The Sacred Valley

I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. And I couldn’t believe that I somehow thought coming back here would be different. Nothing is new, everything is exactly the same, even down to the details of this gloomy hall with this aged teak entrance door to her apartment – its cracked blue paint, rotten patches and aged grooves where knots have sprouted misguidedly, perforating the surface and leaking a slight oil as though it were crying over its futile life. To think, I had once fantasized about repairing this door with some sandpaper, Selleys ‘no more gaps’ and a litre of enamel gloss finish that would send all her nosy neighbours out of the building due to the fumes from the oil based paint, leaving us alone to make loud and passionate love making.

But that is now a fool’s dream. A vision to sell if they could be sold, bargained or bought. But dreams are not for the retail market nor even for the mind of a blind man, for dreams are nought but a painful visceral scar premature in their infliction upon birth. For some they are the cornerstones that drive and motivate us – and sometimes cause us to crash and burn, if we set our sights on targets too high to ever accomplish.

I never considered myself an ambitious person, but regarding her, I had been highly determined to be successful in wooing her so we could spend eternity together, in some isolated little cottage on a cliff in the corner of the world, where our love was to be independent of any cultural influence. Where we could run around like children, laughing and falling on the hillside to watch the comets pass above in the night sky.

It is this vision alone, swimming in my head, that stays my feet on the hardwood floor of the hall. I feel both a push to leave, but also a pull to open the door, walk in and embrace her. Tell her I’m sorry for everything. But as I stand here, I can hear intermittent sobs coming from the other side of the door. And I wonder whether the tears she is shedding are over me...or for him!

No, they were for him. Definitely for him. The man she had married but couldn’t decide if she truly loved. That had always been our problem – I was just the adventurer, the plug in the sink to stop the vowels they’d pledged to each other from slipping through into the abyss. He’d never sensed it, and she’d never admit it. But their marriage is a fake, and this door mirrors their pain, with its lumps and its cracks – and its tears.

So, no, I am not truly sorry. Not now. What I am, is an idiot. The fool who had voluntarily presented his heart for a live autopsy. For so long I’d watched as she poised over it, scalpel in hand, ready to make incisions for a greater purpose of unveiling true love. But I know now that she is the imposter in the doctors scrubs, a saboteur of love – as though she’d never ever felt it or was a non-believer.

Well, the time has come to take back my dignity and my pride and cast my lines away from this anchor, which serves only to pull me beneath the surface. It is time to sail to new land and start over.

But where to go? I had cancelled the lease on my apartment. Resigned from my job and estranged myself from my family. I am homeless. And the city is halfway into one of its worst winters on record. The cruellest of it is, I have barely enough money for a week’s stay at a hotel.

Sometimes it takes the fault of a thousand stars before we’re able to see what is right before our own eyes; or in this case, a thought in hindsight. For the dawning of a prospect – that I’d only hours ago walked out on a group of people, and the closest I would ever get to a family – found its way to the forefront of my mind. That is what I shed silent tears over. For I had not even close to the amount of money I’d need to get back to them. To tell them I am sorry.

So this is my karma.

“S’cuse me.”

A cracking, hoarse voice startles me seconds after I exit out into the street. I turn and see a burly man with a Santa Claus beard staring at me. He holds a wad of parcels and mail in his left hand. It takes me a moment for my visual senses to adjust before I recognise him as my local mailman, Eddie.

“Morning Ed,” I say. The last time I’d seen him had been quite a few months ago, when he had a clean shaven face.

“It is you. Mr. Ackerman. Where ‘ave you been?”

“Oh, you know. Around.”

“Obviously not ‘round here. There a stack of mail been coming for yer,” he says, placing the fresh parcels in the letterboxes. “I left it wif yer neighbour, d’hat Ms. Collins woman.”

“Thanks Ed. You have a good day now.”

“And yer,” He replies, moving off. I had hardly anticipated to play catch up with him. He’d always been on the frank side.

So Rosie Collins had my mail. I had never really allocated anyone to be the caretaker of such things, as I hadn’t ever expected to receive mail.

Well, it is a starting point. But I know at just after nine am, she wouldn’t be in her apartment. So, I embrace the cold brisk winter morning and put my hands in my pockets, then begin the five block walk to the little café tucked out of sight behind the train station at circular quay.

This is where I would find my dear old friend, Rosie, waitressing and making coffees. After everything that had happened this morning, I couldn’t think of a better place from which to begin picking up the pieces. And a familiar face with whom to do it with, is just what I feel I need.

~

A light rain begins to fall as I approach the café. Through the glass door – which is graffitied with the fingerprints of patrons – I can see Rosie collecting mugs and saucers from the booths. The place is practically void of customers; it had never really been a popular meeting point for people nor commuters waiting for their train. Which is a real shame, especially for Rosie, as she is the café’s proprietor. Over the years she had treated it like it were an aging parent – dependent on the care and personal attendance of their offspring. A lot of coin had been contributed to create its amiable habitat.

I push the door ajar and enter from the cold. My attempt at subtlety is sabotaged by the solitary clang of the entrance bell. The noise attracts a glance from Rosie, who immediately stops her cleaning to regard me with an excited, then curious stare. She puts one hand on her hip, and uses the other to thrust in my direction – with a cloth still firmly grasped.

“Well well, look what the world just regurgitated onto my front step," she had always been one with words. “Where the hell have you been?”

I can’t tell if she is angry or just glad to see me.

“Oh, you know. Around,” I reply.

