It’s Hardly Brain Surgery

“What did the doctors say?”

Robert hesitated. The words had formed so easily in his mind during the car ride, but now, sitting across from Maureen at the kitchen table with her warm hands wrapped around a vintage coffee mug, they refused to come out.

“Nothing big,” he finally said, his voice casual, though his stomach did a 360 flip. “Just something near my left ear. A small growth, I guess. They’ll need to do a minor surgery to remove it.”

Maureen’s eyebrows knit together. “Inside your head?” She leaned forward. “So… brain surgery?”

“It’s hardly brain surgery,” Robert chuckled, trying to hide the urge to vomit. “I’ll be home the same day.”

“Oh, Robert…” Maureen’s face crumpled. She pressed her hands to her mouth.

Only then did Robert truly see her. She looked more fragile than he remembered. Thirty-five years together, and those wrinkles now seemed to hold every laugh, every late-night whisper, every shared sorrow.

Robert reached across the table, stroking her knuckles. “Let’s go to bed, my love,” he said softly, rising and circling the table to pull her into an embrace. His arm slid around her narrow shoulders. She felt so small, so breakable.

“It’s hardly brain surgery.” He kissed her forehead.

Duke Grey Willington

“It’s a nice day out, sir!”

Sally opened the curtains, and bright sunlight poured into the room, making the bedroom glow like a golden apple.

Thanks for reading Write and be free! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

“Fancy a walk?” she asked, beaming at me with an unsettlingly strong affection.

I said nothing, my gaze fixed on the sunlight, trying to ignore her presence.

She strolled up to the chair beside my bed and sank down, tweedily, weightily, on its arm, inundating me with the perfume my beloved daughter had used. How could a sweet fragrance turn so repulsive when worn by a stranger?

I disliked everything about this Sally woman. In fact, I didn’t know her at all. One day, she simply appeared in my bedroom, bringing me trays of breakfast and speaking to me as if I were her father. See, I don’t trust strangers anymore. Not at my age. And especially not when they seem too kind. They’re always after something.

Yes, I am extremely wealthy. I am the first cousin of Queen Maria, Her Majesty. I have an extraordinary talent for literature and politics, so most of my life has been spent serving my country in both academic and diplomatic roles. Five years ago, I retired with the highest honors after sixty years of service. The perks of being part of the noble family are simple: money is never a concern. Isn’t that a blessing? I suppose that’s why this troll is pretending to be my daughter—so she can slip a pill into my morning tea and take control of all the inheritance meant for my little Lizzy.

“Do you need help to get ready, papa?”

“I’m not your father. Where’s Lizzy?”

“What are you talking about, papa? I’m right here.”

“Nice try, but enough of this nonsense.” I bit my lip hard.

Every day, we have the same conversation. How much longer must I endure this? WHERE IS LIZZY?

She looked distraught, as if my words had struck her deeply. Very good acting indeed. She stood up and left. I felt a brief moment of triumph as I watched her yellow dress disappear through the door.

But then, a dark shadow falling over my heart, remorse began to stir within me. Maybe it was my noble blood, condemning my rudeness. My heart ached, but I didn’t understand why. Things hadn’t felt right since my retirement. I couldn’t remember things like I used to, and I had no idea what was going on around me. I missed Lizzy, but where was she? She used to call me every day and visit me every Thursday afternoon.

I got dressed and shuffled to the kitchen to make my morning tea. To my surprise, I found Lizzy sitting at the round, solid wood dining table, pouring maple syrup over her vanilla waffles.

“Sweetheart! Where have you been?” I cried, tears welling up. Praise the Lord, my daughter is back!

“Oh, papa?” she said, looking at me with confusion in her eyes.

I rushed to her side and embraced her, both of us crying. I sat down, and we spoke—just like we used to. She wore the same beautiful yellow airy dress, the one her mother used to wear. Her golden blonde hair shimmered under the sunlight. I couldn’t understand anything she said, but I didn’t care. My heart was filled with joy.

I wanted to show her the earrings I had found under the bed last night—the ones her mother used to wear. I excused myself and went to fetch them from the bedroom.

When I returned, my heart sank. Lizzy was gone. And in her place sat Sally, exactly where Lizzy had been, eating the remnants of her waffles. How disgraceful she was!

Her glossy blonde hair had Lizzy’s silkiness, and the features of her delicate milky-white face with pink lips and silver-ish eyelashes were less foxy than those of her likes— the great clan of Scandivanian elf-like blondies; nor did she sport that pukey yellow dress covered with tiny sunflower patterns. Her loose updo bun with strands of hair dropping down the sides of her sunken cheek.

