_________
Even years later, the events of those several weeks surrounding the loss of his wife and child stuck with Frank. At times they were confined in specifically haunting memories, at others vaguely in the constant weight pressing down upon him, but always with the lonely feeling in the air that while varied in intensity, never left. Yet there were other times still, when his past would manifest itself in more curious ways.
“It was Johnathon. I know it was!” Frank exclaimed from the kitchen to Laura, who was long ago out of comforting comments for this particular type of situation.
At this time she had only been reunited with her friend from university for a couple months now, yet she was already finding this reoccurring problem to be a very draining one. For both of them.
When arriving back at Frank’s apartment after their ritual Sunday dinner, Frank was convinced he had seen his long ago lost son getting on a bus.
Frank ran toward him, whoever it was, but the bus just pulled away, leaving Frank to stand helplessly as he watched the bus drive away until ultimately it disappeared. Disappointed, he then just turned and walked sheepishly back up the road and into his apartment. A concerned Laura followed after him.
At first, Laura was unsure if Frank had realized that it was not his son getting on the bus, rather just his past pulling at him as it often did in this tormenting way. She did not ask or offer her opinion on the matter, because she knew Frank would soon realize this pattern repeating. So instead she just consoled her friend the best she knew how.
I mean who could blame Frank for this repetition? He had lost both his wife and son so unexpectedly, and even if a sizeable amount of time had now passed, who was anybody to tell him when the appropriate time to forget them was?
Laura had plenty of sympathy for Frank, many times wishing that his imagination would quit playing such cruel tricks on him. Although, she knew from her own experience just how futile wishing proved itself to be in these situations.
Laura watched as Frank slouched forward resting his elbows on the countertop, his head buried in his hands. The fact that his imagination played this trick much less frequently now was the only good thing she could think about this situation. Yet as she approached Frank, it hardly felt an appropriate remedy to cheer him. She persisted all the same.
Laura slid her hand along his back, and Frank slowly looked up at her.
She gave him her warmest smile. “Relax, and I’ll make us some tea.”
Chapter Three
Fifteen torturous and tediously long years after Frank Dopler left the blessed side of his envied but unknown twin, it had become his cycle. A mindlessly simple routine to be certain. Yet it’s all that had kept him going for this long, so he wasn’t about to stop now, or most likely ever.
In fact it was primarily this cycle that Frank gave credit to for turning those first years after losing his family from mostly torturous to mostly tedious. Hardly a cause for celebration, yet it was an upgrade born from perseverance. The pain and depression left behind among the shattered remains of his once cherished life did not go on forever. When gradually accepting what happened to him he diminished both. We all learn to accept things in our unique way, and Frank was certainly no different.
Over the last few years his new friendship with Laura had played a significant role in aiding him to take the passing of time from more miserable to more manageable, even progressing it to enjoyable at times. Nevertheless, for Frank living was currently still more often than not an exercise in tediousness rather than passion.
Where once his life had been something to hold sacred and to grasp every opportunity available within with vigor and enthusiasm, it now felt as if it was merely the passing of time. It had for the longest time lacked feeling, and thus meaning for him, but at least he had his treasured routine to get him from day to day, week to week, and so on.
A routine that after the loss of his family and thus his spirit, at a time when he simply could not go on any longer, had allowed him to do just that, to continue.
In general his routine consists of rising and eating breakfast, going to work, from work to home, having dinner, and then reading before bed. Simple, repeated five times consecutively until the weekend arrives and goes, when the cycle can begin. Again.
Through the week Frank would rise to the sound of his alarm at exactly five forty five in the morning and leave for work just as the clock switched to quarter after seven. He would work steadily through his workload until noon, when he would break for exactly one hour to eat a lunch he had brought from home. Directly afterwards he would continue with his work. Staying at the office until exactly quarter after five, regardless of the workload, Frank would then take the same route home regardless of the traffic. The next and penultimate step in his daily cycle would come later when he would read for exactly one hour and a half before going to bed at exactly nine forty five.
The time in between getting home from work and reading he would fill by doing not exactly nothing, but as close to it as one could imagine. Regularly with a beer in his hand and the television on, the only semi-productive thing that could be typically accounted for during these hours was a meal.
The weekend meanwhile consisted of forty-eight hours of free time. Frank knew this and dreaded it as it made a routine extremely more difficult to develop.
Lunch would be had with Laura every Saturday and dinner with her every Sunday evening, with the exception being if she had something arise outside her control. This occurred rarely as she controlled everything she possibly could, and rarely failed.
On the weekends Frank would sleep as much as possible, would walk through the park if the weather was nice, or usually even if it was not. He would spend Saturday night alone, swimming in the local indoor pool just before it closed. At a time when he knew it would be empty.
The intermediate times would be spent reading, or watching television, especially if a baseball game was on. Keeping his one hour and a half before bed reading intact, Frank would go to bed directly after, at exactly eleven-fifteen on Saturday and nine forty five on Sunday.
Frank read mystery novels almost exclusively. They had always been his passion. Once a young and so-called “promising writer” by the so-called “experts,” his writing had mostly fallen in this genre due to its nature to inspire him.
While his days of writing were long gone, he still kept this interest of his on life-support through reading, although the passion was now severely limited.
This had become the routine. His routine, and it is the only way he can make it through his life, especially his new life. At least for now which is what he tells himself, a phrase that had been made a common refrain of his for many years now. A belief of hope often exercised in denial yet rarely in reality, that this ongoing and monotonous cycle is only temporary. That in fact something better lies just beyond the horizon for him, where he will finally cut loose the shackles of his present life, and have his real life somehow begin once more.
Frank’s cycle was still intact as he called it yet another night, putting his book away, pulling the faded photo off the nightstand, giving it a long look and then a quick kiss before returning it back to its place and shutting the light off for the night. This is the finishing touch in the daily link of his cycle that was now complete. A cycle that had been intact for nearly a decade, and always with that finishing touch.
Frank took comfort in knowing where he
