Glorious Stories

*  *  *

            THERE’S SOMETHING SO  utterly magical about the way sunlight reflects  off the surface of water, or filters through glass and dust.  When I was little, I was fascinated by it whenever I saw my grandmother painting.  In those days, she had more time for things like that.  One day, I sat and watched very quietly, swinging my legs and feeling the bite of the chair’s edge on the backs of my knees.  It was a bright afternoon, and the sunbeams fell in stark rays on her canvas and glinted off the waterglass she used to rinse her brush.  Every time she dipped the brush in, the water changed, casting a new color of light on the floor.  It was the most beautiful thing in the world to me at that moment, and I thought it was all due to her. 

            “Obaasan,” I asked, “how does your sparkles come in here?” 

            She smiled and told me it was from her memories, referring to the painting. 

            The next morning, when she dressed me for school, I wanted nothing more than to have a little of that glowing opulence for my dress.  My grandmother patiently listened as I told her I wanted my red dress, and would she please add some ribbons today, and could she please make them look like the see-through shadows.  I knew what I meant (that lovely, filtered light could surely be made into cloth, couldn’t it?) but I was only five, and as wonderful as my grandmother was with understanding children, she was mystified.   

            “I’m sorry, Ellen,” she said as she tied bows around the straps of my dress.  “I don’t know what you mean.  But you look very beautiful today!  Like your mother.”

            I didn’t want to make her feel sad, so I told her the dress was perfect… and made plans to learn how to communicate what kind of beauty I saw and desired. When I asked her for paints, she gave her own to me.

            The thrum of the approaching subway train rattled Ellen Mizushima from her half-dream.  Shaking her head clear, she shifted on the bench and pulled her purse and satchel closer.  Looking around the platform, she saw the familiar figures she’d come to recognize over her many months of coming here, every day.  The dull, florescent lights flickering overhead did little to dispel the natural darkness of the station, but it was enough to illuminate the faces of a young child and her father who waited on the bench opposite Ellen, the huddled form of a homeless man who kept his array of stuffed-full plastic bags always tucked under his legs… and of course, the tall and well-dressed young man who stood leaning on the corner of the wall with his phone in his hand.  He was listening to music again.  The long white strand of his earphones wavered slightly with the tremors in the air.  Ellen followed its path, observing his thoughtful expression as he listened, and wondered what song he had this time.  Looking up, he caught her eyes briefly and nodded, giving her a slight smile.  She returned it, then looked down—their ritualistic greeting complete. 

            Every morning, it was the same.  Her path intersected with these same people for about fifteen minutes.  She was always the first one to leave.  Countless others drifted through the station, naturally, all of them absorbed in the business of their own day… but these few strangers were ones she had come to notice, who were consistent presences in her life, like anchors on her floundering soul.  It was a silly notion, but real enough to her that she’d even named them all… privately, of course.  The father and daughter were Tom and Little Molly, and the homeless man was Rupert.  It had taken her longer to name the tall young man… he seemed like someone who deserved a special name.  Something unusual.   After some months she’d finally decided to call him Carnelian, after the color of shirt she thought looked best on him. 

            As the crowd of people flooded over the platform, blocking her view of him, Ellen sighed and gathered her things, hoping to claim her favorite seat before the car got too full.  The urge to wave at her platform companions flickered unusually strong today, but shyness—or possibly common sense—kept her hand down, and with an internal shrug, she said goodbye to them in her mind.  Another day, another moment shared, in company… but alone. 

            Bright Riser’s was bustling by the time Ellen arrived for work.  The warm atmosphere enveloped her immediately, wrapping her in the rich scent of espresso and baked goods.  The muted roar of the steamer wands battled for dominance over the gentle but insistent piano jazz playing in the background.  At the till, Jessica wet her lips and pasted on a dazzling customer-service-smile as the woman in front of her spelled out a complex name, emphasizing every letter as if it were life and death. 

            “That’s with an i, remember,” the woman said, swishing the lacquered red nail of her fingertip over the cup Jessica was writing on. 

            “Yes, ma’am,” Jessica nodded, shooting a frazzled but amused look Ellen’s way. 

            Ellen hid a smile and set her things down, throwing on an apron and washing her hands before jumping in to help Zack, who seemed to be struggling at the espresso machine.  The poor kid’s head bobbed up and down as he kept glancing back up at the order sheets,  his wild blond curls doing their best to escape the thin hairnet he wore. 

            “G-good morning, Ellen!”  he said, scooting over to make room for her.  “Or should I say, ‘ohayo’?  Am I—am I using that right?”

            Ellen chuckled.  “You’re about to scald that milk.”

            “Oh, dang!”

            He hurriedly shut off the steamer and swirled the foamy milk around, watching it anxiously.  “Like this, right?”

            “Mm-hm, now tap it.  Good!”  Ellen coached.  “Is that for the caramel macchiato?”

