Break My Heart For What Breaks Yours
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I can’t think of any better place to begin an autobiography than the end.
The end of my life began on a Saturday morning in November when I was thirty-four years old and I had just come back from a trip to Europe with a new girlfriend who would soon become my wife. We were having breakfast at home when she said something about the end of her life being a little over two months away.
At first, I didn’t believe her. But then we went into our bedroom to look at her calendar which listed every moment of her life for that year, month by month; everything from what movies she wanted to see and what clothes she wanted to buy to where she wanted to go and what food she wanted to eat.
She had a long list of people to call after she died and things to do before she died. Her life seemed so normal. It all looked like it could continue forever.
Then she turned to me and asked me to take care of her daughter. The words came out slowly as if she’d been rehearsing them for days. “Take care of her.” Then she added: “You have two months,” she repeated, this time with emphasis. And then she turned away and went back downstairs.
When she saw that I wasn’t moving fast enough she shouted up the stairs at me: “Move it! Get dressed and get in here.” So I did.
She left the room again and returned with another stack of papers. She took one and handed it to me. It was a check for five thousand dollars. “This is your advance money,” she said. “Your contract says you’ll get more later. Now write down some rules for us.”
“Rules?” I asked.
“Yes. Rules to live by while you’re married to me. You don’t understand how hard it will be without rules.” She handed me a pen and pointed at the paper. “I’m going to give you three minutes to think of something.”
Three minutes? I thought. I was thinking about my mother-in-law and the way she used to make me feel like a fool whenever I made even the smallest mistake. But then I got to work. Here’s what I wrote down:
1) Don’t ask me if you can use the car unless it’s absolutely necessary. 2) Be considerate of other people. 3) Keep your promises. 4) Treat her like the queen she is.
“That should do it,” she said as if the rules had already been written. And then she handed me another sheet of paper. This one had lines printed on it. In those lines were instructions for setting up my new bank account, a new savings account, and a checking account. Then there was a page of names of people, mostly men, but some women too. “These are your clients, Michael.”
It was a long list, with no names next to any of them. Just addresses and phone numbers. “You can call any of these people whenever they want you to and they’ll know exactly who you are. They’ve been waiting for you, Michael. Waiting since you were born.”
My wife was dying.
“Now put your shoes on,” she said, standing in front of me and staring up into my eyes.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because today’s your first day on the job.”
***
I am not sure when I started to cry. But when my wife finally left the house, she walked out wearing her white leather jacket and carrying her black handbag. Her blond hair fell loosely over her shoulders as she stepped through the door and closed it behind her.
That was the last time I ever saw her alive. I was sitting across from the sofa she had just vacated watching television when I heard a sound like a muffled scream coming from inside the house. Then I saw a light turn on and the front door open and close.
She was gone.
After that night I couldn’t bring myself to leave my apartment or go outside much. I tried calling some of the men whose names appeared on that list but nobody picked up their phones. Some of them called me back, but most of them wouldn’t talk to me.
I guess they felt sorry for me. Or maybe they thought I might hurt them because of what I knew. But the only person who talked to me was the man who had brought the list to me. He told me that he worked at the morgue and sometimes went around collecting bodies and that he’d seen my wife a few times.
The body was badly decomposed by the time they got it to the morgue, so they couldn’t identify it. She’d been dead for about a week when they found her, probably more like ten days if I remember correctly.
When I told him why I’d come to see him he laughed and told me that I shouldn’t worry too much about it, because my wife had been very rich and had left a lot of money behind for me. A lot of money. Enough to take care of me until I died.
The morgue guy didn’t tell me where the money was kept—he said he didn’t know and never would. All he said was that the money had to stay hidden and I had to promise not to tell anyone else.
He said that if I broke the agreement between us the money would disappear from my bank account, leaving me with nothing but debts that I’d have to pay off before I could pass away myself and join her. When I asked him how I’d be able to find the money again after I passed away, he just smiled and said he didn’t know, and that that was my problem. “So,” he said. “Are we done here?”
“What do you mean, ‘Are we done?’ ” I asked him.
“I just want to know if you’ve decided you’re ready to die yet,” he answered. “Or do you still want to live a little longer?”
I don’t remember much about the next couple of weeks or months, except that my wife’s body continued to decompose as I sat alone in my apartment. Eventually, though, my apartment filled with the stench of death, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out of there.
But how?
One morning I took a bus from my neighborhood to a place about an hour’s ride away, a city where the streets were lined with tall buildings. It was wintertime and the air was cold and damp and full of fog. The houses along the streets were painted white, almost glowing in the darkness and mist.
