by Renee Ahdieh
“There must be hundreds of them!” I gasped.
“There are six hundred and forty-seven,” said a good-natured voice belonging to a dark-skinned man seated in the corner with a tiny table on his lap. He appeared to be around my age, and he looked tired, but happy. His hands held a half-completed crane on the flat surface before him, and a stack of origami paper waited for his deft ministrations.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” I sputtered as I peered around for a place to put the lasagna.
“Let me help you with that!” Greg stood and walked over to me. “You’re definitely not bothering me! That smells wonderful.” He took the lasagna navigated his way through the crane streamers, and set it on the counter by the small sink after.
“There’s some fruit and utensils in this bag. I hope I brought enough,” I explained.
“Thank you so much. I’m Greg.” He put out his hand, and I shook it warmly.
“Cris. I’m Jennifer’s friend. Her son is sick, so I said I would bring dinner. I didn’t mean to interrupt . . . the nurse told me I could come in,” I stated with chagrin.
“Please, don’t worry about it. I’m sure Claire’s parents will be here any moment. If you don’t mind waiting, I’m sure they would love to meet you.” He gestured towards the chair next to him, and I sat.
I watched as he sat back down to finish folding the crane he had discarded a moment ago. I couldn’t help it. Curiosity was killing the cat. He glanced over at me and smiled in understanding at my inquisitive expression.
“You can ask me. It’s okay,” he stated kindly.
I blushed in embarrassment. “It’s none of my business!”
“No, it’s totally fine. Most people can’t figure out what the hell I’m doing, so I’ve had to explain myself quite a few times. Once more won’t hurt.”
“Really, you don’t have to explain yourself.”
He chuckled. “I’m folding a thousand cranes.”
I waited patiently for him to continue.
“Whenever Claire was first diagnosed, I didn’t know what to do. I felt so . . . helpless. I couldn’t make her pain go away, and it drove me crazy just sitting here doing nothing. I went online and tried to find a way to help. As silly as it sounds, I stumbled onto an article about a little boy with leukemia whose classmates folded a thousand cranes for him. The lore goes like this: if you fold a thousand cranes, your dearest wish will come true.”
He shrugged. “So, I bought a book on origami . . . and started folding.”
He grinned to himself as he put the finishing touches on the blue crane in his hands. When it was perfect, he looked over at the sleeping figure of the bald-headed girl lying on the bed with tubes and needles snaking from her skin. His brown eyes were so full of love, a rising tide of emotion gathered in me. There was no need for him to tell me what his one wish would be.
I cleared my throat so I could temporarily alleviate the pressure building in it. “Can I help you?” I whispered hoarsely.
He turned to me. “I want to do this myself, but thank you so much for offering.”
Not knowing what else to do, I took his hand and squeezed it tightly in mine. He peered more intently at me, squeezed back, and picked up another piece of paper to start the process for the six hundred and forty-ninth time.
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” he queried.
“Not at all.”
“Why do you look so sad?” His voice was incredibly gentle.
I stayed silent, momentarily taken aback by the fact that a man watching his love waste away before his eyes had the desire to care about others around him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t help it.”
“No. You don’t have to apologize.” I was normally an extremely private person, but since Greg had shared something intensely personal with me, I felt as though I needed to answer his question.
“I don’t know what happened to me. I think I might have ruined my life.”
His eyebrows furrowed, but he didn’t look up from folding his crane. “I seriously doubt that. As long as you can find something that makes you happy, your life will never be ruined. You just need to fight for what makes you happy.”
“How . . . how do you find the strength to fight for what makes you happy?” I asked in a tight voice.
At this, he put down his work and turned to me. “First, you have to know what it is. Then, you need to believe that you deserve it.”
I stared back at him in tortured silence.
“What makes you happy?” he asked.
Tom. It was the first thing that popped into my head. He was the first thing my heart sought. His face, his laughter, his voice, his humor . . . his loyalty. His love.
He smiled again. “You look like you know what makes you happy.”