Her mannerisms made me sick. But what disturbed me more was her poise at the dining table. This troll knew how to dine like a noblewoman. Elegant, calculated. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had studied the art of English noble dining, perhaps by abducting my dear daughter.

“Papa... it’s time for you to take your medication.”

It’s happening. Now she’s trying to drug me. I’ve been telling myself this for days.

“Why don’t you just fuck off with your medication?” I snapped.

I couldn’t take this anymore. I walked straight to the door leaving that cow standing in the dining room, she seemed ugly heartbroken, but I did not care.

I ran for miles, everything seemed to be a blur. When I finally looked back at the house, I saw Lizzy standing on the front porch, as if waiting for me to come home.

“Lizzy...?”

Something didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. I wanted my mummy. This is very worrying.

I fumbled through my pocket, desperate to find the earrings. But instead, a laminated card slipped out. I picked it up, my heart racing.

It read: My name is Grey Willington. I have dementia. If you find me lost, please contact my daughter Lizzy Willington at 605-610-8710.

Stretching Wide (About What We Leave Behind)

We drove along Route 66, out of Kansas and all the way west. Philip stared straight at the road ahead, his hands relaxed at the bottom of the wheel.

I was thinking about our kids, Jade and Ethan. They both live in California now.

Thanks for reading Write and be free! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.

“We came from nothing,” my dead mom’s voice always echoed in my head. I grew up without a television, so I had no idea how poor we were. When you have nothing to compare yourself with, I guess that’s the ticket to happiness.

Silence filled the car. Neither of us wanted to turn the radio on. We were used to the quiet—in twenty years of marriage, there had been a lot of it. And we were comfortable with that.

The scenery hadn’t changed much. The same types of trees had been singing the same note for an hour. Their arms stretched wide, hugging each other as if afraid one of them might fall.

The day I left for college, my school counselor came to pick me up at 7 a.m. None of my family were home. Maybe they weren’t there on purpose—I don’t remember. That was thirty years ago. My mom and dad died consecutively over the past ten years, and my two brothers still live in the same old house we grew up in. I haven't seen or talked to them since the funeral.

“You okay?” Philip asked. I jumped.

“Sorry, hon—deep in thought?” he said apologetically.

“Yeah, just thinking about my two old brothers.”

“Oh, Barb,” he said, placing his hand on my knee.

“You know there’s nothing you can do about it, right? You’ve tried your very best,” he said tenderly.

Indeed, I had tried my best. I had called, mailed letters, and even once drove up to Connecticut to try to see them. But they didn’t want to see me. We were right outside the house—they just pretended they weren’t home. I knew both of them were there because I saw Charlie smoking his pipe from the attic window right before we walked up.

“Maybe they hold a grudge against you for leaving them behind,” Philip had said to me as we gave up on the forever-unanswered door and started walking back to the car. I had tears in my eyes, but I held them in until we were inside.

I can see that.

I can see why they’d resent me for leaving—but I would’ve resented them if I hadn’t. Sometimes, we have to make selfish decisions, or we cannot live.

I leave nothing behind. As the years go by, I keep telling myself that. I’ve been slowly, slowly hardening my heart and letting things go. There’s nothing I can do, not anymore.

“You’ll never be fully detached, Pancake—” Philip told me once, when I was sobbing into his chest. “You have such a tender heart, you know.”

The trees were still passing by outside the window. I wanted to move forward, to get rid of the same old trees—only to realize that I am one of them. I’m the one afraid of falling, so I stretch my arms wide to hold on to the rest. And they hold me back, too—so I’ll never leave them behind.

The Taste of Sun

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”— Ernest Hemingway

—

Bells rang. It was time.

I tightened my grip on the bouquet, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. Canon in D began to play from the sanctuary. About thirty people were inside, waiting for me.

My hands were cold, slightly shaky. I glanced at Johnny on my left and my mother on my right. They both beamed at me. My heart felt full, overflowing with joy. Yet, he came to my mind. I knew he couldn’t be here. The moment I told him about my engagement, I knew I had to grieve about this. Or maybe — I wanted the idea of him being here, but not the actual him. It’s a long story. But how much of our yearning is for the people themselves, and how much is for the idea of them?

“Ready?” Johnny asked, his eyes full of encouragement.

“Ready.” I affirmed, though not so sure.

I remembered when he taught me to ride a bike. We would go to the running track at my elementary school, where he would grab the back of my seat and run behind me as I pedaled. I learned slowly, I think. I was scared and told him never to let go—I would fall. He promised he wouldn’t.

