Tuesday
By Lauren Bell
It was on Thursday that I noticed the old woman who usually waits with me at the bus stop had been missing the past few days. I don’t know her name, where she lives, where she’s from, or why she waits for the 7AM bus downtown everyday when surely she’s old enough to be retired. But I know that in the winter she wears a thick navy coat that reaches her knees, a sky-blue windbreaker in the spring, and a black beret perched precariously on her thick white curls year-round.
And, of course, I know that today she is not where she is supposed to be.
The bus was running late and in the passing minutes I wondered if anyone else knew the old lady was missing. We had never spoken to each other; our relationship only existed because we both shouldered the burden of carrying the mutual dread associated with being awake before the rest of the city is, when the streets are vacant, and the air is crisp. The weight of the load is heavier without her here. I’m not sure if I can carry all of it. I held my breath and glanced at the sky. The sun rise was being obscured by thick indecisive clouds. It felt like they were waiting for the old lady to arrive too. Like they couldn’t start their day until she had.
Despite this small shift in the universe, I was comforted by the fact that I noticed her absence. It gave me hope that maybe I was leaving subtle imprints in other’s lives without knowing it, just like how the old lady had left an impression on mine. All my mediocrity would be worth something then. If I couldn’t be a wine stain, I could live with at least being a tea stain.
The sounds of the bus rolling down the street pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced in the direction the old lady usually walked up from. Aside from a few scraggly pigeons, the sidewalk was still empty. By the time I had boarded and was soundly in my seat I had forgotten about the old lady completely.
I didn’t think about the old lady again until the following Tuesday during a doctor’s appointment as Dr. Neimand delivered my death sentence. Hunched over in a hard plastic chair, I stared at the dusty carpet. Trying to comprehend its dizzying patterns was easier to understand than the words from the doctor’s mouth.
“I’m afraid your prognosis isn’t very good. Maybe a couple of months, a year with treatment,” his quiet voice echoed against my silence, ricocheting off the drab beige walls just to pierce through my heart again. Clearing his throat, he continued, “It’s up to you, who you want to tell. Or if you want to keep it private. Is there anyone you want me to call now?”
I shook my head. There wasn’t a damned soul to tell. My parents had died years ago, and I had no other family. I couldn’t think of the last time I had gone on a date or out with friends. I worked a dispensable desk job that I would have probably lost in a few years to a robot anyway. I didn’t even have a damned cat I’d have to worry about rehoming.
“Could I at least call someone to pick you up?”
“No, no,” I mumbled, zipping up my coat and putting on my gloves. I avoided making eye contact. “I’ll just take the bus.”
Waiting at the bus stop is what reminded me of the old lady. I still hadn’t seen her. I hoped she was ok. I was about to become a tea stain just like her. I tried to think of people who might miss me. There wasn’t many. Perhaps my barista would notice I no longer came into the café for a coffee and bran muffin before work. Maybe my mail man would notice the letters start to stack up unopened. My landlord would be distressed to find a new tenant; they’d never find anyone as quiet as me. And maybe, maybe the old lady was okay, and maybe she would think about me as I did her.
Maybe.
Maybe I should have been thinking less about tea stains and wine stains. Because then, maybe I wouldn’t have been distracted enough to stand to close to the curb. Maybe I’d didn’t need to worry about the ‘tea stain effect’. My bloodstains on the pavement would remind people of me more significantly for days to come than a tea stain would.
Lauren Bell is a nursing student at Western University from Parry Sound, ON. She grew up dividing her time between the beach and the library, which cultivated her passion for reading, creative writing, and art. She hopes to further purse her interests through travel and practice. You will most likely find her in her natural habitat, lying in her hammock with a cup of coffee.
