8

“Oh Sile, it’s wonderful to hear from you!” Tears and lack of oxygen prevented me from responding.

“How are you? Gosh, it’s been ages!” he said. I don’t know how I was speaking to him – he was supposed to be dead.

“I’m just fine, Arlen. How are things at home? How’s pops?”

“Oh Lord! Didn’t I tell you? We’re visiting from Limerick. The nuns at the Cathedral have put us up for several weeks.”

“That’s right down the street from where I live! Don’t go anywhere, I’m coming to get you.”

I quickly hung up the phone and pulled on a sweater. After giving Felix one long stroke, I left my apartment and ran down countless stairs to the Cathedral.

In minutes, I was at the gate. An old nun greeted me and introduced herself as Sister Marta.

“Hello Sister, I’m looking for Arlen and Joe N’Bhroin. They’re staying here.”

The nun gave me a strange look and said, “There is no one in the Cathedral with either of those names by my knowledge. I’m terrible sorry.” She started walking away.

“Wait! Please, just call for them, I’m sure they’ll come down.”

She nodded and gave me a pleasant but all too sympathetic smile before she left. Five minutes later, she returned to the gate ushering Arlen and my father to the entrance.

“Arlen! Father!” I clung to the poles of the gate as my family ran to me.

“My girl, my baby girl.” My father touched my hair and rubbed my cheeks.

“Please, please open the gates, Sister Marta,” I asked. She gave me another bizarre look, like she thought I was insane. Slowly though, she made her way to us and unlocked the gates. My father and brother both leapt on me and squeezed as hard as possible. I started crying, then Sister Marta touched my shoulder and asked, “Are you alright, ma’am?” I nodded and kissed her hand.

“Thank you! Thank you for keeping them. Thank you.” Then, our small family, all huddled together, walked away from the Cathedral.

“Let’s get some breakfast, it’s so early,” my father said. “Sile, what’s good around here?”

“Casa de Waffles? It’s cheap and they have great deals.”

Still huddled together, we walked to Casa de Waffles. On the way, we passed the clinic and I heard Judy Garland’s soft voice escape from a radio. My eyes jumped to the sound and I saw lying in a bag of garbage, the most disgusting man I’ve ever laid eyes on. He was old. He wore tattered clothing and his unshaved beard clung to his dirt-colored face. I didn’t recognize this man at all. But something seemed vaguely familiar about him. Like I’d known him in a past life.

The man signed and turned on his side. I realized where I knew him from.

“Let’s keep going, it’s not far now.”

I still had to count steps to get to Casa de Waffles because I had never seen the city before. I didn’t know street names or what certain buildings looked like. Seeing my city for the first time, I discovered that I like counting steps better. I almost missed the overwhelming blackness to which I was accustomed. At least then I could fantasize about what the city looked like. I always imagined a newly paved road winding through shiny buildings and bright green trees. Everything looked gray to me today.

What’s the point of seeing the city if this is what you’re looking at?

Finally Arlen, my father, and I reached the waffles. We walked in, grabbed a table, and ordered three variously flavored waffles.

“So how have you two been?” I asked. “It’s been far too long since our last reunion.”

Arlen laughed and said, “Amen! I’ve been doing pretty well. Been working. Odd jobs.”

“What sorts of jobs?”

“Oh this and that.” Yikes.

“What about you dad, how have you been?”

“Oh c’mon Sile. I’m old. I’m tired. How are you? Have you had any problems with your epilepsy lately?”

“No. No problems at all.”

After our early breakfast, my brother asked me to show them the city. Awkwardly, I agreed to take them around my city and show them things I had just begun to see. We left Casa de Waffles, crossed the street, and then Arlen stopped.

“What’s that noise?” he asked. I shrugged, wondering why my generally keen sense of hearing failed me, and followed Arlen into a long alley between the Roller Rink and Walter’s Lanes.

“Hello?” He walked slowly into the dark. Someone moaned.

I followed him and we found a man lying behind a dumpster. His clothes were ratty and glazed with a layer of dirt. He had clearly been lying there for a long time.

“Arlen, get his legs. Help him up.” I moved behind his head and lifted it from the grimy ground.

“Are you okay, sir?” I asked. “What’s your name? Can you hear me?”

“Christophe...” he said. His lips barely moved.

“Christophe? Okay, we’re going to get you out of here. Stay with us, alright? Stay with me.”

“You... just you... who...”

“Shhh, it’s alright. We’ll get you to a hospital,” I said.

Together, we carried Christophe to the free clinic at 7:30 in the morning. My father offered to get us all coffee while Arlen and I waited for Christophe to wake up.

Four hours, 15 cups of coffee, and five doctor check-ins later, Christophe woke up on a ventilator and an IV.

“Christophe? Are you okay?”

He nodded and asked, “Who are you? Did you bring me here?”

“My name’s Sile. My brother, my dad, and I found you in an alley and rushed you here.” Arlen and my dad stepped forward and waved.

“Your brother and your dad? Are they here now?”

“Yes, they’re right here.” I grabbed Arlen’s arm and pulled him forward. “This is Arlen.”

Christophe looked from me to Arlen and gave me a strange look – similar to the look I received from Sister Marta earlier. He looked around the room one last time before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out.

I looked at Arlen and shrugged. Perhaps Christophe’s recovery would not be as speedy as I hoped.