            “I think so…”

            “I’ll take it.  You’re getting the hang of it!”  She offered him an encouraging smile and got started on the next order, more than happy to immerse herself in the rapid routine of the morning.  Busy times like this were the best times lately, or so she told herself.  With little or no time to think about anything but drinks, pastries, dishes, and customers, her brain could finally settle down focus.  Her body didn’t feel like it had been squeezed dry, and her heart didn’t send out its forlorn little telegraphs.  It was good for her, this pace… the only time when she felt pretty much normal. 

            The initial rush lasted more than an hour, with nonstop  orders and customers in a continual dance for space and attention.   When traffic slowed at last, Ellen paused and washed her hands again, the stringent heat reddening her skin.  The bell on the door jingled with a kind of finality as it closed, and Jessica gave a long sigh of relief. 

            “What a morning!”  she exclaimed, fanning herself with one of the menus. 

            “What are you still doing here?”  asked Ellen.  “I thought you were done at ten today.”

            “Suzie’s sick,” Jessica groaned.  “Well, hey, it’s more hours for me, I guess.  Cha-ching…”

            From the till, Zack groaned and rattled the tip jar.  “Maaan, they barely gave us anything!”  He scoffed and gave an overexaggerated eye-roll.  “People these days.”

            With a shrug, Ellen waved her hand dismissively and picked up the broom to start sweeping.  The dark, polished tiles had a terrible knack for showing every speck of dirt. 

            “Are those paint stains?”  Jessica asked suddenly, perking up and pointing to Ellen’s hands. 

            Embarrassed, Ellen looked down and saw that there were indeed pain stains on her wrist and fingers, even after all the washings she’d done.  “Yesss, I’m sorry,” she apologized sheepishly. 

            Jessica shook her head, her short ponytail flicking energetically from side to side.  “No, don’t be!  That means you’re painting again, right?  That’s a good sign!”

            Ellen gulped down a tightening sensation of  unease.   She wouldn’t exactly qualify it as ‘painting again’.  She’d tried several times last night to paint like she used to, but she’d thrown all her sorry efforts out this morning with the trash. 

            “I, uh… yeah.  I did a few last night.”

            “That’s great!  I’m so happy for you.  Did you get anything you liked?”

            Ellen sighed and redoubled her sweeping.  “No.”

            Jessica looked disappointed, but her face softened with a look of pity which Ellen wasn’t entirely sure she could handle.  “Oh.  Well, that’s okay… Ellen, you can’t put too much pressure on yourself.  You’ve been through a really rough time.  It’s natural to struggle when you’re grieving.”

            Ellen stilled.  A pebble came flying out from under the broom and clattered over the floor.  She watched it roll, focusing in on its movement more closely than needed.  What she needed was a moment to regather herself before answering. 

            “It’s not that,” she said slowly, smiling softly as if to prove to Jessica she really was alright.  “It isn’t the grief.  That’s… I’m honestly doing well with that.  It’s just painter’s block, that’s all.” 

            She shrugged, and returned to sweeping.  In the reflection on the storefront window, she saw Jessica and Zack exchange worried, doubtful looks, but she ignored them.  She was fine, really.  She just needed to work. 

            They invited her to come with them for a drink after work, but she declined as usual and told them she’d lock up.  Zack awkwardly stammered his way through a good-evening in Japanese, and she obligingly corrected his pronunciation. 

            Flicking off the lights and turning the locks felt like unraveling a tangle of threads that had wrapped around her spirit over the course of the day.  With every click and latch, a little of piece of her unwound itself  from the world and left her swaying in the doorway, relieved and untethered.  Or was it unhinged?  At this point, she wasn’t sure—and she’d long ago decided it didn’t matter.  It was the same for her every evening.  The workday ended, depriving her of the welcome distractions of endless tasks, but blessing her with satisfaction of having finished something. 

            With a deep sigh, she surveyed the shop once more, taking in the gleam of the evening lights on the mirror-polished floor.  Obaasan would have been proud. 

               Ellen flinched at the last thought, and quickly shut the door on it.  Sucking in a quick breath, she gathered her things and hurried out the door, making her way to the pocket garden down the block.  If she walked quickly enough, she could catch the last rays of sunlight.

               The garden  had one other occupant this evening.   Not a regular, just a transient passing through.  Ellen observed the old woman for a moment while she unpacked and prepared her painting supplies, but quickly looked down to avoid her eyes.  She focused instead on the blushed hue of the setting sun as it washed over the brick apartments that surrounded the miniature garden.  The stony walkway that wove through the carefully-tended foliage lay bathed in shadow, yet the glossed leaves of the peace lilies still glinted serenely, waving in an almost imperceptible air current. 

               Ellen licked her lips and lifted a tremorous hand to her page, the brush poised just over the surface.  She knew the colors, she could see the technique she would need to use, the beauty of it touched her and filled her…

               Yet when she touched the brush to the paper, the wash slipped away from her in a wholly unsatisfactory blotch.  Pursing her lips, she stopped and stared at it.  The blotch lay exactly where she’d intended to put it, yet it looked so bland. 

               She tried again, finishing the wash and beginning the outline of the building, frowning at her work all the while.   The bricks filled in, the plants took shape, and the colors layered on all exactly as she intended, yet it wasn’t right.  It just… wasn’t right. 