The houses were large, the lawns and trees looked healthy, the cars in driveways seemed clean and new, and everything was quiet. The city was almost empty, the people have stayed home because of the weather. But the shops were doing great business.
I walked up to one of the stores in the middle of town and asked the clerk how I could get to a cemetery.
“I’m looking for the cemetery,” I said.
“There is no cemetery here,” she answered. “There’s a graveyard outside the city, but that’s all.”
I thanked her and went outside into the cold morning. As I trudged across the road toward a field on the other side of the street I could see that there was actually a small, well-kept cemetery on the far end of the field.
As soon as I stepped onto the grass my nose started bleeding. My whole body started itching and I started sneezing. The smell of the freshly turned earth was overwhelming, making me choke, but I ignored it.
After a while, my nose stopped running, and my itching subsided somewhat. The cemetery itself was nothing special, a few rows of neatly spaced headstones in the ground. There was something strange about it, though; the grass looked fresh and green, even though it should have been brown.
I went to the nearest tombstone and read its inscription:
Died October 5th, 1892
Age 33
My heart beat faster. The date was correct, it was right there on this grave. And the age fit, too—it made sense. This was the same woman whose body lay rotting in my apartment. But I knew that if I went home I’d start thinking about what really happened to her. If I remembered everything clearly, if I saw everything with my own eyes, then I might lose my mind. So I kept walking.
I found three more graves with inscriptions matching those dates and ages. Then I noticed that all of the names on the gravestones ended with “-ski”—and they all had the same last name.
It was dark by the time I finished looking around. My feet were wet, my legs hurt, and my back ached.
“I’ll go back tomorrow,” I promised myself.
I spent the rest of that night in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of my wife’s bones being eaten by insects and worms.
***
When I woke up in the morning the first thing I did was look out the window and see whether the fog had lifted. It hadn’t, it was just as thick and heavy as ever.
I got dressed and went downstairs to make breakfast.
I opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of milk, and poured some into my coffee mug.
That’s when I heard the voices. They were coming from inside the house next door, two voices shouting at each other over the fence separating our yards. It sounded like a couple arguing. A man and a woman.
I listened carefully. “You can’t keep doing this!” one voice shouted. “I never agreed to anything! You can’t tell me what to do!”
The other voice yelled back, “Shut up! Shut up! You shut up!”
“I won’t let you do this!”
I put down my cup of coffee and ran upstairs to get my camera. Then I went back down the stairs and through my front door. When I crossed the threshold I realized that I’d done something crazy, I wasn’t even sure why I was going through with this, but there was no turning back now. I grabbed the camera and headed toward the fence between our yards.
“Why are you always doing things without talking to me first?” the man said angrily. “What if I told you not to do this, would you listen?”
The woman didn’t answer. She stood in the middle of her yard with both hands pressed against the side of her head like she was trying to block something out. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and her hair was tied back with a rubber band.
She looked younger than her husband, and she was taller, too. Her hair was dark blond, and her eyes were blue. She reminded me of a girl I used to know, years ago—a girl who used to live in my building and work for the newspaper.
We weren’t exactly friends, we lived in different parts of the building and barely said hello when we passed in the hall, but I liked her because she was pretty and nice. She had a boyfriend at the time, so I never thought much of it when we started seeing each other.
Then he cheated on her, and she dumped him. That was the day I learned that life is hard and people don’t always behave as you want them to, which I already knew but couldn’t accept. I tried calling her to see if she wanted to meet up, but the phone rang and rang without anyone picking up.
Finally, I saw her coming out of her building and hurried to catch up with her. When I reached her I asked if she still wanted to hang out, and she looked at me and laughed.
“Of course, I’m going to be your friend!” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She walked away, smiling. But a few weeks later she moved out of the building.
Now I was standing outside her house, looking at it through a gap in the fence. It wasn’t a big house, just a small two-story building painted a light yellow color, with white trim and a red metal roof. Two chimneys on the back of the house stuck out above the roofline; one was pointing upward, the other pointed outward.
I took a picture and looked back toward my own place. It was an ugly building, the only one in the neighborhood that looked like it had been built in the 1950s instead of the 1970s. Our neighbors were a lot better off than us, but their houses also looked brand new.
I guess that’s because they’ve always rented them out and never bothered to fix anything when the tenants moved out, or maybe because the people who bought them were richer and they hired professionals to do all the work. I couldn’t afford to buy another place even if I wanted to. Renting was cheaper by far.
