by Desiree Span
We hoisted our heavy backpacks up on our backs and embarked on our trip.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Lynn said and her curly blond hair sprung about as we walked toward our train platform. Her enthusiasm was rubbing off on me and I suddenly felt a sting of excitement, which made me smile. Lynn caught me smiling to myself. “I see the sun has already begun shining,” she said and winked at me.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Chapter Fourteen
OLIVER
1997
* * *
After burying our son, Tess and I rode home together in silence. She was very tired, emotionally drained and still in a lot of physical pain. Without saying much she slipped directly into her bedroom.
She spent the next morning in bed and around noon I prepared her a simple lunch and knocked on her door to see how she was doing. She was buried under the covers, her eyes red and puffy from crying.
I placed the tray on the side table and sat on the bed next to her.
She tried to sit up a bit, but the wound of her C-section was still very raw and she flinched in pain.
I handed her the plate with a sandwich on it but she declined.
“You have to eat something, Tess,” I said, but she shook her head.
I then gave her the glass of orange juice I had poured. “Well at least drink this.”
She took two sips of it and gave it back to me. “My parents are coming over this afternoon,” she then said. She explained that her mother was coming to take care of her and her father wanted to help with the baby’s stuff. I agreed and she then dismissed me by simply closing her eyes and turning her head away.
When her parents arrived, they greeted me cordially but with the same detachment I had felt since the first time I had met them. Her mother quickly disappeared into Tess’ room, while her father and I got started on cleaning out the baby room. The whole time we worked in silence and said only what was necessary. At times I would catch him glance at me, as if wanting to say something; he was clearly having a very hard time dealing with the situation. But I deliberately remained distant; I just couldn’t engage in any kind of conversation with him. I had too many issues of my own and wasn’t in any condition to offer comfort to someone else; he was on his own.
That evening we put everything in my van and drove to a thrift store, where we donated it all. When we got back to the apartment, her mother was all set to leave and they both said goodnight and headed home. The house felt empty and if possible even colder than before. I walked to Tess’ room and knocked on her door but she didn’t answer, so I let her be and went to bed.
* * *
About four days later I woke up early only to find Tess already sitting at the kitchen table.
“I’m moving out,” she said solemnly.
I looked at her and blinked a couple of times.
She looked back at me with tears in her eyes and then looked away. “We both knew this was going to happen; it was just a matter of who would do it first. I figured not to make this longer than necessary. I was just wondering if it isn’t too much trouble to drive me over to my parents’ house,” she asked.
She caught me off guard, so I hesitated to reply.
“It’s okay. Don’t bother,” she said. “I can take a cab and ask my father to pack up my stuff later.” She slowly stood up and carefully started to make her way to the door, still very sore from the surgery.
“No, it’s no trouble at all,” I said quickly. “Please, let me help you,” and I took her by the arm and led her toward the elevator.
I drove her to her parents’ house and as soon as I parked, her mother and father opened the door to meet us. I stepped out and helped Tess get out of the van. She walked directly toward her mother, who encountered her with open arms. Together they fled into the house and I wanted to go after her but her father blocked my way.
“It’s okay, son. You don’t have to do this. We’ll take it from here,” he said kindly and patted me on the shoulder. A part of me felt like I had to insist, but honestly I lacked the energy and spirit to argue a case that both of us knew was pointless. I was emotionally and mentally exhausted and was relieved to see Tess in good hands and being taken care of. So, I stepped back into my car and drove away without looking back.
I shivered when I stepped back into the apartment. It was filled with so much failure and disillusion. At the end of that week I had made up my mind. Without telling anyone, I applied for a traveling visa and as soon as I received the notification that I could pick it up, I cleaned out my savings account, transferring all I had been able to save up for my baby to a debit account, which I could then also access abroad. I threw some clothes and a toothbrush in a backpack, gave the apartment keys back to the landlord and told him that everything in there that didn’t belong to the original furniture he could sell, give away or burn, for that matter. I really didn’t care. I then sold the Scooby-Doo van to Barry’s Garage and added that money to the stash I had in my money belt.
I left for Europe, determined to find Erica and with some hope of getting her back.
It was sunny and there was a slight breeze that pulled at my leather jacket as I was walking through a street in the outskirts of Amsterdam. Amsterdam was just as I had imagined it from Erica’s stories; a combination of chaotic traffic consisting of trams claiming the roads, cars maneuvering tightly through narrow streets, bicycles crisscrossing, and locals trying to overhaul the aimlessly wandering tourists. Amidst all this, the sleek and elegant canal houses are packed neatly one beside the other overlooking the water. And this all fit together nicely in a small city that excelled in city planning, with over sixty-two miles of canals, about ninety islands, and 1,500 bridges.
This must be it, I thought as I stopped in front of a typical canal house, on the door of which was a small, silver name plate that included her aunt’s surname, Peters. I rang the doorbell and soon I heard someone coming. A woman, unmistakably related to Erica, opened the door.