               When she was done, she sat back and looked at the painting and pinched the bridge of her nose.  It was no use.  She scribbled a number on the corner of the paper—43.  Forty-three attempts to create this scene, and forty-three passable but unsatisfactory results. 

               Ellen looked around, resisting the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  The old woman was gone, and it was time to go home.  

* * *

               When I was seventeen, I won the school art competition.  When I entered my pieces in the city-wide show, I won again.  People shook my hand, and congratulated me, and told me they expected great things.  I got a scholarship and a decent bit of notoriety, but that didn’t matter to me.  I was a flame, flickering and dancing in the heat of my passion.  I was alive with dreams and the knowledge of how to accomplish them, and the only person who mattered to me was my grandmother.    Her smile and her pride was all I ever needed. They could have laughed and jeered instead of congratulating, and I still would have been just as inspired and determined, with just one nod from her.  They asked her if she was the one responsible for this ‘young genius’, and she always laughed and told them she had nothing to do with it.  It was true in a sense; Obaasan only ever gave me the most minimal lessons.  But she made it possible  for me to become what I was. 

               “When I came to this country, I wanted to be a true American girl,” she told me.  “Not forgetting Japan, of course.  I still married your grandfather, and he was as traditional as they come.  But I wanted to live a dream, you know.  Your mother and father wanted the same thing.  I know they’d be honored by what you do.”

               So I planned, and I worked hard.  I dedicated myself fully to my art.  I had a way up….

               And then the diagnosis came.  I stopped painting to take care of her.  People understood.  But then the years passed, and opportunities dwindled away.  And grandmother was gone, so what did it matter? 

               I told myself I still had a plan.

               And I do. 

               But it’s been two years since then, and I have not painted anything worth showing.

               I’m… stuck.   

               I’m stuck!  The words came to Ellen as her eyes flew open.  Her memory-foam bed had swallowed her again, locking her in like the last piece in a jigsaw puzzle.  She turned her head to the clock, and wrinkled her nose at the realization that there was still one minute before her alarm went off. 

               Stuck!  The thought screamed louder as she hauled herself mechanically out of bed.  This morning felt exactly like yesterday morning.  Her feet groaned in exactly the same protest as she set them on the rug, her back popped in exactly the same places when she stretched.  The covers fell neatly into place as soon as she fluffed them back over the imprint of her body in the foam, and the pillows rose back into their proper place with the same, steady pace. 

               It was a beautiful morning, as always.

               She drank the same coffee.  She made the same breakfast—eggs, bacon, an apple, and sliver of dark chocolate.  She exercised, dressed well, and stepped out the door, wearing her usual jacket, unbuttoned so she could feel the breeze. 

               How can a life this beautiful feel this old?  She asked herself as she marched her to the subway.  This is what people covet, when they watch those idyllic shows and romanticize a single life.    I’m a Hallmark girl, a rom-com protagonist waiting to happen.  I’m that slice-of-life cutie with the flowing hair and perfect life, waiting for some deep connection to come along in the shape of a gorgeous man.    Her pace quickened, only to come to a screeching halt when the pocket of her jacket caught on the handrail on her way down the subway steps.  She lurched forward, backtracked, and untangled herself.  Stuck!!!

               That was it.  She was stuck.  It was the reason for her inability to paint.  Too much routine!  That would freeze anyone up. 

               Resisting the impulse to rub at her face (her makeup was just-so today), Ellen sat carefully on her usual bench and tried to relax.  She counted to twenty-five slowly, and then started back again in Japanese.  Rei, ichi, ni…

               An odd feeling took her, and she paused her mental exercise, opening her eyes to look across the platform.  Rupert sat huddled in his place as always, and Tom and Molly were making their way down toward their bench.  Where was Carnelian? 

               Frowning, Ellen sat up straighter and scanned her surroundings, sifting through various people standing around, looking for the familiar auburn shade of Carnelian’s hair, or his long black jacket.  The flickering lights overhead, combined with the clamorous squeals and muffled shuffling of the station assaulted her with all their distracting power.  There was no sign of Carnelian, she decided after several minutes of looking.  

               She wondered vaguely if he was alright.  He’d probably woken up late, that was all.  Hopefully his boss wouldn’t be too angry!

               Her train arrived on time, so she gathered her things and hauled herself aboard, her mind still occupied with her missing companion.  Maybe he doesn’t have to worry about a boss.  Maybe he IS the boss?  Some handsome young CEO… a CEO who enjoys taking public transit. 

               Ellen snorted, scoffing at herself and ignoring the looks several people gave her for the undignified noise.  No, Carnelian wasn’t a rich, over-achieving boss.  He was probably just a run-of-the-mill office employee, completely ordinary.  His real name was probably something like John.  Smiling, Ellen shook her head at herself and huffed under her breath as her stop was called.  She straightened her shoulders and marched to work, putting the young man from her mind. 

               Or at least, she tried to put him from her mind.  But throughout the day, Carnelian drifted across her consciousness with alluring grace and a flirtatious smile.  He always wore the reddish shirt she so appreciated, and his coat’s collar was always turned up at the perfect angle. 