“Well nowhere round bloody here you haven’t,” she puts down the cloth and spreads her arms. “What are you waiting for? Get over here and give me a hug.”

We embrace each other in a warm hug, long overdue between great friends of old. For anybody watching, our reunion would probably appear as though we were two lovers, finally reunited after having been separated by war for several years. That is certainly how it feels – even though our love for each other is purely platonic. Rosie had always been – and will remain to be – my best friend.

“Bless my eyes, it is good to see you. Want a coffee dear?” She says.

“Sure, but I should probably tell you I don’t really have the money to pay for it.”

“That’s OK. You can pay me back in sexual favours."

A joke, I know, but the middle aged fellow sitting by the window peers up from his newspaper and shows an aroused, excited grin in her direction.

“Forget it Frank, I’m not that desperate. Yet,” she says, moving behind the counter.

The man just shrugs as if to say, “worth a try”, and returns to his paper.

I take off my jacket then move to a vacant seat by the counter and watch Rosie place a mug under the cappuccino machine. With her back to me, I have a clear view of the coloured rose mandala tattoo on her right shoulder which is only partially covered by her black “Rosie’s Café” singlet and tied back hair. Generally, after work hours, Rosie likes to let her hair down and sink a few beers with friends.

Rosie Collins was not an unattractive woman, but she didn’t exactly share features with celebrities or supermodels. No, Rosie was the quiet, conservative type to strangers, and the wild rebel at heart to anyone close enough she called ‘friend’. With an age of thirty-nine, her forehead is beginning to furrow. Crow’s feet have already formed in the corners of her eyes, which are accompanied by a thin strip of hair for eyebrows. Yet still she refuses any assistance from cosmetics; to her, true beauty is authenticity and originality, not something you can apply from a tube of lipstick or a container of mascara. Maybe something should be said about the pearl nose ring she wore, but the person who did that telling wouldn’t be me.

“Here you are, extra froth, just as you like it. Goes with that scrambled brain of yours,” she says, placing the mug down in front of me. She wipes her hands on the cloth tied to her apron then leans on the counter, facing me. The expression in her eyes holds the contempt she feels towards me, I'm sure.

“You know it hurt right? Learning you’d just disappeared, darn dropped off the face of the planet. I didn’t know if you had done yourself in or just up and gone,” she made a fist and slowly thrusted it in the direction of my chest till she made contact.

“The pain of it felt like a knife through the heart,” she said, twisting her fist.

“I’m sorry Rosie,” I say, shifting my glance to the table top. I can feel the pain she expresses, deep within the cavity where my heart pumps the blood around my body. It prevents me from making eye contact with her.

“As well you should be. And that makes you in my debt.”

I grasp the warm mug in both hands and inhale the pleasant aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

“OK, that’s fair. So lay it on me, what’s your form of payment? You don’t expect me to put in hours working under you I hope.”

“While that is a savoury taste that would satisfy my mind for days, my answer is no. I think an explanation is more what I need to put my imagination at ease.”

On second thoughts Chase, I think to myself. I would rather it be a couple of shifts waiting tables than letting Rosie in on the truth. Only I thought this because I knew the truth would reward me with judgemental hindsight from her. But, she did deserve an explanation.

I take a rather large mouthful of coffee from the mug, hoping it will give me the strength and energy to make it through this conversation, the same way that spinach gave Popeye a rather instant hormonal steroid hit.

“Well, before I begin, I take it you heard about Amy and Michael?”

Rosie stands up straight and raises a hand, palm up.

“Before you go any further, have you been to see her?”

“Where do you think I just came from?” I reply, a little louder than I would have liked. Guess the anger is still coursing through my veins from this morning’s escapade.

“Whoa, and you clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she replies, leaning back.

“Well, it wasn’t my bed I woke up on.”

Rosie tilts her head slightly to the side while still holding my gaze.

“You didn’t?”

“Yeah. I regret it too,” I say, for once referring to the sex I’d engaged in with Amy last night.

“Then why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“And we should get back to that. I believe you were about to tell me why you left and where you went?”

I take another gulp from the mug and peer inside the ceramic structure, only to realise I’m almost out of coffee. I tilt it to show the evidence to Rosie.

“I’d be glad to, but I’m afraid it’s going to cost you another cuppa.”

She considers me with a playful glare – half closing one eye – before throwing the cloth onto the counter top.

“Why do I always come out the worse for wear concerning your debts to me?” She says, grabbing my mug.

“And while you’re at it, how about some scrambled eggs and bacon?”

“Now you’re pushing it, mister,” she replies, placing the portafilter into the espresso machine. “You better start talking before I spit in your drink.”

I stretch out my arms and prepare myself mentally for the verbatim. Not just because it may take a while, but also because I have to re-live all the wrong decisions I’d made – and hear them out loud for my own psyche to process. But perhaps it’s for the better.

“OK, no need to get premenstrual on me,” I say. “Well, you know how much I loved Amy. I mean, we were practically living together at one stage.”

“Mm hmmph,” Rosie mumbles with her back to me. I know she is biting her tongue, but I ignore her and continue.

“Well, when I heard about her and Michael, the engagement I mean…well, I guess I was jealous. Desperate. I knew I didn’t want to be here for the wedding, so…” My voice trails off.

“You decided to skip town and leave all your friends behind?” Rosie places the restocked coffee mug before me.

“Yes,” I say, this time my eyes remain locked onto her. “I am really sorry for that, but I just couldn’t be here anymore.”

“So where did you go?”

“To a place called the Sacred Valley,” I reply with a smile.