Silent Night

Nobody expected her to come on this night of winter. However, it was a splendid night for the season, neither too cool, nor too snowy. She used to come to this specific place once a year, so it was usual for her to come again at this particular moment. You may wonder who I am talking about. No, she is not the heroine, not really. Neither is she the antagonist of this story.

Now, let us talk about the place where she stands. The scene took place on Nevermind Street, in a new neighbourhood built five years ago in Silence Town, Alabama. It was a quite nice and sympathetic place to live in. Indeed, everybody was friendly, very welcoming—yes, a very boring place if you like parties.

She would come here once a year for four years now, to do one simple thing: knock at Mr Gardener's door. She used to knock, stare at him, cry, and eventually leave. All of this without a single word. The first time she came, she did not have the courage to do the first step. She just cried, then left.

Mr Charlie Gardener was a man without history. He came to live here when the street had just been built. He paid his bills, was friendly with everybody. So it was quite confusing for him. He did not know her, never bumped into here at work or at the mall. Yet, she came in order to see him. Only him. After her first appearance, he asked everybody in the neighbourhood, at his workplace, at the mall if somebody knew her. But not a soul did. What could she possibly expect from a man like him?

For the second time this year, she knocked at the door. For the second time, Mr Gardener opened. But for the first time, he asked her: “Would you come inside and take a cup of tea?” She did not respond. She just nodded, and followed him inside.

Mr Gardener was a simple, single worker, who liked to have things organized and clean. His house was quite spacious, the entrance hall had no mirror, no photos, not a single personal belonging. It resembled a hospital. But when they arrived at the living room, everything changed. It was colorful and yet had a restrained design, spacious and classy. A huge brown sofa had been placed in front of a bay window. There were pictures of forest and animals on the grey walls.

“Please, have a seat. I'll heat up some water.”

The woman sat, and observed him closely. He was in pajamas. It seemed that he had just returned from work. He looked tired: he had circles under the eyes and had a 3-day beard. She glanced at the window. The garden was very well maintained: the grass was cleared of snow, trees were cut and even the wooden swings made in wood looked fresh. “He always liked to be in control,” she thought.

On the other side of the bar—in the kitchen—Charly kept glancing at the woman. He was very curious. She did not take off the ageless red around her neck and her black coat despite the temperature of the house. She was middle aged, around 35, had curly brown hair and brown eyes, almost chocolate. She was neither pretty nor ugly. In fact, he was attracted to her. And he hated it. He promised himself not to fall in love, not to be attracted to the opposite sex. No, he was not homosexual, nor asexual. He was cautious. Not for him, but for his partner. He was terrified to frighten them with his condition. He was worried to scare them with his invisible scars. His skin formed mountains and plains under the tissue of his t-shirt. He wore skin which did not belong to him. He did not want them to be traumatised as he had been when he saw his own body for the first time.

He was a broken man. His own body did not belong to him. When he woke up in the hospital ten years ago, people would talk to him.  However, they wanted to talk to the man he was not. Nurses and doctors called him Mr Charlie Gardener, but who was he? He was a new man being born, he did not know who he was, where he was, and what he had been before coming there. He had to follow reeducation sessions, go to see a psychiatrist, accept his new life as Mr Charlie Gardener. And now he was still focused on who he was. He had no time and not enough courage to get to know another person.

“I'm sorry, I have no milk or sugar.” He said as he joined her in the living room and put the cups on the small mahogany table between them.

And they drunk their tea in silence for minutes. No words were enough for both of them to express the feelings, the emotions they felt. Mr Gardener tried to refrain the billions of questions he had, such as: “Who are you?” ”How do you know me?” ”What do you want from me?” ”Did you know the previous… me?” 

But he was a gentleman, and waited, again and again, for her to speak. The temperature began to rise in the room, pearls of sweat appeared and rolled on Mr Gardener's back, woving among the scars and pieces of skin. She seemed to be immune to the heat. She did not finish her cup, did not take off her coat. She did not perspire, but there was moisture on her sleeve. It felt from her eyes. Tears.

Eventually Mr. Gardener said:

“Can you please say something to me? I am trying to be nice with you, but the whole situation is driving me crazy! I don't understand what you expect from me!”

But no words came once. She startled, tears rolling on her cheeks. Immediately, he had regrets : “Did I scare her?” “Did I look like a mad man?” And so he recomposed himself, and gave her a tissue.

As he was giving her the tissue, he began to realise something-a distant memory: there was a woman at the hospital who looked just like her. He had heard that this woman had been involved in the same accident ashe had been. He was not sure she was the same person, because the woman at the hospital had lost the light in her eyes as well as her hair. The woman in front of him looked different. She had a welcoming, a warm, an ocean of compassion in her eyes. Her state was better than his but he remembered she had to remain to the hospital because of her condition: her throat had been burnt by the smoke and vapor during the fire. But the doubt was there. “Maybe she is that woman!” he realised.

And to confirm his theory, he thought of a way to communicate. He had made her weep with his questions and she was not able to say a word in her current state. He looked around him for few seconds, then saw the white pile of paperwork waiting for him on the table. “ It could work.” He thought. He went to grab those and came sit next to her. “If you're not able to speak, would it be ok for you to write?” After a few seconds, she took the pen he was offering her and started to write.

At this point I can not relay to you what she wrote. The branch of the weeping willow on which I perched was too far away and my sight could not reach the paper. Nevertheless, I can tell you what happen next : a lot of tears was shared. Mr Gardener had left his couch in order to close the distance between them, the woman had now take off her red scarf. They stayed in the arms of each other for hours, the Moon and I witnessing this moment of reconnection. 

Two years later after that night, everybody in the neighbourhood knew the unknown woman. She had finally left anonymity; her name was Lucy Gardener, Mr Gardener's wife in his previous life. And they were not alone! A little girl, Charlotte,  had joined her a few month later when she revisited Charlie.

The following years were a lot to deal with for this broken family. They had to deal with abandonment, separation, the memory loss, Lucy's handicap… But in the end, they succeeded. And as far as I am allow to tell you, they did great job of rebuilding their family. No more tears were dropped. 

I still remember the time when Charlotte had found me on her window when she was only 3. Both parents did not chase me away. No. They gave me some seeds to eat, welcomed me, a mere green woodpecker as a family member for a moment. After that I had swear that I would watch over them.

In the end, they could finally be happy, enjoy their family and for myself, I could finally leave them. Indeed, I was here to relate you this story, but also to protect Charlie from any woman trying to take him away from Lucy. Now that I am sure this family will live in happiness and will not break apart. They do not need me anymore.