               He’s a government agent, she decided as she washed the counters, absently staring out the windows during a lull in customer traffic.  He’s a secret agent man.  One day, I’ll stumble into some dangerous scrape, and he’ll swoop in to save me.  ‘I’ve been watching over you,’ he’ll say…

               Painting proved more frustrating than usual that evening.  Ellen didn’t even bother putting her brush to the page this time.  She leaned back and glared at the shadows creeping up the brick walls, finding a sense of resentment replacing her awe of the sight.  Why did it never let her paint it?  Carnelian would let me paint him, she thought.  It probably wasn’t true, but she wished it was.  Dejected, she packed up her things and headed home, rubbing her forehead all the way.  She wasn’t used to feeling this upset.  It wasn’t like her…

               Well, tomorrow things would be back to normal.  Carnelian would return to his place, and all would be right. 

               But Carnelian did not reappear.  The next morning, and the morning after that, and for two whole weeks he remained conspicuously absent; his spot on the wall seemed empty without his trim figure leaning on it. 

               Pursing her lips, Ellen drummed her fingers on her knee and narrowed her eyes at the place, re-reading all the posters his body usually blocked.  Where was he?  Why did his absence persist in bothering her?  At least before he disappeared, she could still paint.  Not anything worth showing, of course, but she’d been capable of painting.  Now, every time she pulled out her brushes, the blank paper swallowed up her thoughts and replaced them with either maddening static, or with Carnelian’s handsome, smiling face.  She found herself worrying about him at night, wondering if he’d been in an accident, and was lying in a morgue somewhere, unknown and unclaimed. 

               As she fidgeted, Molly caught her eye and waved.  Despite her internal vexation, Ellen paused to give the girl a warm smile.  Molly didn’t often acknowledge her presence here—it was mostly Tom who did the waving, and only in the half-hearted way one did with strangers.  But today, Molly’s customary shyness seemed to have dissipated, and she looked at Ellen fully and without guile. 

               What is it, kiddo?  Ellen thought silently.  Do you miss him too?

               With a sigh, she turned away and looked down the tunnel for the train.  It just wasn’t right here without Carnelian.

               “Good morning, El’!”  Zack said brightly when she walked in.  Bright Risers was already bustling.  Even so, his face sharpened with concentration as he tried his newest phrase on her:  “Mata aete ureshiyo!”

               For once, his pronunciation was spot-on.  Ellen nodded, impressed.  “I’m glad to see you too, Zack!  Where’d you pick that one up?”

               He blushed, glancing to the side.  “Don’t laugh, okay?”

               “Mm’kay…”

               “Fruits Basket.  I know it’s girly, but I’m hooked!”

               Ellen broke her promise and laughed anyway.  “So, Mr. Shonen himself has finally branched out, huh?”  It felt good to laugh.  It took her mind off—well, other things.  Steeling her mind against a return to the pattern she’d been locked in these last few days, she washed her hands and jumped in at the till. 

               In the afternoon, business slowed dramatically.  Ellen thought about telling Zack he could go home, but held back, hoping he would be a distraction from her thoughts.  Zack always managed to make her feel better with his chipper demeanor and eternal curiosity. 

               While she swept the floor, he asked what music she’d like to put on, since it was just the two of them.  She found herself unable to muster up any opinion, and let him choose.  He had a broad, eclectic taste in music, so he usually had something interesting ready.  This time, when he connected to the speakers, it was Coldplay’s Amsterdam that came on.  Ellen paused to listen for a moment; it had been a long time since she’d heard it, and she’d forgotten how much she loved the song and its heartrending chords. 

               “Mmm…” she sighed as Zack came out to wipe down the tables, “this is a good one.  Nice choice.”

               Zack hummed in response, smiling lightly. 

               After another minute of cleaning, they both came to a simultaneous realization that there was no point in continuing: everything was already spotless.  Wordlessly, Zack gestured for her to sit down, and she did, easing herself slowly into a chair facing the windows. 

               Watching him move his head to the music, his wild curls dancing above him as if they had a will of their own, she wondered what exactly he thought of her.  She’d had a suspicion some time ago that he might have a crush on her—especially given how often he questioned her about Japanese language and culture—but somehow that didn’t seem quite it.  Anyway, he was quite a few years younger.  Less than a year out of high school, she thought. 

               “Ellen?”  he asked, breaking their silence. 

               She looked up, struggling to pull herself out of her own mind. 

               “What’s the Japanese word for ‘reach out?’”

               She frowned in thought.  “How so?   Literally?  Idiomatically?”

               Zack pressed his lips together as he cupped his chin, looking hesitant but determined.  “Like, I want to reach out, and make connections.  Be brave… get somewhere.”

               Ellen studied him, sensing there was more.  He blushed under her scrutiny, fidgeted, then sighed.  “There’s a girl I like.  I met her online, and she lives in Japan.  That’s why I’ve been trying to learn so much… it’s not just because of the anime. We’ve been talking for almost a year now, and I’m thinking of telling her.”