I turned back and focused my camera on the two arguing figures again. They were still yelling at each other, but now it sounded like they were getting closer like they were moving in the direction of the woman’s house.
That made me feel nervous, so I zoomed in. They were walking up the driveway toward her front porch now. I started taking pictures. One, two, three.
They stopped right in front of her porch, and I kept shooting. I shot more pictures than usual because I felt like this was special, this might be my chance to get some great shots.
I took a deep breath and stepped onto the lawn beside the neighbor’s driveway. The grass tickled my bare feet, which was annoying since I’d forgotten to put on socks before leaving the house. I took another picture and then walked around the driveway until I could get a better angle.
Then I took a couple more shots, but I noticed that I could hear footsteps behind me, and I turned around to see who was coming toward me from across the street.
It was the little old man from next door. He came up to me as fast as he could and held his hand out to shake mine. “Hi,” he said, “my name is Harold. Do you live here? Are you one of the people who live in these houses?”
“No, I live down the street—”
He smiled and shook my hand again. “You’re very polite. Where do you live? How long have you lived here?”
“I live… uh…” I searched my memory for the names of any of my neighbors and couldn’t think of any. “Um, I live over there,” I said, pointing in the general direction of my apartment building.
“Oh, I know what you mean. Is that where your daughter and son-in-law live?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are they having problems with their neighbors?”
My heart started beating faster, and I could feel myself starting to sweat. “Yeah… well, actually… I can’t really say anything about that right now, but it’s sort of private and I don’t know how much I should say anyway… um, what did you want to talk to me about, Harold?”
“I didn’t really come here for any particular reason. My wife called me and told me that someone had driven into our driveway a few minutes ago.” He frowned and nodded slowly. “So we thought we should check it out to make sure nothing was damaged.”
“Okay, good idea. So are you going to go inside and take a look, or—”
“No, no. We don’t have the time to do that. We just wanted to let you know that we’ve seen it and everything is okay.”
He took my hand and squeezed it gently, then let go. I could tell he was upset. “Thank you. That’s really nice of you.”
“Well, it’s no big deal.”
“No, it really isn’t. Thanks again.” He started walking toward his car, and then stopped and turned back towards me. “You know, I’m sorry to bother you with this stuff. I hope you’re not too mad at me for bothering you. My name’s Harold. I’m just an old guy who likes to walk around and watch what happens in my neighborhood, and I saw you standing there taking pictures.”
He smiled again and gave me another warm handshake. This one hurt because it lasted a lot longer and seemed more sincere. “Thanks again, Mr. Jones,” he said. “Have a nice day.” And then he was gone.
The whole thing made me feel uneasy, but I decided to go back home and wait for my parents to come home. After all, if something bad happened to them, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about whether they’d be able to afford any repairs on their house.
And besides, what harm could come from being nosy? Maybe I’d even find a way to get in touch with my neighbor and ask him more about what happened. I liked the guy, and it didn’t sound like he was lying to me when he said he’d been watching things happen outside his window.
I went home, changed my clothes, and spent the rest of the afternoon playing games on the computer while waiting for Mom and Dad to get home. It wasn’t until after dinner that I finally got in touch with Mrs. Smithson, though I didn’t call her by name. She answered on the second ring and told me she would be happy to help me out.
She asked me a bunch of questions about my parents’ problems with their neighbors—what they looked like, how many were there, and what had caused the trouble in the first place. I explained that the Smithsons were having trouble with people parking in their driveway, and she seemed surprised.
Apparently, everyone knows about this problem and had assumed the Smithsons knew about it too, since they had such a large driveway that it would be obvious they needed space for their cars. But the Smithsons hadn’t mentioned it at all. They just figured other people would figure it out and leave enough room.
“So what’s wrong with that?” I said. “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“We don’t think anyone should park in our driveway,” she said. “Our husband built it with two garages so that each of us can keep our own car in the garage. He doesn’t want other people using it.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “But if you didn’t think anybody could park in your driveway, why did you let that guy drive up?”
She laughed and shook her head. “What do you mean? You don’t expect me to stand out there watching every single car that drives past our house all day, do you?”
“I guess not, but—”
“Harold didn’t know anything about this either, so we just hoped that nobody else would use our driveway until he got a chance to speak to you about it himself.”
“Wait. What? Did you say, Harold?”
“Yes, dear.”
“How do you know he was out there taking pictures? Why would he do that?”
Mrs. Smithson sighed and took a deep breath. “It’s complicated, and we’re going to need some time to explain it all. Would you mind coming over with your parents tomorrow afternoon? We’ll be happy to show you around.”
