Some Things That Stay

Another mug of hot chocolate is being passed around, cradled dearly in between pressing, scalded palms that bore scars from working with timber and the metal teeth of blades.

The Doctor had specifically forbid her to taste hot chocolate ever again, saying something about sugar, the clot somewhere in her brain, worsens health—things she dismissed and things that aren’t worth listening to. Her back feels like more of a wooden rod than an iron pipe that became rusty over the years—indeed, her spine could have been that too; a rusty iron pipe. But she’s not old. Probably a little tired and breathless from the effort of having to sit up straighter in her armchair.

Her eyes flicker over the television once, unwatched and unloved, the sides beaten, the knobs disappeared. The door opens and she feels that she has to smile, to greet the visitor and offer a hug. Her arms draw up around the shaky shoulders, and feel hers shudder a little because the air-condition is at a temperature lower than she would have made it.

The girl touches her sunken cheekbones with soft pads of fingertips, and she winces because she always thought her cheekbones are somewhere lost on her skin.

Jessica. Is that her name? She forks her tongue over her teeth and clucks it once. What a lovely name. She looks young, no younger than her, of course, but young—she has a bounce in her step, a straight spine, no clots in her brain, no blurred out images from the past.

Her arms look strong, tough, like she’s spent years lugging timber and wood over her shoulders, or maybe she simply likes the gym and the company.

Jessica carries a large, obstructive object in her arms, struggles genially underneath the weight and puts it down gently before her.

“Tiff,” she says softly, like a calling and Tiffany swears she’s heard that being said somewhere, but that’s probably lost on her skin too. Then Jessica smiles.

She doesn’t seem to care about the hot chocolate in Tiffany’s hands, and even takes a timid sip for herself.

“Hello,” Tiffany says in return. Jessica’s smile shrinks, lightens, then broadens.

Her hands make a show of undoing the zips that stretch widely across the sides of the object. She lifts the flaps open like a treasure chest and Tiffany understands why it had been so weighty. The treasure chest contains things so foreign to her. Tiffany leans down to pluck out one plastic container. She taps the casing once.

“Are these…film?”

Rolls of film curl up inside almost in protest, dust has stuck on the undersides of the tape stuck around the cover.

Jessica smiles approvingly, “They are. Remember them?”

“Remember?” Tiffany blinks, just once. What is there to remember? Are these films for her? Are they pictures of her? She’s never recalled having her pictures taken in film, though she’d like to.

Jessica’s voice comes off to be a little on the squeaky side, higher in pitch, raspy even. Tiffany feels like they’ve been pressed into the bent of her arms before, but this tender familiarity—they are for her deceased husband, aren’t they? It must have been. Her husband probably had a voice like Jessica’s, though it is weird to the thinking, fingertips like Jessica had, calloused, rough, yet all in love and sincerity.

“From Paris,” Jessica brings out a memorabilia from the bottom of the heap. It looks like a cuff, or a sleeve of a tutu—frilly, lacy. “You wanted these so much, so you tore it off a performer.”

Tiffany would like to say she does remember, but she nods, and takes the frills into her hand. It feels like a good friend.

“Did I run?”

“You did. Ran so fast I almost lost you round the corner.”

“You went to Paris with me?”

The creases at the corners of Jessica’s eyes and lips deepen inwardly. “Of course.”

“These were from Columbus,” another item is being passed around and Tiffany sets the mug aside, now holding and touching with two hands.

Tiffany thumbs through the tough paper, yellowed at the edges and smelling of skies and age. “Postcards?”

“You stole every one of them from every restaurant we went.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Sounds like I did a lot of stealing,” Tiffany chuckles and Jessica follows, pointing at the random scrawling at the back.

“These were the numbers of the people you met there.”

“I didn’t call back?”

“You didn’t.”

“Shame,” Tiffany muses, passing the postcards back. “They probably waited in vain.”

“You gave them stamps,” Jessica offers to lighten a little of Tiffany’s guilt clause, “from Korea, all over the world. Keepsakes mean a lot more than they had been at the start.”

Tiffany smiles brightly, and Jessica’s hands stop salvaging into the pile.

“They’re all yours.”

“All these?” Tiffany looks over the items, greedy and curious.

“Yes.”

“What exactly is this?” Tiffany touches the ‘treasure chest’ Jessica had opened before her.

“This is your luggage. It was kept in the store for too long.”

“There was a store?”

Jessica nods faintly, sitting cross legged on the wooden flooring and still looking quite small and tiny with her arms drawn in and her knuckles pressing into her laps.

“My name is Jessica,”—Jessica spells her name out for her, adds in a little melancholy laugh—“Jung SooYeon. I’m a little older than you, I’ve been reading ever since I got teeth—I’d like to think so anyway—and I’ve never loved a boy. Can you remember that the next time I come?”

Tiffany frowns at the odd request, but complies. “Sure, Jessica. Would you like to share my hot chocolate before you go? It would lessen the sugar intake a little if we shared.”

She sounds hopeful, there had been a time when permissions were unspoken, only by a shifting of eyes and averting of gazes. Jessica swallows, nods and goes over to the armchair.

The first sip is warm and sticky and lovely and sweet. Jessica shoves the mug back into Tiffany’s hands, afraid that anymore would cause her tremulous grin to fade. “I really have to go now. Thank you very much.”

Tiffany frowns, upset at the urgency in which Jessica had to leave.

“Oh, please do come back soon, Jessica. Maybe you could tell me what books you love to read the next time you come by.”

Jessica presses a kiss to Tiffany’s forehead, runs her fingers down continents and wide stretches of Tiffany’s skin.

The next time Jessica comes by, she has to repeat the whole drill of her self-introduction, but it looks like Tiffany has accustomed herself to it each time she does it, but yet it is lost somewhere else when Jessica comes again to visit.

The Doctor greets Jessica outside the door. “You remind her of love everyday. Stubborn girl, she is. Keeps on drinking hot chocolate even when I’ve told her not to.”

“Well, she keeps on going in the direction everyone opposes. That’s just Stephanie,” Jessica finds her shoes and slips them on.

“Do you think—”

“She might have,” the Doctor shrugs, “She could have, for a moment there, considered you to be her deceased husband.”

“I love her,” Jessica just feels like saying it, and the air molecules nearby wrap themselves around the words, weighing it down and adding weight to the sentence.

“She would have, for a moment there, loved you back too.”

—ジュリエット