I pedaled, surprised at how smooth and balanced I felt. I was excited! Halfway through the track, I saw him standing across the field. He wasn’t holding onto my seat at all. I hadn’t even noticed when he let go. A moment of panic surged through me before I tumbled to the ground. I sat on the track, looking up at the sky. The sun was in my eyes, my face slick with sweat. My sweat tasted like the sun—salty, but warm and familiar. I felt safe.

Now, the light was behind me, its gentle heat warming the back of my neck. That same fuzzy, sweet warmth, as if he were still holding onto my bike seat.

My cheeks flushed, my heart pounded. My whole body trembled.

In front of me, the grand wooden doors slowly swung open. First, I saw Matt standing in the middle of the hall, smiling. Then, I saw Zach. He looked stunned, beaming at me. Our eyes locked. Our souls whispered. Our hearts leaped.

Canon in D filled the room, each note soaring like a phoenix in flight, golden and angelic. Sunlight streamed through the doors, making a radiant statement, filling the hall with light and love.

My mother and Johnny stepped closer, each taking my arm.

It was time.

I moved forward, my steps in sync with the music. The notes guided me, pushed me forward. But I wished his hand was still on my back, gently propelling me, as I took each slow, deliberate step.

A few years before my parents separated, he used to take me swimming several times a week. I would sit on the back seat of his bike, and we would ride together. One time, it was pouring rain. He tucked me under his yellow raincoat. We must have looked like a camel, my small frame forming a hump behind him. I couldn’t see anything but yellow all around me. I felt anxious, yet it was one of the few times I felt truly close to him. My arms wrapped around his small belly, my toes soaked from the rain, but inside the jacket, it was warm. Cozy. Safe.

C.S. Lewis said, “Grief isn't just in your heart—it lives in your gut.”

Grief was a physical sensation. A pull. I couldn’t help but glance back, searching for his hand, wanting to feel his presence on this special day. When I turned, my eyes met Johnny’s. He frowned slightly, confused, and followed my gaze. Embarrassed, I quickly turned back. I felt like a child caught sneaking candy.

The phoenix of the music still soared, its melody filling the hall. But was it only in my ears that it carried a note of sorrow?

I knew he understood. He knew he couldn’t be here today. Perhaps he grieved about this too.

“Ready?” The idea of him asked.

“Ready,” I whispered. It was time. I came to a stop.

The warmth from behind me vanished. He had let go. He had to. And now, my mother and brother had to as well. A flicker of panic rose within me before I noticed the warmth had shifted. It was now in Zach’s hands, clasping mine.

Sunlight streamed through the glass roof. I looked up at the sky. The sun was in my eyes, my face streaked with tears. My tears tasted like the sun—salty, but warm and familiar.

I felt safe.

Three People. Six People.

The rain in Times Square resembled the heavy, descending words in Cloud Gate Dance Theatre’s About Island—not sharp enough to pierce the skin, yet maddening in its loneliness.

In a Times Square café, Saba’s lips opened and closed as he practiced telling stories no one would ever understand. His editor, sitting across from him, weary, mindlessly tore napkins into pieces.

In a darkroom in Taipei, a girl displayed her photography to this man she had only recently met. Schrödinger looked at the girl's tattoo and wondered: if today never came, would tomorrow still have yesterday?

All eyes followed Jermane as she danced, her dance moves made the world blur, like sipping wine while tasting a piece of daydream. Jermane was obsessed with dancing—not for the art, but to numb herself, hoping one day love wouldn’t hurt, hoping that all affection could be free of attachment and resentment.

Jermane, Schrödinger, and Saba had been friends since high school—once a group of eleven, then eight, then four. Their trio felt like either chance or fate.

The first time just the three of them met was on a day so cold it made the sky cry. Saba, trying to help Jermane through a depressive broke up, invited Schrödinger—who was on holiday from the military service—out for dinner.

“Maybe people on military service just have too much free time,” Jermane thought. “I’ve never seen this trio hang out together before.”

That day, Jermane made a flimsy, unconvincing resolution to leave the guy she was seeing; Schrödinger confessed to ending a year-long relationship and was now recklessly swiping through dating apps; Saba listened to their love lives and wanted to tear the house down.

Jermane always knew, deep down, she loved Schrödinger. They were so philosophically in sync—you understand me, I understand you. But they could never meet when both were single. Schrödinger soon found another partner, and Jermane entered a secret relationship of her own.

Saba? He was just discovering what love might feel like.