Short Story / isaac (Analysis)
A few tables down from my dad and I sat three people: a brother, and sister, and their father. A cell phone rang and the father answered. I could tell that he was having problems with the phone and he moved his kids to a table closer to the window and across from our table.
We were similar, my dad and I, their dad and them. None of us were talking, except their dad to whoever was on the other end. They had so much to say but no time to say it, and we had nothing to say with all of the time in the world. I happened to overhear what their dad was saying; it was obviously some “important” call. It sounded like he was a salesman.
“It’s beautiful, the wood paneling and bright coloring. If you want, I’ll have Bob bring it by later. As a matter of fact, I can do it. I’ll be there in say, an hour. Okay great, see you then.” He said.
I caught the eye of the brother and recognized him as Isaac Warner from school. He looked at me and sort of smiled in a sad way. I smiled back in the same way, and we had a sort of conversation, neither of us saying a word and being 12 feet away.
Isaac was very backward at school: lonely, maybe on purpose. He didn’t have a mom, but then… I don’t anymore either.
*
It happened fast, in a car accident. They said she didn’t feel any pain, which I guess was supposed to make us feel at ease. Well, make me feel at ease. My dad never really let on to feeling anything. It was a hit and run, the police were still out looking for the guy who hit her. I cried the first day, but then, I forced my self to stop. An adult needed to handle all of this and apparently my father was not capable of being that adult. So I would be.
At school, everyone was being weird. Staring at me, pointing me out. It was as if I was the dead one, and not my mother. The teachers were being easy, letting me not do my homework, which is nice I guess. It had left more time for me to plan my mother’s funeral. Even my friends acted differently. I couldn’t stand to eat with them anymore. The awkward silences went from few and far between to monopolizing any hope of conversation. I just picked up a bag of Chex Mix from the line and headed into the bathroom to eat. A bathroom isn’t very appetizing, but the quiet is nice.
About a week after the funeral, and a few days after I saw Isaac with his family, he saw me come out of the bathroom with my trash.
“Hey,” he said, “um, look, sorry about your mom. I’ve been there you know? Well, see you,” and with that he walked away.
It was weird, but somehow seemed natural. He just came up to me as if he had always known me, and yet he had never spoken a word to me until that moment.
“Isaac?” I called back at him, “um, thanks.” He just nodded and smiled that sad smile again.
I didn’t know it then, but this was the beginning of something. I wouldn’t be able to explain it for a long time; I still can’t find the words now, so long after everything has happened.
The bell rang to go to fifth period and I slowly followed my classmates to the academic hallway, stopping at my locker and breathing in deep before sneaking into class a few minutes late. The teacher noticed, but let it go and didn’t care. I had been having “trouble” lately. It was English. I still remember almost everything from senior year even though it was over two years ago.
My English teacher was, well, un-animated. She let everything slide by because she knew she didn’t have to enforce the rules. This was Honors English and no way was she going to do more work than she had to. That being said, I actually liked her. Ms. Bates was interesting, though not lively. Her ability to stay relaxed and calm was something I admired. The class basically taught itself, but Ms. Bates was “always here if you need anything at all.” I didn’t usually seek anything from her, but it was nice of her to tell us that she liked us enough to talk to us outside of class.
We read part of The Canterbury Tales the day I met Isaac outside the bathroom. I don’t remember much about it, except, like every other class, it went by so slowly, but every day went so quickly. Next, I had AP Chemistry, that teacher wasn’t nearly so lenient, so I had to be on time.
The rest of the day was a whirlwind. Or maybe it wasn’t, I just can’t remember it. I do remember that when I got home, my dad was there, with my mom’s mom. She was yelling at him. Trying to figure out why he was being so childish and not taking care of me. I hoped that she wouldn’t be too hard on him, but I also hoped she would punish him. Just because Mom was gone, didn’t mean he had no family.
I slipped past the two arguing and made the long trek down the hallway, past my parents’ empty bedroom to mine. The brightness of my room was a charade, for I felt nothing but numb. The therapist would say that it was normal. I felt anything but. Music couldn’t bring me out of my cocoon like it used to. My guitar leaned against the wall idly, and my stereo sat collecting dust.
As I lay on my bed, thinking about everything and about absolutely nothing, Isaac popped into my scattered brain. His vast height seemed mountainous, though he couldn’t be more than 6 foot two or three. He had a short, shaggy kind of hair cut that just covered the tips of his ears. And his eyes, I remember, were just the shade of blue that the ocean turns under a starry midnight. When he had looked at me that afternoon, as I came out of the bathroom, it seemed like he really did know exactly how I felt. If I would have had more time, I probably would have let loose right then, and told him everything. But that would come later.