               That made sense.  Ellen sat back and smiled, happy for him. After a moment of thought, she said, “Well, to be honest, I’m not all that eloquent in Japanese.  My grandmother made sure I knew it, but I’m not always sure I’m using it the way I should.  I haven’t spoken it since…”

               She paused, fighting the rising thickness in her throat.  Shaking off, she smiled at Zack.  “Still, my best guess for ‘reach out’ in that way, is todoku.  To reach out, or be attentive to.  To arrive, or carry like sound…”

               She shrugged.  “Maybe that would work.  I really should know more about these things.” 

               “No, no!  That’s great!  It’s exactly what I imagined.  Hopefully it comes across okay.”  Zack grinned and pushed his hair back, drumming his fingers on the table.  “Can you write it for me?”

               She did, scrawling the characters on a notepad for him, then including the romanticized version underneath.  He took it like it was a hundred-dollar bill. 

               “Well, it’s almost closing time,” he remarked, facing the approaching sunset.  “Thanks for your help.  You should get off early this time, Ellen!  I can stay to close, if you want.”

               Ellen shook her head with a smile, rubbing her arms.  “No.  You should go and work on your message for that girl.  I’ll finish here.”

               “Really?”

               “Koku kara deteike!”  She laughed, shooing him toward the door.  “Go on!  I’ve got it!  I’ll be fine!”

               He seemed like he wanted to protest, but gratitude won out, and he accepted her order.  There was no denying the spring in his step as he strode down the sidewalk.  Ellen wished him luck with all her heart. 

               Todoku.  Reach out.  Connect…  The words played over and over in Ellen’s mind as she walked slowly down the steps to the subway the next morning.  She was early; sleep had quietly excused itself at five-o-clock this morning, taking her last half-hour of rest with it.  With nothing else to do, she’d decided there was no point in prolonging the inevitable, so here she was. 

               Another night without painting had passed.  And as she settled herself down on her bench, Ellen sensed somehow that another day without Carnelian was about to pass.  She missed him. 

               Situating her earbuds in, she scrolled through her downloads and chose an album of quiet piano.  It seemed right for early morning.  Once upon a time, this playlist had inspired her to no end, and she’d painted some of her best work to it.  Now…

               Slumping, she stared at Carnelian’s empty place, wondering if she’d made a mistake somehow.  Had she spent too much time floundering in a fog of indecisiveness?  What if all the time she’d been waiting for something to change, he’d been the one, standing right across from her?  What if she’d missed an opportunity forever?

               Todoku.  Reach out.  Carry as sound carries…

               Ellen reached into her bag and pulled out a small rectangle of watercolor paper and one of her inking pens.  With listless fingers, she drew Carnelian standing with his eyes closed, leaning against a lamppost.  Using quick, light strokes, she shaded him in and crosshatched the background until there was a suggestion of volumetric lighting,  graceful beams of sunlight reaching down toward him.  His smile she drew last, using only the most minimal of lines to mimic his graceful, arching mouth, like a ray of sun itself.  When it was finished, she held it up over the place where he usually stood, envisioning him there.  What would she say to him, if he came?  Hello, again? I love you?

               Todoku…

               A peculiar feeling came over her.  The picture wavered as her hand twitched.  Her listlessness drained away, like someone had finally pulled the plug in a stagnant sink.  What was she doing here?  Why did she walk in the same rut every, single, day?  Life was sliding by, and she was stuck, but she didn’t have to be!  Zack was being brave, reaching out, taking a risk.  What was stopping her?

               He’s my lost sunlight, she thought dimly, caught up in the sudden roar of emotion in her head.  An invisible cord seemed to form in her diaphragm, tugging or coaxing her out of her seat.  As if in a dream, she moved toward Carnelian’s spot, lifting her hand to the wall where he had so often leaned.  She closed her eyes, concentrating on the bizarre feelings rushing around inside her.  If she concentrated, she could almost imagine the invisible chord like a thread of sunlight, stretching out from her and intertwining with another strand; a tangled, glowing knot in the shape of her dear stranger.  Their paths had intersected so often here, it was almost as if she could feel him, wherever he was. 

               Ellen, you have lost your mind, she told herself.  Or was that Obaasan’s voice?  The concerned, chiding, voice of warning that echoed so often inside her… did it matter? 

               Swallowing, Ellen opened her eyes.  It was the same world: the same ugly, flickering lights, the same over-filled posterboards pinned to the same cement wall.  But she was different.  She knew deep within her that she needed to move, now.  Forget work—she would apologize to Jessica and Zack later.  She had to follow this feeling.

               She had to escape.

               She had to find Carnelian.

               Wrenching herself away from the wall, she took a moment to get her bearings, and spotted Tom and Molly on their bench. 

               “Excuse me,” she said, coming cautiously over to them.  What was she doing?  This was crazy.  But it was too late to stop now.  “I’m so sorry to bother you.  You probably don’t know, but I have to ask… do you know the young man who usually stands over there?”

               Surprised, Tom looked up at her.  Molly smiled shyly, kicking her legs back and forth. 

               “Uh,  well no, I’m afraid I don’t,” Tom replied, scratching his head.  He had a nice voice, and his reddish hair looked like he mussed it often.  “I noticed he was gone, though.  Funny, how you get used to seeing someone, huh?”

