Julia

For over forty years, whenever I wanted to write, a voice would pop into my mind and say, "Who are you writing for, and why? Who will read it? Are you trying to make a fool of yourself? Why don't you pursue a serious job instead?" I named this negative voice "Faze." Faze has been trying relentlessly all these years to discourage me, to make me give up writing. She wants to throw me off balance. But I have given the same response to her throughout these years. I simply say, "I write for myself. I have to finish this story, print it, and then read it. That's it. I write for no one else but myself. That's how I have spent forty years flipping it off."

However, this time, when it comes to the stories about the Pool, She bombards me with all sorts of questions. It terrifies me that Faze knows everything; it seems she can read the hidden part of my Brain, the section that belongs to Patrick.

In the stillness of my waking and sleeping moments, under her insidious whispers, she says, "Why are you writing this story? Why do you undermine yourself? Do you think writing in English makes you incomprehensible? Don't you care that you're betraying your husband? Do you think your secret writing in English will go unnoticed? Do you think you are Kim Kardashian? There are so many young and fresh writers out there. Why would anyone listen to the words of a seventy-year-old woman? Why would anyone read her love stories? Her irrelevant love affair?"

When she hits me hard, I tell her: "You're right, but just like I have been telling you all these years, I write for myself because I believe storytelling is as essential as breathing for human beings. You won't find anything in the world that doesn't have a story. Even specks of dust have stories on the Earth. I write for myself to emerge from my cave, just like the first human who came out of the cave through storytelling."

Faze finally turns to religion and Sharia and continues: "You are a married woman. According to Islamic laws, you must stay loyal even when your husband is in Alaska. Even thinking about another relationship could result in stoning. Your sentence is stoning." I respond: "I am not in Iran. I live in the heart of America, where no one can reach me, or stone me. Today, I completely ignored her, thinking to myself, she's just wasting my time so I won't leave my cave and write my story. She doesn’t want me to write about Friday.

On Friday, I didn’t go to the pool. Patrick texted: 

"Missed you at the pool.”

I replied: "My heart was on the monitor." He wrote: 

"Why? Are you okay now?"

I wrote: "There are still traces of that passionate love in my heart; that's why it occasionally shocks me and reminds me that I am alive." 

He wrote: “LOL.” 

I wrote: “There are no more LOLs in my boring life, but this heartbeat reminds me that I'm alive.” 

The truth is that my heart's pounding may not have much to do with Patrick. It started long ago when I was coaching those who were tortured in Iran. But I thought telling a man, "Love for you pulled my heart to the doctor." is a form of flirtation. I didn't want to lie to you and say that because of Patrick, my heart beats like a horse, sometimes tearing its reins and beating wildly. I could have disconnected the monitor for an hour or two on Friday and gone to the pool, but I had an appointment with Julia at the library. Julia. Poor Julia, who only fell in love with her husband after he died. Julia is sixty-four and Taiwanese. She lived for years with a man who never allowed her to go anywhere or to work.

"All the time, I was at home. He would say, whatever you want, ask me. I'll get it for you."

Julia is so thin that you'd think she'd break if you touch her. It's as if someone put together a few pencils to make Julia. After her husband's death, Julia was alone in a four-hectare house. Julia said: “His job was to sit on the sofa, watch movies and the news. He would wait for the sunset; then he would lay his sweat mat. He would turn off all the lights, and I would have to stay in the dark, and two hours later, he would sleep on the same couch he sat on all day. After he fell asleep, I would breathe, turn on all the lights, and only then my life would start. But I always had to tiptoe so not to wake him up. So, the first thing I did when he passed away was to throw out the old couch along with all the sweat-soaked gears. I had the entire house thoroughly cleaned. I gave all his stuff to Goodwill, all his clothes, and whatever he had, particularly those bottles of vodka. I didn't want a sign of him in the house. And then I became alone.

I had lived all these years only with him. I hadn't had any friends or worked anywhere to make acquaintances. I became so lonely  that I wished he was alive. At least he would shout at me. He would give orders and curse. His voice echoed through the house. The longing for my past life drove me insane. I kept telling myself, "I wish I hadn't thrown the sofa out. I wish his shaving kit was here. I was falling in love with my husband for the first time. Falling in love with a dead man."

Julia reaches a point where she wishes to become sick and ends up in the hospital; She says: “There is always someone to talk to you in the hospital.” She starts going to this doctor and that doctor and eventually becomes her own rescuer. To prevent herself from going insane, she enrolls 24 hours fitness for yoga, meditation class, and pool. It is at the pool where she first sees Bob.

We are sitting in the library. Julia bites her lip and seems like she wants to recount her mistakes one by one. She snaps a finger, it makes a sound, and then it's the next one's turn. Julia's voice is calm but full of regret.

The pool comes to Julia's rescue. She no longer talks to her dead husband at home; she doesn't eat with him or turn on the TV for him. In the pool, all her senses are focused on Bob, who has a daily and hourly schedule. Walking, golfing, hiking, mountain climbing, fishing, meditating, two days of swimming, boxing,  and playing guitar.

She soon realized that he was a dealer, working in a casino at night, and his wife worked at the same casino during the day, so when he came home, she would leave, and they hardly saw each other. And his wife has no interest in going out, neither for trips nor for sports.

It takes three months for her to completely overturn his whole life and decide to be friends with him.

Julia's voice trembles, and she tries to calm herself down. Everyone in the library is busy with their own work, except two of us sitting face to face telling tales of bygone days. 

Julia said: “I thought if he were happy with his home and life, he would spend more time at home. Or if he loved his wife... Despite all that, after a long hesitation, one day I told him that I am also alone like him. But he said he's not alone and has a wife and two daughters.”

I think Julia, like me, can easily ignore what she needs to see. From all the signs Julia mentions, it's clear that Bob loved his family, especially his wife. But Julia believes, “Love and my interest in Bob saved their lives. I know their life was monotonous, lacking connection, and probably just living under one roof. The more affection I showed him, the more interested he became in his wife, until I realized that they both laughed at me.”

Julia says that Bob has been gradually posting all their photos on Facebook, one by one, after she confessed her love for him. There were no photos of the couple on Facebook before she told him about her feelings.

"Then I realized that he had told his wife about all our encounters. In fact, my love for him has sparked a renewed passion in their cold, failing, and weary relationship. They are starting a new love that has been lost between them for a long time. I found out they talked about me in their house and made jokes about me while spending time together.”

We leave the library. The heat is suffocating, like a dragon. I tell Julia, “I wish you could forget Bob like I forgot Patrick and moved on.” She stops in front of me and shakes her index finger: "No... No, don't lie to yourself. You didn't. You didn't forget Patrick. I see the days when you two are together at the pool."

I laugh. Maybe if Julia knew what I know about Patrick, she would believe me.

Julia looks directly into my eyes and says: "Monica... After your husband, have you only loved Patrick?"

I say: "Yes... Yes, the only one."

But then I remember the knight I lost. The knight I used to love in this city... Or after I lost him, I fell in love with him.

I catch my breath. I don't say anything, but I promise to talk about this knight with you someday. I'll put his picture here as well. Maybe one of you will recognize him. Who knows? But Saint Patrick was a knight too, wasn’t he?

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