“Rachael,” someone called to me and knocked on my door. How long had it been since I came home? For a moment I forgot about everything that had happened in the last weeks and expected my mother to come in to my room and ask me what was wrong. The moment passed and my grandma stepped into my room. It was May, but she held out a cup of hot coco for me. She always brought me coco when I was little and didn’t feel well. The feel of being a child again was so good to me. I remember the simplicity of childhood. Parents didn’t die. The biggest deal was who I had to share my crayons with.
Grandma brushed the hair out of my face and kissed my forehead.
“I’m going to stay here with you for a while, in the house. Your dad needs some help. He’s going to go away for a while and I’m going to take care of you.” She spoke as if I really were a child. But I understood all the same. Dad was giving up on me.
He had already left when Grandma came into my room. Was he tired of being responsible, tired of seeing an eighteen-year-old who looked exactly like a woman who was healthy and happy only twelve days earlier? Or was he just tired of being told that he needed to take care of that eighteen-year-old?
I hid my face in Grandma’s arms. Did my father blame me for Mom’s death? Did he hate me? I didn’t want my father to hate me. It was an accident. No one’s fault, except that stupid other driver they still hadn’t found. She was just going to pick up some things for dinner. I asked her to make my favorite meal to celebrate my acceptance to NYU. Does that make it my fault? I can’t answer that. I don’t know how to answer that without crying.
I can’t cry right now. I’ll save that for later.
“Grandma, I need to go to sleep now.” I told her. It was 8:00 and she knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Thankfully, she understood and let me be alone. Being alone was probably the last thing I should have been…
To my own surprise, I did fall asleep. I woke up as my alarm clock blared and I was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Getting up was the worst part of everyday. It meant I had to face the world one more day; I had to be strong one more time. Then I would go to bed, get up and have to do it all over again. The pain was unbearable, but I had to bear it.
The principal told me that, if I wished, I could miss school for a few days. I stayed home only one day, the day after the accident. But I knew that if I really wanted to go to NYU, I would have to stick it out and go to school. I had scholarships to fill out and finals in just a few weeks. No way was I going to give up, no matter how much I wanted to.
So I got up, like I always did. I changed clothes and I cautiously drove to school. I didn’t care much about my appearance anymore. Sweats and a t-shirt became usual fare for a girl who once wore skirts every other day. Make-up was a bother and I just threw my hair into a ponytail.
My car smelled like my mother. I had spilt her favorite perfume in it when I bought her a bottle for mother’s day the year before. I breathed in deep, and fought back tears. I will not cry, I thought, I always thought.
I parked my car in the back of the senior lot. The walk was quiet and the cool morning was refreshing. As I slowly made my way to the front doors, 20 minutes before school would start, I saw someone familiar sitting in his car with the window rolled down.
“Isaac…?” He just looked at me. I felt unwanted, so I kept on walking, feeling kind of rejected, even though I hadn’t asked anything of him.
“Rachael,” he spoke to me as I passed his car. “Come over here.”
What? I wanted to talk to him. I didn’t know why but I felt like I could tell him anything and he would listen. I didn’t think he would actually want to talk to me. But I wanted to talk to him, and risk being looked at like a fool. But maybe it would be good for me. I could vent and then forget everything, right?
“Sit down.” I must have looked at him like he was crazy, because then he said “in the passenger seat…” So I sat down. Not knowing what to expect, I was silent.
“This isn’t something I do. I don’t normally talk to people I hardly know. But you need someone to talk to, I can tell. I want you to tell me everything. And when you’re done, you’ll feel better. It’s like that ‘pay it forward’ stuff. When my mom died, someone was there to listen. So I’m going to pay back an old friend and listen to you.”
At first I was so shocked I didn’t say anything. He looked at me, and I looked at him. Soon though, the silence was more painful than anything that could have embarrassed me later, so I poured out the contents of my aching heart. I told him things I had never told anyone. That I felt that it was my fault my mom died. That I was afraid my father hated me. That I just wanted an easy way out, I wanted to quit everything so badly. I just talked and talked and talked and he listened. It was as if he weren’t there, I was talking to my self, venting to myself. He was silent, but he listened to every word I said.
I felt the car move and he interrupted me to tell me to put my seat belt on. “What? No, I have to go to school…” I freaked out, I hardly knew this person, and I was going to ride in his car with him?