“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” I said. “My dad’s still in the hospital, and my mom isn’t doing very well.”
“Of course! Of course! It will be just you and us, okay? You won’t have to go anywhere, and it shouldn’t take long at all.”
“All right,” I said. “Let me talk to my parents and see what they think. If they agree, I’ll be glad to come over.”
“Great. See you soon.” She hung up without saying goodbye.
I waited until my parents came home and talked to them before deciding whether or not to follow Mrs. Smithson’s instructions. They seemed as eager to learn about the Smithsons as I was, so I agreed to meet with them the next morning.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to bring my parents along. The Smithsons lived less than a block away from my house, and Harold met us at their front door. As soon as he saw me, he put his arms around my shoulders and squeezed so tightly that I could hardly breathe.
“Oh, thank goodness! Thank goodness!” he cried. “I thought you’d never forgive me. I’m sorry I lied to you. I was only trying to protect you. You know, if someone finds out about this…”
His voice trailed off and he hugged me some more.
Mom and Dad looked at each other nervously and then at me. I shrugged. “I dunno what he’s talking about,” I said. “Maybe you guys could tell us more later?”
“Right here, right now! Come inside!” Mrs. Smithson called from the kitchen.
I walked into the living room and sat down on one of the couches with my parents. Mrs. Smithson joined us shortly thereafter. “You must be David,” she said.
I nodded and smiled.
“Come sit closer, David,” Mrs. Smithson urged. “I’d like you to meet your mother and father.”
The Smithsons were much younger than my parents. I wondered if they’d been married even longer; maybe they already had a couple of kids when my parents were born. Maybe they’d always been rich or something.
Whatever the case, it seemed obvious to me that I shouldn’t mention any of this to my parents. They weren’t nearly old enough to understand what the Smithsons meant by “complicated,” and I certainly couldn’t trust them not to blab it all around town.
So instead I kept quiet while Mrs. Smithson made small talk. She asked after my school, how I liked riding the bus (the Smithsons lived too close to walk, apparently), and whether I had any brothers or sisters.
I didn’t say anything about the Smithsons’ cars. I tried my hardest to avoid looking at them whenever possible. But sometimes Mrs. Smithson would glance at Harold, and she’d catch me staring. And Harold wouldn’t seem to notice—until his gaze would fall on Mom or Dad for no apparent reason. Then he’d turn back toward Mrs. Smithson again and smile brightly.
Mrs. Smithson went into the kitchen for a minute, and when she returned, she told me I should feel free to look around wherever I wanted. There was no particular order to things, although most everything was labeled with little white stickers: “Kitchen,” “Dining Room,” “Bedroom #2″—even “Garage.”
All the bedrooms and bathrooms were upstairs, along with the master bedroom and its attached bathroom.
“We usually use this place for entertaining, and it’s where we store the Christmas decorations,” Mrs. Smithson explained. “That’s why you haven’t seen it yet. But don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of opportunities to see everything else.”
“Are you going to live here?” I asked.
“Not exactly. At least not permanently,” Mrs. Smithson replied, her smile broadening with every word. “We’ll be moving in with David’s parents for a while.”
“But aren’t they rich?” I blurted out. “You guys must be loaded!”
“No, not really,” said Harold. He laughed. “In fact, we’re quite broke right now. But that’s not important. What is important is that you and David get along.”
Mrs. Smithson giggled. “And you don’t have to worry about the money either,” she added. “You see, we’re planning to give it all to charity!”
She paused, waiting for me to laugh or smile, but I just sat there and stared at her blankly. “What?” I finally said.
“It’s true,” Harold insisted, laughing harder now. “You know those stories about rich people who decide to give away all their fortunes? That’s all bullshit. We plan to do the exact opposite. We’re going to keep the house, obviously, and all our possessions. But we want to make sure the Smith family isn’t destitute when this is all over.”
“Wait a second,” Mom interrupted. “You mean—”
“Don’t let him fool you, Mom!” Mr. Smithson yelled suddenly, standing up from the couch. “David doesn’t understand what he’s saying, that’s all!” He took a step toward Harold and then stopped himself before his face got any redder.
“Anyway,” he went on, taking a deep breath, “we’re hoping you’ll be comfortable here for a few days or weeks until the trial concludes. As long as that takes, anyway.”
“Oh, we’re happy to stay!” I protested quickly. “It’s…it’s a pretty cool house! And the Smithsons are really nice!”
“I’m so glad you think so,” Mrs. Smithson replied.