In Dutch, she amicably asked me how she could help.
“Hi, I’m looking for Erica,” I responded in English.
“Ah, her American friend?” she asked, her eyes growing wide.
“Yes,” I said.
“Oliver?” she asked, smiling now.
I nodded and answered her smile.
“Wow,” she laughed, still amazed. “But please, come in,” she said with a beautiful Dutch accent.
I accepted and before I knew it I was sitting in Aunt Karen’s backyard, drinking coffee while she offered me the cookie that traditionally goes with it. I declined the cookie but enjoyed the coffee, which was strong but really good.
“In all those years we have heard so much about you,” she said.
I smiled at her. “I’ve heard all the stories about you too,” I said.
“Well, it’s very nice to finally meet you, Oliver.”
I liked Aunt Karen right away. She had an easygoing, pleasant air about her. And just like Erica, she was tall and slender, with beautiful warm brown eyes that contrasted her fair hair, which she had pulled up in a messy bun on the top of her head. She was wearing long, dangling earrings, a green sleeveless top, and wide cotton pants with batik print. Her feet were bare and I spotted a toe ring. From Erica’s stories I had always imagined Aunt Karen somewhat alternative, but she actually seemed more like a hippie who had been sucked up in the materialistic comforts capitalism has to offer.
“Erica didn’t say you were coming,” she said and she gave me a slightly puzzled look.
“Yes, that’s because she doesn’t know I’m here,” I replied.
“Ah, so you came to give her a surprise visit. To make up?” she asked.
I then realized she wasn’t completely unaware of what had happened between me and Erica, but I didn’t know how much Erica had actually told them here.
“Something like that,” I said evasively, deciding to leave her in the dark just in case Erica had done so too.
“Oh, I see
. Well, that’s a pity, because Erica is not here,” she said, stating the obvious. She saw my confused look and quickly corrected herself. “I mean, she is not here in Amsterdam, because she is on a trip. She went backpacking with Lynn, my daughter. I’m afraid they won’t be back until the end of summer,” she added.
I felt my heart sink to my feet. I swallowed a couple of times and tried to disguise my disappointment, but Karen noticed.
“I’m sorry. You came all this way,” she said and pressed her mouth to a fine line. There fell a moment of silence. “Do you want more coffee?” she asked, while comfortingly patting my knee.
I nodded. “Where are they now?” I replied.
“Well, I think they are in Lisbon now. They call once a week to check in. I believe I have the name of the youth hostel they are staying in written down somewhere,” she said. She then went inside and I heard her pull open a drawer and take out something. She came back with a small note, a pen and a notepad on which she jotted down an address for me. I quickly finished my coffee, stood up and thanked her for everything.
“If you speak to them, please don’t tell Erica I was here. I’ll catch up with them in Lisbon. I still want it to be a surprise,” I said, thinking it was best to not let Erica know I was looking for her.
“Sure. But don’t you want to stay for dinner?” she then asked.
It wasn’t until I reached Lisbon that I called my family, apologizing for leaving without notice, that I was fine, but needed time for myself. My mother was furious about my thoughtless act. She yelled and cried, reproaching me that this was the second time I had done something completely out of character and that she hardly recognized me anymore. How could I have just disappeared on them like that and what about my studies or a job? And why didn’t I let them help me through my grieving process? She was crying and then handed the phone over to my dad, who was all but relieved to know that nothing grave had happened to me. He made me promise to call if I needed anything at all.
In Lisbon I looked for the hostel Aunt Karen had told me they were staying in and checked myself in. I asked for her at the front desk and this young, acne-plagued guy remembered seeing her and Lynn, but that had been a couple of days earlier. When I urged him to see if they had checked out he said that information was private, but after pleading he looked it up and they had indeed checked out two days before. I had just missed her. I ran my hand through my hair out of frustration and I guess he pitied me for he then recalled to have heard them talk about going to Seville.
First Lisbon, then Seville..., I thought. Seville in Spain! She was following our planned route! That sudden realization gave me hope, bringing a smile to my face. I thanked my pimply savior and told him to never mind the check-in for I needed to leave right away.
I minimized expenses by mainly using the bus and train as a means of transportation. I backpacked my way up north to Seville, the capital of Southern Spain’s Andalusia. When I got there, I went to all the youth hostels and other cheap hotels I could find, but nobody had seen her and if they did, they simply didn’t remember.
I had been searching for two days when I sat down in the beautiful Parque de Maria Luisa to take a break and have something to eat. While I savored Seville’s most glorious, juicy, pork sandwich, the montadito de pringá, I sat with my face tilted to the sun, while a gentle breeze rustled through the trees.
I thought about all that had happened the last weeks and somehow, for a split moment, I felt that having a whole ocean between me and the place where it all happened, having literally distanced myself from there, made it appear as if it had not happened to me at all—as if it was in another lifetime that I had become a father to a lifeless boy. In that moment for a few seconds I felt as if what had happened had been a horrific nightmare and that I had woken up, relieved to find myself in the safety of my own bedroom. But that feeling lasted as long as the intervals of a beating heart, for just as fast came the memory of holding my deceased baby in my arms. And I remember having followed the loving instructions of my mother and counted his ten little fingers and toes.