               Ellen hummed sadly, looking around.  Rupert, slouched and dozing on the ground, opened one eye and mumbled, “try the ticket vendor, hon’.”

               Ellen blinked.  Of course!  She should have thought of that first.  “Thanks, Rupert!”

               “Rupert?”

               She did not stay to correct her mistake, but dashed off to the ticket booth.  The man inside was familiar.  He sat leaning heavily to the side, with his cheek in one hand, looking as if he was ready to die of boredom already.

               “Where to?” he murmured.

               “Oh, I already have my ticket,” Ellen said with a nervous laugh.  He sat up, looking at her through thick glasses.

               “Oh!  Sorry.  Can I help you?”

               “I’m looking for—I’m wondering, is it possible you might know the name of the young fellow who usually stands right there,” Ellen pointed, “listening to music?”

               “His name?”  the ticket vendor repeated, rubbing his chin and leaning forward to look where she pointed.  He tsked and sat back, looking through his records.  “I mean, not really.  He always paid in cash.  But even if I did, I’m not supposed to tell you.  We don’t usually give out names… I don’t think.”

               Disappointed, Ellen deflated a little bit.  The ticket vendor pursed his lips and adjusted his glasses, looking unsettled.  Hesitantly, he asked, “why do you wanna to know?”

               It was Ellen’s turn to hesitate.  This had been a bad idea. 

               “Wait,” the ticket vendor said, chuckling slightly.  “Wait, don’t tell me.  Young guy, young girl… why else would you wanna know?” 

               With a harumph, he rubbed his chin again and looked her over.  “Okay, fine.  I don’t know his name, but he always comes in with a cup of coffee from the same stand.  I pass it myself, when I get off work.  It’s from sidewalk stand down this way.”  He pulled out a map and gestured to the street he meant. 

               Ellen leaned forward to get a better glimpse of it.  The vendor smiled ruefully and shrugged.  “Hope that helps.   But you know, if you don’t end up finding him, I’m still available.”

               Embarrassed, Ellen laughed and straightened her coat.  She wasn’t quite sure what to say, so she thanked him and waved.  He seemed nice, after all. 

               Shifting her bag’s strap on her shoulder, she started up the steps.  She could hear her train arriving below, but she didn’t care. 

               Sorry Jessica, sorry Zack.  I’ll make it up to you, but… I have to try this. 

               “What’ll it be, dear?”  The woman at the coffee stand asked, looking down at her with a tired but kind face. 

               Ellen fumbled, reading the menu but absorbing none of the information.  “Just, um… just a medium Americano, I think.  With cream.  Please.”

               The woman nodded and moved to fill the order.  Ellen fidgeted, dreading with every passing moment that she’d made a mistake.  One minute, she felt free and determined, exhilarated by her newfound quest.  The next, she was sick and queasy, thinking of Zack and Jessica back at the shop, and of how ridiculous her notion of tracking down a stranger was. 

               “There you go.  That’ll be $3.50,” said the woman, setting a steaming cup in front of her. 

               Lips pressed tightly, Ellen pulled the cash from her wallet.  The time it took for her hand to travel to the woman’s waiting palm felt like an eternity, during which time her jaw seemed to freeze, sealing her voice soundly behind its hesitant doors.  All too soon, the moment ended, and the cash disappeared.  Handing her the change, the woman gave her a smile and wished her a nice day, turning back to the register.

               Ellen gulped.  That was that.  This was a stupid idea.  It was time to go home. 

               She slid her wallet into her purse, and was surprised by the feel of a stiff paper’s edge.  Seizing it between her fingers, she pulled out the drawing she’d done of Carnelian.  It was all the push she needed. 

               “Miss?  I know it’s unusual, but do you know this man?”

               Surprised, the woman leaned over the counter and peered at the drawing.  Doubtful at first, she let out a disbelieving laugh.  “Actually, I do.  Don’t know his name, but he comes by every day for a cappuccino.” 

               “He does!”  Ellen breathed.  The quest suddenly became real.  Her heart raced. 

               “What are you up to?”  The woman asked, raising a curious brow. 

               Ellen blushed and shook her head.  “I, uh… it’s complicated.  Can you tell me which direction he comes from?”

               The woman pointed down the sidewalk.  “He’s pretty regular.  Same time, every day.  Haven’t seen him for a while, though.  Good-looking guy, isn’t he?”

               Ellen’s blush deepened, but she shrugged the comment off.  “Thanks so much for your help.”  She fished a ten from her purse and slid it into the tip jar.  “Really, thank you.”

               She left in a flurry of nerves, but felt an irresistible grin spreading over her face.  Stupid idea or not, she was getting somewhere.  She could envision the glowing threads in her mind, drawing her further and further down this unfamiliar path, toward her dear stranger.  Gripping her bags tighter, she quickened her pace. 