Mr. Smithson looked at his wife sternly. “But don’t let us take advantage of you, son,” he said softly. “I know you think we can pay for your hotel bills and such. But we won’t be able to afford it. This is going to be expensive.”
“I don’t need to pay for anything!” I protested. “I just thought it would be nice to stay in a big house while I’m in town! I mean, I can’t go home while all this stuff goes down, after all!”
Harold laughed and shook his head again. “This isn’t just a house, son,” he said. “This is the Smith family’s home.”
I opened my mouth to protest. But Mr. Smithson was already nodding vigorously. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he agreed. “The Smithsons’ home. Well, I guess that will have to do.”
As we continued to talk, Mom and Dad eventually joined the conversation. The Smithsons didn’t ask many questions, but they did show genuine interest in my parents’ jobs—my father in construction and my mother in nursing.
They even seemed to like each other pretty well. And as I listened to them talking together in the living room, I had to admit that it was actually kind of fun hanging out with the Smithsons.
After we finished our drinks (and Harold’s Coke) and had dessert, Mrs. Smithson announced that she needed to get back home for dinner. She also asked if we wanted to join them for a walk around the neighborhood.
Mom and Dad both declined politely, explaining that they’d promised to attend an annual church picnic with a few families from their Bible study group later on. So we thanked the Smithsons, told them good night, and walked them out to their car, where the Smithsons dropped off some things for us first, including several bottles of water and two large boxes filled with food.
We wished them luck with the upcoming trial and then waved goodbye as they drove off.
“Well, I guess we’ve got plenty to eat here now,” I mused as we headed back inside.
“Yeah, but that only lasts us about three days,” Mom pointed out. “We can’t stay here forever, David.”
“No, no, we shouldn’t!” I agreed. “Besides, what about school?” I wondered aloud. “How are we going to get there every day?”
“I’ll call ahead tomorrow,” Mom assured me. “They can probably hold a class for another week or so. And besides,” she went on, “what else are we going to do? Go home and wait for more bad news?”
“That’s not what I meant!” I argued. “I’m just wondering why we can’t just hang out here until everything gets settled.”
“I don’t want you running around town alone,” Mom replied. “Especially not in this neighborhood.”
“Okay,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Let’s just stay here instead, then. You and Dad can drive me to school every day.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind that,” Dad added. “In fact, I bet they’d love to help out.”
“Really?” Mom asked, looking surprised. “Would you say that to Mr. and Mrs. Miller when you call them tomorrow?”
“Of course not!” I exclaimed. “But how do you know these people?”
“We used to live in their neighborhood,” Mrs. Smithson explained. “I remember hearing about the arrest from one of our neighbors.”
Dad nodded, still smiling. “And now they’re trying to get the charges dismissed,” he continued. “I hope they find a way.”
Mrs. Smithson sighed sadly. “It’s been really tough,” she admitted. “My kids have gotten a lot of teasing at school.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I demanded, sounding a bit indignant. “You’re a police officer!”
“I’m a police detective,” she corrected me quietly. “So, yeah, the kids are calling me a ‘snitch.’ I hate that.”
“That’s awful,” I sympathized. “Do you ever come back to the old neighborhood?” I wondered. “I mean, I can totally understand why you and your husband left.”
“No, we rarely come back here anymore,” she replied, shaking her head. “It makes us too sad.”
“Yeah, it’s always hard leaving a place like this behind,” Dad said. “When I think about our house, which we sold last year… well, I don’t miss it as much. But when we were younger, I remember how happy we felt being part of such a great community. Everyone looked out for everyone else.” He gave a sad smile. “That’s gone now. Not just here, but all across the country, I’m afraid.”
“There’s a saying: ‘Home is where the heart is,'” Mrs. Smithson reminded him. “It sounds silly, doesn’t it? But maybe that’s because most of the time, home isn’t a place—it’s a feeling. And if you lose the feeling, you end up losing the place as well.”
“Maybe we could try to re-create the feelings, though?” Dad suggested.
She thought about that for a moment. “Maybe,” she finally agreed. “I don’t know. But we’ve got to keep fighting for what we believe in, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dad affirmed with a smile. “And if that means living in my van again for a while, then so be it.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Mom said, giving him a warm kiss on the cheek as we turned back into the kitchen. “If the charges against Officer Hanks are dropped, that means that his name will be cleared.
Maybe he won’t lose his job over this incident after all. And if he does lose his job,” she continued, turning to look at me with a serious expression, “well, then at least we’ll have plenty of room in the back of the van.”
The End