“Relax. No one will care that you aren’t there, and I don’t care that I’m not. I’m just going to drive around for a while. You have nothing to worry about. Just talk.” He tried to reassure me, but it didn’t work. This was not how the world worked. People don’t do this, they don’t just drive people around and listen to them talk about everything that’s going wrong in their life. But he did.
Soon, I was crying uncontrollably. Apparently, my sobbing was a distraction to his driving, because he pulled to the side of what seemed through my blurry vision to be a country road. I leaned into him, not really knowing what I was doing, just needing someone’s shoulder to cry on. How clichéd it seems now.
To my surprise, he looked at me, brushed my hair out of my eyes, and held me close, giving me the sort of hug I had been needing for months. It wasn’t a romantic sort of moment. It happened more out of his feeling sorry for me, I think. Remembering, if I had been remotely normal at that moment, I probably would have melted out of pure excitement. But I didn’t, and on the quiet country road, I could only hear the radio tuned to the lowest volume and feel the steady beating of his heart.
We sat there, in his car, for a while. Maybe it was ten minutes, maybe half an hour. The time passed slowly and my tears began to dry. It was time to go home. Grandma would be there, and even though I should be at school she would welcome me in with warm cookies and ask me how my day was. I loved that about her. She was always welcoming and never condescending. She spoke to you as if you were the most important person in the world, and that she would be so proud just to be compared to you. People need that sort of self-esteem boost every once in a while.
That Saturday was my first day back at work since the accident. My boss, Frank, had known my mother. At the funeral he told me to take a few weeks off. I had taken one week. Too much of nothing is just as bad of too much of something. (Where did I hear that?) He was surprised to hear from me so soon, but welcomed me back with open arms. This would be my last summer before I left for NYU. After working at the jewelry store for 3 years, I had become a pretty good salesperson, but a great housekeeper. Not so much as one smudge would survive my crazed Windex-ing. I walked in, picked up the storage box from the safe and automatically began putting the jewelry in the case. I couldn’t help but smile at all the beautiful diamonds, and the store in the summer was rarely busy, but always relaxing.
The slow day at the store went remarkably fast. I kept myself busy with dusting and vacuuming. Occasionally, a customer would come in to say hello to Frank, or to get a battery in his watch changed. We waited on them, and Frank was careful not to say too much to me, for fear I would break down. I probably wouldn’t have, but he wasn’t sure he could handle it if I did.
At noon I walked down the street to the little restaurant and ordered two cheeseburgers and two small drinks to-go for my boss and I. The woman at the register gave me the cups and I took two steps to the drink fountain, filling my cup with Sprite, and my boss’ with Diet Coke. An older man stood next to me, dumping cream in his coffee. He said hello to me, and I said hello and smiled back, trying my hardest to be friendly. I walked back to my usual table to wait for the food. The man stood by my table and smiled with all twelve of his teeth.
“A-are you g-going with anybody?” He asked.
I froze, unsure what to say,
“Um… I’m at work I have to go…” He didn’t step out of my way. Obviously, I would have to answer him. And it looked as though I would have to lie.
“Y-yes, I’m going with someone.” I could feel my cheeks burn, and I had never been so scared in my life. Too many things had I heard about rape and abductions to laugh it off like I should have. I realized that I had forgotten lids for the drinks and walked back to the fountain, thankful for my absentmindedness.
A man and his wife were seated kitty-corner from my table. The man had a long, white, furry beard that was somehow reassuring. As if Santa had taken holiday to watch over me. He gave me a strong nod, as if to tell me that I had said the right thing. I breathed in deep and took a step. The strange man was gone when I got back to my table, but he came back a few minutes later. I quickly got out my cell phone, because Santa and Mrs. Claus had left. I started pushing buttons, hoping that the man would think I was talking to someone. He walked right passed me to fill up his coffee once more.
I heard the bell on the door ring, and glanced up, hoping for a familiar face. I was lucky, it was Isaac. He saw me, and bypassed the line to sit down next to me. I smiled wide enough that it hurt, so happy to see him. The man came back from getting his coffee and looked at Isaac.
“Is that your boyfriend?” He asked me. Once again, I was speechless. But this time, if I lied, not only would I be uncomfortable, but so would Isaac. Before I could answer, Isaac did for me.
“Yes, I am.” For those three words I am forever grateful.
The rest of the school year passed quickly. My finals were relatively simple and I had new inspiration for the last minute scholarship essays. There is a lot to talk about if you’ve just lost a parent, maybe two. Isaac was always by my side. He kept me going when I wanted to quit more than I have ever wanted anything. He saved my life in so many ways: from that time at the restaurant, to countless other days when I desperately wanted to end my own life. He kept me strong enough to face another day.