               Her elation over finding another clue about Carnelian energized her for the next several blocks.  At each intersection, she paused, knowing that from there, she could lose the trail forever.  But now her search was in full-force; she followed only her instincts.    At the first two, she carried straight onward, at the third she turned right, and after the next she turned left.  People passed by her as she went, some brushing quite close, most absorbed in whatever their own business was.  To her surprise, Ellen found herself slowing, as if the gleaming, invisible thread of fate she followed passed through too many other threads, entangling her in the vast web left by a thousand other lives.  She had not been out like this, deviating from her normal paths, in so long… it was almost overwhelming.  It was not overcrowded, nor were the streets she roamed particularly busy with traffic.  But everything was new… different. 

               Ellen stopped at the crosswalk, and gripped the light post.  Pulling in a deep breath, she looked around, taking in the sights and sounds.  This feeling of opening, expanding; it was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.  No, that wasn’t quite true.  It was almost like the passion she’d felt when she was a young artist on fire for her work.  When the intricacies of painting, of light and shadow, perspective and proportion, had made themselves known to her like secret companions who whispered mysteries in her dreams. 

               Overtaken by the sensation, she gazed around her at the people who passed, imagining their light-threads trailing and weaving behind and before them, intersecting and combining like the interwoven melodies of a symphony. 

               It was so beautiful. 

               Yes, this is what I needed, she thought.  But it’s not over yet.  Carnelian, wait for me.  I’m almost there… I feel it. 

               It was true.  The pull on her spirit was stronger than ever.  Pulling herself away from the steadying anchor of the light post, she crossed the street, and was about to continue her way when a movement below stopped her in her tracks. 

               A small, battered rubber ball went skipping by, almost colliding with her shoes.  She whirled and watch it bounce toward the street just as the crosswalk sign changed from green to red.  As the traffic resumed, the next flash of movement pushed by her almost in slow motion. 

               It was a small boy, his dark, silky hair flickering behind him as he ran, intent on reclaiming his ball. 

               It took Ellen only half a second to realize the danger, but even that felt too long.  Heart seizing, she lurched after him and grabbed hold of his sleeve just before he stepped off the curb.

               “Hey!”  he cried, startled.  At that moment, a car whizzed by, the rush of air alerting the boy to where he stood. 

               “Jamie!”  A woman screamed.  Seconds later, she skidded to a stop and fell to her knees, clutching the little boy into her arms.  Her panicked face crinkled in relief, and she began to cry. 

               Ellen staggered, shaken by the incident.  She ached for the mother, and quailed at the disaster that had almost occurred.  Taking breaths to calm herself, she looked back at the street and saw that the ball had come to a stop and was rolling back toward the curb.  She stooped to pick it up and offered it to the mother. 

               “Thank you, thank you!”  she sniffled as she accepted the ball.  “He just got away so fast.  I was reaching for my phone, and—”

               Ellen offered her a sympathetic expression and reached for her purse to find a tissue for her, only to find it missing.  It had fallen to the ground, along with her paint satchel, when she grabbed Jamie.

               Wriggling out of his mother’s embrace, Jamie scooped up both bags, his back arching under their weight.  “Here you go!”  he said helpfully.  Ellen smiled and accepted them, nodding to him.  He bent down again, and this time stood up holding the picture of Carnelian. 

               “Did you drawed a pich-ter?”  he asked, waving it!  “Woah, you’re so good!”

               “Thank you!” 

               The mother stood, dusting her knees off and setting a hand on Jamie’s shoulder.  She glanced down at the drawing as Ellen took it back.  “You are good.  He seems very real.”

               He feels real to me too, Ellen thought.  “Does he look familiar?”

               The mother shook her head, smiling distantly.  “Almost!  Like someone you’d meet and love.  You have a talent.”

               Wiping the rest of her tears away, she met Ellen’s eyes.  “I’d hug you, but I don’t want to keep you any longer.  We’ll be late for school as it is.  Thank you again for saving my son!”

               Taking Jamie by the hand, she pulled him down the sidewalk.

               Ellen watched them go.  A little deflated, she turned forward again, resuming her walk.  She went slowly now, feeling almost lost.  The great crescendo she’d felt only minutes before seemed to have faded.  Where was she?  It must be past 8:30 by now…

               A familiar scent reached her, slowing her even further.  After a moment she stopped entirely, concentrating on it.  The aroma carried a note of nostalgia, and Ellen felt her pulse quicken. 

               What was that smell?

               She glanced around, searching for its source.  It was reminiscent of something… something she had not had since—

               Before she could finish the thought, another waft of the scent came to her, just as the door to the shop just ahead of her opened.  Instinctively, she followed the smell and entered the shop without even glancing at the name, brushing in and halting in the entryway as the door clicked neatly shut behind her.  It was a tearoom.

               An intense wave of memory came crashing over her, even as the full spectrum of aromas swirled around her in greeting. Smooth, polished wood lined the floor and much of the walls.  Tasteful, woven tapestries hung, their kanji writing promoting tranquility and rest.  Neatly crafted café tables were scattered through the shop—far from traditional, but well suited to its Western customers.  A few people sat chatting quietly as they sipped from delicate, colorful yunomi cups, the sight of which brought images of Obaasan flooding through Ellen in full force. 

               This was too much.  A hot, painful lump sprang into her throat, and stinging tears spilled over and down her cheeks. 

