Gift of Fate
My wife slipped off her tights, hung them on the hook in the hallway, and wandered off for her shower. The garment looked like the shed skin of a moulting lizard. I stepped in, sat on the hallway bench, and waited until my renewed, fresher, todays wife would emerge from the bathroom.
Yesterdays wife, I wanted no more. Shed been irritable, constantly dissatisfied, and forever demanding more money.
What if some miracle happens, and this New Years I receive a kind wife as a gift? I mused.
For a kinder wife, Id prepared a present: a years membership to a spa and a gift card to her favourite perfumery. I expected nothing special for myself. The greatest gift she could give me would be to wash all that sharpness off in the shower.
What if I took her tights and burned them on the balcony, making a secret wish? That shed treat me a bit more kindly. That shed only nag every other day, instead of several times before noon
On tiptoe, I approached the rack, already reaching to grab the tights, when I caught the faintest whiff of her scent.
Pressing them to my face, I froze. My head spun. No, I could never destroy even the smallest piece of my beloved, even something as fleeting as her fragrance.
Turning away, I sat at the table, pulled her gift from my jacket pocket, and placed it on the sideboard.
Just then, the intercom rang.
Flower delivery.
Third floor, flat twelve, I replied, unlocking the main door.
A few minutes later, I paid the courier and gave him a generous tip. He wished me a happy New Year as he left.
My wife must have heard something. From the bathroom came:
You dozing off out there, you useless lump? Move your feet, open the doorsomeones come!
There would be no new wife, flashed through my mind.
I set the bouquet next to the gift, pulled my wallet from my pocket, tore off a yellow Post-it, scrawled the PIN for my debit card, and stuck it on the card. I placed the card on top of the present.
Then I left the flat, walking out of our life for good.
Three years passed.
A hotel in Bali. While waiting to check-in, someone in the lounge was flipping through the telly and landed on a British news channel. They settled on itit was a report from a convent. Stepping down from the staircase, Jonathan, the hotel manager, paused and watched.
Suddenly, a chill swept over him; cold sweat trickled down his back. Among the unassuming nuns, he recognised his wife, the one hed left behind in England three years ago, never waiting for her to emerge from the bath.
What drove you to join the convent? the reporter asked.
When my husband left, I felt it was a gift from fate at first. Divorce had felt inevitable; we simply couldnt bear each other any longer, answered Sister Catherine.
By we, do you mean both of you? Was it a mutual decision?
Im not certain of anything now. Then, I thought soyes. Now Catherine wept.
And after that?
Afterwards, day by day, I realised I couldnt live without the man Id once thought I hated. When it became too much to bear, I came here for solace.
Do you know what happened to your husband?
Next to nothing. Only that he left the country. In the first three days, I didnt believe hed really gone. Thought it was a terrible joke. A week later, his workplace called, asking if I knew why he left. They were prepared to give him a thirty percent raise if he returned. His friends and acquaintances hed loaned a bit of money to rang, wanting to repay him. Meanwhile, I convinced myself he was spending it all on women. Then people from charity organisations he volunteered with got in touch, worried hed disappeared
At first, I tried to convince myself I was free at last and could do what I liked. The emptiness only arrived after two months or so. Suddenly, I couldnt breathe properly anymore. Or rather, the air itself seemed dull, like water gone flat. Food lost its pleasure. It didnt matter what I ate. Well, yes, I could taste salt, sweetness, spice, but only faintly, as though from outside myself. Then it didnt matter what I wore; there was no one to dress for. No motivation to keep living. Life lost its flavour. I knew I was sinking, hitting the bottom. So I came here, seeking forgiveness for all the hurt Id caused.
At that moment, the Mother Superior enteredfrail as glass, she carried herself with dignity. Taking the microphone, she addressed the camera.
Jonathan, if you are listening, I feel your presence. Elizabeth loves you with all her soul. Come and collect her. Her place isnt here, but by your side. In sadness and in joy
Two weeks later, a man in his mid-forties stood outside the convent wallswearing garish shorts and a boldly patterned shirt. They wouldnt let him inside, dressed as such. He waited for half an hour. Eventually, the gates opened, and the nuns escorted Catherinehis Catherineout, in a simple long dress and headscarf.
They rushed into each others arms. The nuns, clearly embarrassed by this scene, turned away.
Mother Superior Agatha approached.
I ought to scold you both but youve punished yourselves enough. Why, like children, do you risk such a precious gift? Why not cherish your love, both in hardship and in happiness?Jonathan looked down, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his ridiculous shirt. Catherine reached for his hand, her fingers trembling but warm, weaving themselves exactly between his, as if they had rehearsed the movement a thousand mornings.
Mother, Catherine whispered, may we?
The old nun smiled, her lined face softening. You may go. The world is wide, and you have learned where home is.
As they walked away from the gates, sunlight piercing through the clouds, Catherine slipped off her headscarf and laugheda bright, startled laugh that fluttered the pigeons from the statues overhead. They didnt speak for a long time. The city beyond the convent buzzed with scooters and voices and life.
Finally, Jonathan stopped, turning to her. Youre not angry I left? he asked quietly.
She shook her head, eyes shining. No more than I am angry at myself. We both tried living without each other. I never want to test fate that way again.
Hands clasped tightly, they stepped into the busy street. Neither noticed the knotted traffic, or the hawkers shouting, or the little miracle lingering in the shimmering morning air: the grace to begin againnot as strangers, not as dreamers, but as partners, this time with everything stripped bare but hope.
At the end of the avenue, an old woman selling flowers called out, holding up a bouquet. Catherine let go for a moment to buy lilies, the same kind Jonathan had once ordered years ago, in another country, another life. They walked on, side by side, petals trembling between them, unafraid of whatever the day would bring.
