Outside the window

It’s a beautiful summer morning. A reminder of painful memories, yet something I cannot bring myself to despise. I was up even before Stephen had come to wake me. He could sense my excitement. He helped me clean up before getting me settled in my wheelchair.

Stephen has been my nurse for the last twenty years. He is dark and hefty. His well chiseled body is an artwork of tattoos, each one with a story of his life. On other days, we would sit near the fireplace and Stephen would narrate the significance of his myriad tattoos. But today he knew better. He wheeled me to the big glass window at the farther end of the room facing the roadside. He positioned the chair such that the sunlight was just enough to warm my feet and not too glaring to block my view outside the window.

“It’s such a beautiful day!” Jane had exclaimed that day twenty years ago. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. A delicate frame, slender fingers, wide eyes and an infectious smile, she was what I called perfection. Jane loved to play the cello. And she played such soulful music. When we had met 5 years previously, I had insisted she audition for the Royal Musical Orchestra. And after much insistence she had eventually agreed that day.She nervously packed up the cello in its case. It took up most of the backseat of the car. Little Maggie was all of two years and our neighbours, the Jones', agreed to babysit her for us. The Jones' and I had come into the neighbourhood together and they had been our support system for a long while now. Besides Maggie was an adorable brat and they were happy to have her over.

Jane had loved looking outside the big glass window. She would scold, “Take a break Mark! You are missing out so much in life. Stop for a bit and come look out here. ” She would say that she found inspiration for her music in the little things she saw outside the window, the bees, the flowers, the children down the lane. As I sit now, looking outside, I realise what Jane meant by a beautiful day. There is a lot of activity going on across the road. A beautiful white tent is spread out on the Jones' lawn. People are flitting about in pretty dresses with bouquets and gifts in hands. There is a sweet music overflowing from the garden, peals of laughter like the tinkling of bells and a happy chatter. I hear a hint of the bitter sweet cello or perhaps it is just my imagination running wild.

Jane had been real nervous of auditions. She would compare herself to a deer caught in headlights. It was different from playing at parties, she would explain, that the people who appreciated her at the parties couldn’t catch the nuances in the music that the experts at audition would. We were already running late for the auditions. I was having a hard time juggling between the driving the car through the traffic and assuring Jane that she was undoubtedly the best cello artist they had ever seen. From the corner of my eye, I looked outside the window pane, just in time to see a dark blue Porsche in the next lane swerve directly into my car. There was hardly any time for me to register what had happened next. The last I remember, before it all blacked out and the excruciating pain took over me, was seeing Jane’s clear face and the wide unfocused glassy eyes.

Later I was to know, the driver had suffered from a stroke and had lost control of the car. Fortunately I had stalled a major accident, saving quite a few people on the busy lane, by becoming an unfortunate victim instead. My poor Jane had suffered the most from the impact, she hadn’t made it through.  And me, they tried their best to work upon at the local hospital. Here I sit today, very much alive, in a wheelchair, unable to move even a finger, unable to speak a word.

For twenty years, every morning since then, Stephen has helped me out of the bed to this great glass window. And from here I look outside the window like my Jane had wanted me to. I see the colours of the seasons, the birds that come to my window, the flowers in the trees but most of all; I come to the window to see my little Maggie.

For days on end, I would wait at the window to catch little glimpses of her life. I had cursed the Jones' when Maggie had her first fall in the lawn. And when the Jones' had their little baby boy, I had watched my little Maggie grow up into a little Big Sister.  When Maggie first rode out on her bicycle and had passed by my window with the wind in her little locks, her beautiful smile had brightened my world. The colourful little dresses she wore had brought colours into my life. I had been there behind the glass window to see her jump around the verandah in her pink pyjamas when she had had sleepovers. I had watched from the confines of my wheelchair, my little girl grow out of sleepovers to parties. I had fumed at her choices of boyfriends. I had pined with her for love that was wasted. I had seen my pretty princess dress up for the prom. The happiness had carried over into the walls around me as I had watched her have her graduation party. I longed to have been the proud father in her pictures, the strong overly protective father, who would grab the boys by their collars if they hurt her. I was envious that Jones had had the privilege, but I was grateful to the man.

Today, amidst all the action and the music, I see her standing apprehensively on the porch, gorgeous in her bridal gown of pure white carrying a bouquet of purple orchids and roses. I watch her, and I think, how despite all these years of wrong choices, Maggie had grown up to find the right man. Her delicate features augmented by the white flowing frills of the gown, bear a striking resemblance to Jane back on our wedding day.  As if on cue, just before Jones comes over to walk her down the aisle, Maggie notices me, the friendly crippled neighbour who has looked over her from the window all her life. With the same infectious smile, she gives me a nervous wave. For the first time in twenty years, a single drop of tear rolls down my cheek.