"Are you not working today?" I ask the rider beside me, a distinguished, stern-looking man with a Lebanese-sounding name. The day is breathtakingly hot, and he looks exhausted.
"No, I'm not working right now. I own a restaurant, at least I used to until three years ago," he replies. "Lawrence of Arabia's on King Street."
The man was mute until I asked the question, maybe because two women occupy the back seat. Now he seems anxious to talk. "I've never been there but I did notice it's now under a new name," I continue. "Are you doing something else?"
"No... When my daughter was diagnosed with leukemia three years ago, I sold the restaurant and my wife and I spent all of our time visiting her at Children's Hospital in Toronto.
"I hate to ask this but... did she recover?"
"Yes, but it was a tough three years. She needed a bone-marrow transplant. Many people came out of the woodwork to volunteer but finally my wife became the donor," he replies. "The people at Children's Hospital were wonderful. But I couldn't help feeling sorry for the other sick young children so much worse off than my daughter. They gave me strength. You know, when you go through something like I went through, it changes you. You want to be a giver, not a taker. I mean, my whole attitude changed. Not that I was a bad person but..."
"I know what you mean," I reply. "It took some deaths and tragedies in my own family to mature me." I don't elaborate.
"My daughter changed as well," he continues. "At Christmas time, when people give her gifts, she sells them and sends the money to the hospital fund. She won't take things, just wants to give."
I think I hear a sob from one of the ladies behind me. Finally, one speaks, and I glance in the rear-view mirror.
"It makes you think, doesn't it!" she says, dries her wet eyes with a napkin.
This story is heart wrenching; a reminder of the realities of life. Even I, the storyteller has read it many times. And I'll be honest, the next story is also sad in its own way. But its also funny. I'll tell you about it. That is, if the baby doesn't drop his bread and butter down the stovepipe and make the pudding laugh.
YOU ARE READING
CONFESSIONS
Short StoryInside the courtesy shuttle, people confessed very personal and intimate, sometimes awkward things. I didn't have my white shirt on backward or wear a cloak. But the 'parishioners' revealed things they'd never tell their friends or family. It often...