With tears in my eyes I pushed away the memory, inhaled deeply, and tried to focus on my sandwich.
I had finished licking off my fingers and rinsed my mouth with some cheap, but surprisingly rich, red wine I had bought, when I spotted something scratched into the bench I was sitting on. I let my sunglasses slide somewhat down my nose to inspect what it said more closely. The vandalizer had made a declaration of love and had signed it with a big heart. I sighed. There must be thousands of suckers out there also trying to find their way back to the one they loved. I knew that my search could be considered as madness. I mean, she could be anywhere. But I just had to keep on following the clues and the only clues I had about where she might be was the route she and I had planned for our journey. I just hoped she would keep following it, so I could trail her.
* * *
My search ended up with me traveling for just as long as my visa lasted; three months.
From Seville I headed north to Madrid where I visited the Prado Museum and finally got to admire pieces of great artists like Velázquez, Rubens, Goya, and Raphael. All the while, Erica was constantly on my mind.
I would foolishly imagine finding myself unexpectedly standing next to her and she would then hold my hand and with her head leaning on my shoulder we would admire a canvas of one of the artists she so much revered. Strolling through Madrid I saw her face everywhere, but every time I went after the glimpse I had seen of her, which gave me a rush of jitters in my stomach, it turned out to be a bad lookalike. It was almost as if she was playing a game of cat and mouse, where I was the cat and she the ghost of the mouse that haunted me.
In the afternoon I stopped for a drink at the Plaza Mayor. Within its center was the bronze statue of King Philip III, forever keeping an eye on the tourists strolling by. So I imitated Philip and sat there for a while, contemplating the people passing by in the hopes of maybe spotting her.
I then continued through the busy, pounding heart of Madrid, the public square Puerta del Sol which connects several commercial and recreational areas together. I passed by the Kilómetro Cero plaque, which serves as the symbolic center of Spain, before heading to the nearest bar to enjoy a cold cerveza. It was 2 a.m. when I called it a night and thanked the bartender, two guys I had been chatting with, and anyone else I encountered on the way out, for a great time. I was very drunk, and was miraculously able to find my way to the hostel. There I managed to take off my clothes and had the presence of mind to pull my own sheets on the mattress before rolling into the narrow, stained bed. My head was spinning but I couldn’t concentrate on making it stop because of a foul, greasy smell penetrating my nostrils. I discovered the source and threw aside the smelly pillow that made me gag. My last thought was: I’m so glad I decided to carry around my own sheets. Now just don’t think about the sweat, sex, or vomit stains and you’ll be fine. Note to self: buy new sheets in the morning...
It was noon when I opened my eyes and the bright light stung, making my already red eyes water even more. I took a shower with my slippers on, for one can never be too cautious, and then headed for the common area, where I sent my father an email using the one computer available for guests.
I paid for about fifteen minutes and then waited patiently while the upbeat dial-up tune sounded, announcing that exciting digital communication would be possible at any moment now. I wrote my father a long “letter,” letting him know I was fine, and sent it to his company, the only email address he had.
I scrolled through the emails and saw that Mike had written me back. Then I spotted an email from an unknown address: [email protected]. I clicked on it and read the email Erica had sent me, using her cousin’s email address.
My aunt told me you came by the house. I don’t understand what you are doing, but please don’t come looking for me anymore. I don’t ever want to see you! It’s over! Go home! - Erica
I sat there staring at the screen and must
have read the email six times. The first thought that crossed my mind was “so much for not telling Erica I’m here, Aunt Karen,” then multiple questions raced through my mind. Why is she still so angry with me? Is she still angry about me sleeping with Tess? Hasn’t she heard that Tess and I lost the baby? Has she simply found someone else?
I had to admit there was some part in my mind, deep down, where I had expected this. Actually, I was surprised she had bothered to write to me at all. Erica wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, but when she had made her mind up about something it would need a lot of convincing for her to change it. My biggest disappointment was that she did not give me a chance to do that- to talk and convince her to forgive me. In her mind I had betrayed her; it was over and that was the end of it.
I ran my hand through my hair and rubbed my eyes. I felt tired, hung over and heartsick. Reading her written words, “it’s over,” made our breakup feel more definite now than I had ever felt it before. These past weeks I had clung to the thought of a chance of reuniting with her. It had given me hope and it had consoled me in my grief, and now it was so depressing that I had focused on putting all my energy, love and dedication in a person that no longer wanted me.
* * *
I suddenly felt foolish and ridiculous for chasing a woman across Europe who clearly didn’t love me anymore. And the realization hit me that in my search for Erica I had completely forgotten to appreciate the opportunity I was given of traveling to these beautiful countries. Of finally seeing the world and live the new venture of actually finding myself.
