strange, how could the old man move so fast.

With the thought of thanking him the next time we meet, I headed home as always a bit light-headed. That old man was like a shrink for me.

~~~

24 years later

There was a sudden click and the sound of vacuum sucking in got louder. Frieda went to the lab from where the noise was coming from. She opened the entrance to the lab with the password she was given by her grandfather. Her grandfather was panting as he ruffled his overcoat. He had just come out of the Tunnel. Frieda helped her grandfather get rid off his overcoat and placed it on his desk.

"What took you so long?" she asked.

Frieda could see he was shaking a bit. She looked at his eyes. They seemed to be wet but also had a gleaming shine in them.

The 14-year-old took her grandfather's arm and help him sit on his chair behind the desk. Her grandfather moved closer to the desk and pulled the drawer. Then he took out an old-looking diary with red jacket. Frieda watched him take a deep breath as he opened the diary. She leaned in too to look what her grandfather was expecting. To her utter amazement, she saw it. But this can't happen! How could it be?

She couldn't believe her eyes.

The diary that had been blank for ages now had words written on them.

"But, it was blank when we got it. It has always been blank."

Her grandfather glanced at her, beaming. His eyes were shining more brightly than before.

"Was it really though? Was it really blank?"

Frieda could bet it was blank. When they got that diary they were – no wait, something was wrong. Something was so so wrong.