               “Ohayo gozaimasu!  Welcome to Ikigai Tea House.”  A smiling older woman said, approaching her.  “May I help you?” 

               Her last words trailed off as she noticed Ellen’s distress.  Instantly, the woman’s face softened, and she reached out a beautiful hand toward her. 

               Ellen drew in a shuddering breath at the woman’s touch, quickly lifting an arm to dry her tears.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

               “May I help you?”  the woman asked again, kindly, meaning more this time.  Ellen looked at her helplessly. 

               “I don’t— I’m not…”  There was no way to articulate what was happening inside of her at this moment.  It felt like a flood had been released, and try as she might to close the dam, it was too late.  She was breaking, from the inside out. 

               The woman slowly put her hand on her shoulder.  “Please, come in and sit down.”  Gently, she led Ellen to a private table sequestered behind a set of bamboo shades, then paused as she seated her.  “Pardon me, but you look familiar.  Are you Keiko’s little girl?  Ellen?” 

               Ellen looked up at her, shocked.  “How do you know my grandmother?”

               The woman nodded.  “So you are her.  I thought I recognized you.  My name is Aimi.  It’s been nearly seventeen years since she came in here with you.  We used to meet quite often!  We immigrated at the same time.”

               “Oh!”  Ellen sniffled, absorbing the information.  That was why her path had felt so natural this morning.  She’d forgotten, but something in her knew to come this way.  It wasn’t Carnelian, or fate, it was memory.

               Memory of Obaasan. 

               Tears came anew, and she buried her face in her hands.  She didn’t know how long she wept, but when she finally stopped, the kind woman was pouring a cup of hojicha tea for both of them. 

               “I heard of your grandmother’s passing,” Aimi said, seating herself across from Ellen.  “I am so terribly sorry.  I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

               “I’d forgotten all about this place,” Ellen admitted softly, sipping her tea.  “The smells… they just, brought everything back.  About her, I mean.”

               Aimi nodded.  “Grief is like that.  When my mother passed on, I managed well until I found one of her necklaces lying around.”

               A moment of silence passed between them.  Aimi stirred, looking Ellen up and down.  “Please, tell me.  What has gone on since last I saw you?”

               Swallowing heavy, Ellen opened her mouth and began.  She’d been afraid she wouldn’t be able to voice it, but somehow the words came tumbling forth as easily as the emotions that had rocked her moments ago.  Her isolation, emptiness, the hollow patterns of her life, and her loss of inspiration bubbled out, and Aimi sat patiently through it all. 

* * *

               It wasn’t long after that when I began to paint again. I woke up one night alive with inspiration again, and before I knew it, I’d painted a series of scenes from my walk that day.  I painted Tom, Molly, Rupert, Jessica, Zack, and so many others whose faces sprang to my mind, when I had no idea how many times I’d seen them.  I painted the threads of light so that others could see what I imagined, weaving through the streets and the entire city in a beautiful array, like sunlight streaming through the window.  When I was done, Aimi was the first one I called.  She’d told me they showed local artists’ work from time to time, and that she would be delighted to help me should I ever rediscover my passion.

               I wanted it to be perfect, so I waited, and I worked more, creating scene after scene, each one unique, yet each one with the same theme carried through.  Connection, arrival… Todoku. 

               That’s what I called the series, and if my grandmother were here now, I know—

               Ellen set her pen down abruptly as Aimi called her name.  “Someone is asking about a painting, Ellen!  Will you come?”

               Swiftly, she closed her journal and swept down the stairs of the loft and into the main tearoom area, where several onlookers peered at the Todoku works with varying levels of criticism and admiration. 

               Pristine as always, Aimi beckoned her over to where one of them stood, gazing at one of the smallest paintings in the series. 

               “It’s strange, really,” a male voice said as she approached.  “I can’t tell you how familiar this looks.  The artist must really know the town and its people…”

               Pulse racing, Ellen saw him for the first time and nearly gasped.  Carnelian. 

               Willing her face not to betray her, she smiled politely at him.  “Thank you, sir.  These are all based on personal experience.”

               With an arresting grin, Carnelian extended his hand to her, the sunlight filtering through auburn hair from behind and forming a kind of halo.  He was as beautiful as she remembered.  She took his hand. 

               “Your art is amazing, Miss Mizushima.  I saw the advertisements a week ago, and I haven’t been able to forget it.  It’s an honor to meet you in person.”

               Is this real?  Ellen could hardly believe it.  It had seemed impossible…

               “I’m honored to meet you,” she responded, half in a dream.  “May I know your name?”

               “It’s Jonathan Kimble.”

               So he’s a ‘Jon’ after all, Ellen thought.  She laughed, unable to stop herself.  Jonathan looked confused, but she reassured him quickly.  “I’m sorry—I’ll explain.  I don’t mean any offense.”

               He smiled, relieved.  “I have to ask, Miss Mizushima, have we… met?  You look so familiar.”

               Taking a breath, Ellen clasped her hands together and faced him.  “No, we haven’t met.  Not really.  But if you look at this picture a little longer, perhaps you’ll remember who sat on the bench at this corner, waiting for the subway every day.”

*  *  *

The End