Manifesting Raspberry and Apple by Lincoln Hayes

He smells late-spring grass.

Cold, wet dew caressing his cheek, Stanley blinks rapidly for focus. In dawn’s peachy glow, he is face-deep in dandelions and the lengthy shadows of his white picket fence.

Every day, from his sunroom, Stanley watches life pass him by. Not much happens on his quiet, leafy street. The mail gets delivered. Mr Richardson potters in his garden. The occasional car or delivery van trundles past.

Until now.

For the past six weeks, at seven-forty-five on a weekday morning, and a little past nine on the weekends, she has powered past his window in hot-pink tank top and loose-fitting basketball shorts. Fists pumping in front of her, pendulum-like ponytail swinging behind her, she strides effortlessly across his field of vision. After half an hour, she returns via the opposite side of the street. She looks happy and fulfilled, as if walking is the most natural and joyful aspect of being young, beautiful, and human.

Eagerly he waits, excitement and anticipation almost unbearable, for her to transition through his world for mere seconds, then leave him again, lonely, bereft, and wondering what life is like “out there.”

***

Just before midday, Shirley, his mother, comes to check on him. She wheels him to the bathroom, lifting him gently and lovingly onto the toilet,

(who else would do this for you, Stanley?)

then gives him his lunch-time meds

(you’ll always be my special boy, Stanley)

and pushes him to the lounge room, where she settles his wheelchair next to her recliner.

(it will always be just you and me, Stanley)

She turns on the TV and leaves him there, retreating to the kitchen to make phone calls in secretive tones.

Stanley loves her with all his breath and will be eternally grateful, but cannot help but wonder—is there anyone out there … for me?

(I gave up EVERYTHING for you, Stanley)

***

In years gone by, this house was his classroom. Shirley would teach him the curriculum (and strictly little else), under the panoptical gaze of his late father’s portrait, which taught the most important lesson of all.

(God spared you, Stanley)

He was a miracle, and although that fiery collision had taken her precious Albert, her beautiful son had survived, broken (and now withered), but with mind and soul intact. From tragedy had arisen her greatest comfort — a beloved companion who would never abandon her.

Now, at twenty-three, Stanley spends afternoons with her, watching talk shows and made-for-TV movies about Christmas miracles and unrequited love, interspersed with toilet trips, spoon feeding and afternoon meds.

At night, she bathes him, tenderly washing her son’s fleshy-but-wasted stick-legs and stick-arms with lavender soap and love,

(you’ll never walk, Stanley, but I will always be here for you)

puts him in his PJs and lays him in bed, leaving him alone in the dark. Trapped in blankets and thoughts, he manufactures Hallmark-inspired fantasies of life “out there”.

And now, her.

***

About two weeks after the walker first appeared in his life, things started to change.

It began when she noticed him watching her through the window. Stopping briefly, she looked quizzically through the tinting of the window, then gave him a sweet little grin before powering onwards.

The next day, that gentle smile progressed to a beaming, silently mouthed “hi there!” with an enthusiastic, full-shouldered wave.

This escalating interaction left Stanley both excited and apprehensive.

***

A few nights later, tucked in snugly and goodnight-kissed, pent-up thoughts coursed through him, stoking the flames of imagination. Physically motionless but mentally inflamed, he drifted off to sleep.

He is walking! Breathing fresh, brisk air deep into his lungs, he takes strong, purposeful steps. He looks down and sees robust, meaty — manly — legs, covered in light, downy hair, from thigh to bare feet.

He smells raspberry and apple; it wafts from her ponytail as it swings back and forth. Without breaking stride, he turns to see a smile that is etched in his consciousness, framed by delicate dimples, and freckles dancing gaily under glistening hazel eyes.

He had woken to the thin veil of dawn breaking through the curtains. Face-down, his nose pressed against the thinning shagpile of his bedroom floor.

In his entire post-accident existence, he had never so much as rolled over in his sleep, let alone fallen out of bed.

How?

Patiently, he had waited for his mother to come and get him up and ready for the day. Entering the room, Shirley shrieked, then clicked into action, erupting in a flurry of lifting and platitudes, quavering voice belying the strength of her arms and her resolve.  

An hour later, from his perch in the sunroom, she strode past again, and his heart pulsed in his emaciated chest. She smiled and waved—her new ritual—and with a flurry of hands and hair, she was gone.

***

Fifteen years since the accident,

(you’ll be safer at home with me, Stanley)

he no longer remembers what it feels like to be connected to people. The doctors and specialists who poke and prod him, shaking their heads and furtively murmuring to his mother, have been his only meaningful interactions.

Now, the power walker consumes his every waking thought; their daily three-second interlude has become everything.

Who is she? Where does she come from and where does she go? What is her life beyond my window?

He has seen enough midday movies to fuel a thousand fantasies and construct an entire world for his mysterious stranger. And every existence he manifests for her, Stanley aches to be part of: to be close enough to hear the timbre and inflections of her voice, to know what she smells like, and to feel the warmth of her rosy, exercise-flushed cheeks radiating against his.

Above all, he longs to know how it would feel to walk beside her, matching her stride, arms swinging freely — liberated from this prison-cell body that allows him a mere, imperceptible finger-twitch to acknowledge her wave.

***

All day, following that first anomaly—albeit returned to the bonds of his motionless body—he had been exhilarated. His routine remained unchanged (although Shirley seemed frazzled), but his mind was in overdrive, revisiting his nocturnal interlude with apple-raspberry hair, desperate to cling to its now-fleeting memory.

And its curious physical postscript.

The next night, Shirley had tucked him in extra tightly, with a double-dose of the round green pills.

(no shenanigans tonight, Stanley, we need to keep you safe)

His thoughts were hazy, but with effort, he focused.

He is walking! Breathing fresh, brisk air …

This time, he had woken in the hallway, slumped against the front door, bewildered, terrified — elated.

***

From this point onward, Stanley’s excitement has risen exponentially with Shirley’s anxiety at these bizarre new occurrences (symptoms she calls them).

The walker passes by, filling his soul with smiles and profusely enunciated greetings. He spends afternoons in the lounge room soaking up inane love stories while his mother whispers over the phone, asking if she has any repeats of temazepam on file.

And each dawn, he finds himself progressively distant from his bedroom.

***

Tonight, his eyelids are like stone, urging him to embrace sleep’s sweet oblivion. He is tucked in, extra-EXTRA tight; he can almost feel his sheets and blankets compressing withered flesh and brittle bones.

He fights the exhaustion with all his might, yearning to walk with her again and

breathe fresh, brisk air …

He wakes in the pale hues of dawn, feeling the cold hardness of concrete on his back.

Blinking furiously, his eyes are stung by the bright orange ball peeping through Mr Richardson’s trees, which he usually only sees from his sunroom window.

A young woman is standing over him, face silhouetted by the rising sun.

He smells raspberry and apple.

Lincoln Hayes

Image: A bottle spilling out white pills from pixabay.com