One Friday night, about three weeks before I left for NYU, Isaac was supposed to come over, and we were going to have a movie marathon. He promised me that if we watched his two favorite movies: Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and James Bond: Goldfinger this week, then next week we could watch Titanic, Pride and Prejudice, and A Knight’s Tale. It was 9:26, and Isaac was fifty-six minutes late. The phone rang, and I picked up right away. It was Isaac’s sister Margot. We had never talked much, so I wondered why she was calling.
“Margot?” I asked. She was crying. “What’s that matter?”
“It’s Isaac, Rachael. He’s in a coma.” My heart stopped.
“What? I don’t understand…”
“He was in an accident. Some drunk guy smashed his car into a tree. Rachael, you need to get to the hospital. Our dad, he’s out of town, and Isaac needs you. I know how much he cares about you, and I know he wouldn’t be here if not for you.” Again, I was confused.
“What do you mean? He’s the one who-”
“No. Before you two started talking, he had been seeing a therapist. He was suicidal. Just get down here, please. He’ll want to see you if—when he wakes up.” She hung up and I heard a dial tone.
“Grandma,” I called, “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back soon okay?” I grabbed my keys and ran out of the house, my vision blurry with tears. The drive to the hospital was the longest fifteen minutes of my life. It’s hard to believe I had even been able to get in my car, the cause of all my pain. Upon arriving at the hospital, I went to reception and asked for Isaac’s room, but Margot spotted me first and directed me there.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the room. I braced myself to see him in a dire state, but that wasn’t the case. He looked peaceful. He was sleeping. Tears streamed down my face, and I no longer struggled to hold them back. My head suddenly weighed 50 pounds, so I slunk down to my knees and lay my forehead on his blue hospital sheets.
“Isaac,” I pleaded. “What are you doing? Wake up. Why don’t you just wake up?”
After the longest night of my life, Isaac woke up. He was conscious just long enough to see his sister and I standing there, and to smile.
“I’m sorry.” he said. Sorry for what? I wondered, you’re awake!
He slipped back into a deep sleep, and then, at 2:39 a.m., Isaac Warner flat lined. I later learned that Isaac eventually died after being hit by the same drunk driver who had killed my mother, but this time, they caught him.
All my life I’ve had trouble getting over death. It seemed like whoever controlled it had doled me out an extra, unwanted portion. I didn’t think I could handle life after that year. But somehow I managed, and I have Isaac to thank for that. He taught me that life is unpredictable, and that if you are happy while you’re here, then it will all be worth while. So far, even with all the pain, it has been.
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This is very interesting. In the beginning I was a little confused, but it might have just been me. I can relate so much to your main character though. I’ve been through hard times in my life and I just bottle them all up inside. Isaac is just like a guy friend I have, that would just listen to me when I needed him to. It was really sad when Isaac died.. good job, hope to hear from you again!
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“The awkward silences went from few and far between to monopolizing any hope of conversation.” I really like this line..
I really enjoyed this short story. At the start of the story it seemed to be told from a male narrator. I was surprised when I found out the main character/narrator was a female.
Any advice I’d render is to continue the conclusion. Inspire some more optomism to the reader.
Oh, and one last thing:
“Too much of nothing is just as bad of too much of something.” Spice Girls song, yeehaw! I knew I’d heard it somewhere! haha
-haileyjade
I have read this story before. I think I read it and Urbis lagged out on me before I could critique this piece for you. That being said, I am glad tha I can voice my thoughts over such a wonderful work. A fellow writer once critique a piece I did saying “This is a wonderful, emotional, roller coaster ride.” I feel that flattering comment to be more in line with your masterful work than the one I had up for reviews.
I wept when the girls mother died and her dad forsaked her. I wept further for the pain she went through in him blaming her for the accident. I laughed at her trying to bounce back with the anal windex-ing. I cried when Issac died. I was amazed at her resolve to move on through so much adversity in her life.
The reference to the movie “Pay it Forward” was fitting in this piece. Through out the read, I couldn’t help but have that song “Calling all angels” play in the background of my mind. It made this piece all the more poignant and so memorable as well. You have something here. YOu have a novel if not a movie.
Lastly, though you ask to be judged on being a better writer, I don’t think it necessary. You wanted to evoke emotion and you have done so out of pheraps the most cynical here on Urbis. The talent is there. The desire is there. The story is there. The only thing left for you to do is write. A wonderfully gripping, heart-wrencing, story. I thank you for it. Keep writing.
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