Student Story
Passing the Curtain

Mr. Hollings lay on his bed, mildly contemplating a crack in the ceiling. At least, he thought his name was Hollings. It was hard to tell sometimes. Sometimes they had to come in and tell him. They were kind, especially the little one. She would hug him and stroke his forehead and call him Grandpa. What was that, he wondered. It sounded pleasant. She would tell him. He would ask her. If he remembered. That was difficult.

The bed tilted suddenly, trying to roll him off. It never worked, he knew, and so didn’t reach out to catch himself. He knew he wouldn’t fall. He never did.

cookies porch Olivia hat wind Fifteenth Avenue child chair mine laugh Olivia smile

His mind settled. Olivia was his wife. Sometimes she would appear and talk to him. She hadn’t been there for a while, but he saw her now and then. She had gone. She had been smiling, and then she had fallen down. But she still came occasionally. It was bemusing.

The crack in the ceiling splayed across the plaster, trickling down the wall and tapering off near his bedpost. And then his bedpost was his daughter. She was six. Or was she twelve? He smiled, cracking his cheeks. How old she was didn’t matter. He would ask her. And she was here. But, he mused sadly, she never seemed to know either.

The bed tilted, trying to roll him off.

baby nurse sweet bracelet happy Alexandra Olivia beautiful bed white happy

His mind settled. He sighed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

* * *

He was dreaming.

He was hand in hand with Olivia. There was a mountain. A mountain with stairs. How odd. He leaned on his cane. It was strange, yet rather pleasant, to stand.

“Well,” said Olivia. “I suppose we had better go up.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose so.” He began climbing up the stairs. It was good to walk. Had he walked in quite a while? He couldn’t say. He held out his hand to Olivia. Her heart was weak. They walked and they walked. It was odd, he thought, that they never got tired, but they had had their times of being tired.

“Hullo,” said Alexandra. He had been wondering if she was coming along.

“Hello, sugar munchkin,” he said. She liked being called that. She had told him. He had asked. The stairs were getting steeper, so he and Olivia had Alexandra walk between them, holding their hands. She talked and chattered, pointing out flowers and birds and oddly shaped mushrooms that he never would have noticed otherwise.

“Whasthat?” Alexandra yelled suddenly. He squinted. The foliage was thick, but off to the side of where they were standing was an opening. Through it, he could see a group of children playing what he assumed was their version of baseball. It was funny, he thought he recognized some of them. One in particular …

“That’s me.” He said, pointing. And so it was. Olivia laughed.

“And that’s me.” She said. “I used to sit on the sidelines of the games and think about which boy I would marry when I grew up. Well, other things, too, but I’m afraid that that was my primary occupation.” He smiled.

“How often did you think about me as a possible future spouse?” She laughed again.

“Almost never.” She said. “To me you were the annoying boy at my school, who started food fights during lunch and had too much hair.” He chuckled. It was true. He had started a few food fights, and he did have a lot of hair. When he got older, it had given him a distinctive Einstein-ish look (or so he liked to believe), but at that age he had looked like a blondish-brown artichoke.

“And then,” she continued. “We went into college together and I fell so hard for you I probably shook the world.”

“Speaking of college,” Alexandra called. “Is this you, Mommy?” She was peering into another opening a few yards ahead of them. Sure enough, inside, there she was, standing up straight and looking triumphant (and gloriously beautiful, although he had neglected to mention this to her at the time). He could see himself, looking ridiculous in his black robe and hat, while everyone else managed to look dignified and scholarly (except for Ian Smith, who didn’t count).

“Here’s another one,” said Olivia. This one was their wedding. He could see it even without looking, in his mind’s eye. The priest holding up the Eucharist for all to see, Olivia’s cool hand in his, the swish of the white dress, the glistening metal of his ring.

“Is this me?” asked Alexandra, pointing at another opening. Hurrying over, he nodded. It was her first birthday. Her face was coated in chocolate cake, and she had a green bean behind her ear. They had never seen anything cuter.

The next portal showed her first day of school. After that, he and Olivia’s anguish and anxiety when she went on her first unsupervised date. Then, Alexandra, off to college. And then her wedding. And her first child. There would be more children, he knew. But they would never know him. And then they saw Olivia’s death. That made him sad. And then, at last, he saw himself, lying on a hospital bed, snoring like a freight train. And then not snoring. Olivia took his hand. He suddenly felt more real than he had before, more substantial, which was ridiculous, because no one is ever substantial in a dream. His mind was clearer, lighter than it had been for years. He looked at his cane. He didn’t need it anymore, but he decided to take it with him. He might need it later. Looking up, he saw that their path was blocked by a curtain of vines. They stopped, and Alexandra let go of their hands.

“I’m not going in there yet,” she said, smiling at them. “But I will someday.” She turned and skipped down the stairs, waving goodbye.

And he and Olivia, hand in hand, pushed back the curtain and reached their destination.

* * *

“He died peacefully, in his sleep.” The nurse said soothingly. Alexandra nodded, not quite sadly. She knew where he had gone, and that she would see him again. She knelt and wrapped her arms around her five-year-old daughter, Sophia, and held her close. Soon there would be lawyers and wills and sleepless nights. Soon there would be condescending friends and over-sympathetic relatives.

But in the end, it would be her turn to climb the mountain. In the end, she too would pass through the curtain. And she would be ready.

Congratulations to Miss Crain on her first publication here at the Journal.

If you enjoyed this piece, and would like to see more excellent work from CLT students, you can find all their submissions (essays, short fiction, and poetry) archived here. Thank you for reading the Journal, and have a great weekend.

Published on 6th September, 2024.