When I didn’t answer, he merely said, “Now believe you deserve it.”
I stared down at my hands as my tears accumulated.
“I never thought I would be the type of guy to sit here folding little paper birds, but I can’t tell you how happy I am when I’m here . . . how happy I feel to know that I can do something for her. Every time she opens her eyes and sees the cranes, she smiles, and I can’t remember feeling happier. She deserves to be happy. I deserve to be happy,” he stated very quietly.
The tears slid down my nose, and I couldn’t look up at him.
“You’re a really good person, Cris. You brought dinner to a complete stranger’s family just because you wanted to help. I know it when I look at you. You deserve to have whatever makes you happy. Just believe it.”
Overcome with emotion, I grabbed my purse and stood up quickly. “I’m sorry . . . I . . . do you mind if I just go?”
He stared up at me with calm patience. “Of course. I’ll tell them you had someplace to go.”
“Thank you so much.” I raced to the door awkwardly. As I touched the handle, I thought of something and spun to ask a final question. “Greg?”
He looked up. “Yes?”
“What happened to the boy with leukemia?”
He smiled serenely. “I have no idea.” Then he picked up his crane and resumed folding.
Wasn’t he curious? How did he know his efforts were going to work? Why was he so damn calm about everything?
The fact I didn’t understand how he could be so happy in such a miserable situation tore at my heartstrings . . .
. . . and I envied him so much.
I ran all the way to my car and drove aimlessly as my mind replayed my conversation with Greg.
What makes you happy?
As I recalled my heart’s deepest desire, the loss of it renewed the gnawing sense of grief I had managed to keep at bay for the last few weeks. Both my heart and mind came to the same conclusion without a moment’s consideration, but my cowardice had ruthlessly precluded them.
At that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than to see Tom. I had to stop punishing myself. I had to move on. I had to find something that made me happy. Once upon a time, Ryan had made me happy. Could he make me happy again?
I turned my car in the direction of Ryan’s home. Desperate for a measure of the happiness that brought Greg such peace and contentment, I raced to the door and rang the doorbell.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, clearly taken aback and pleased by my unannounced visit.
“I just wanted to talk,” I replied breathlessly as I strode into his living room and plopped onto the sofa. I was surprised by the fact I didn’t feel even the slightest ache at being in the home I had called my own for a few bliss-filled months. I had sworn never to set foot in this house again. Less than ten feet away from me was the place that inspired my recurring nightmare.
“What did you want to talk about?” he replied as he sat down in the armchair across from me.
I glanced about the room. Every piece of furniture in it I had helped to select, right down to the silly lamp with monkeys on its base—an inside joke with some long-forgotten
significance. I glanced at the foyer near the front door and saw that the wall sconce had been removed and sat on the entry table with its screws nearby. A package of bulbs lay on the floor. The light had burned out.
“I just took dinner to a family at the hospital. Their daughter is dying of brain cancer,” I stated matter-of-factly.
“That was nice of you,” he replied.
“Her fiancé Greg was there.”
“How’s he holding up?” he asked.
“He’s . . . great. He’s . . . really happy.”
“Sounds like an asshole,” Ryan remarked with a puzzled expression.
He couldn’t be further from the truth. “He’s not. He was . . . folding cranes.”
“Are you tripping on LSD?” Ryan teased.
“No. Can you refrain from being sarcastic for just a little while?”
“Okay, I’ll play. Why was he folding cranes?” he asked with abrupt seriousness.
Suddenly, I didn’t know why I had come here. Something strange had prompted me to drive my car in this direction and run to his front door. I knew I must have some kind of hidden purpose, even though I wasn’t certain what it could be.
I sighed as the adrenaline began to pound with less intensity through my veins.
“Cris? The cranes?”
“She’s probably not going to make it.”
“Where was her family?” he asked.
“Working. She didn’t have health insurance, and they’re nearly bankrupt because of her medical bills.”
“So why wasn’t the fiancé out working as well?” he demanded.
My jaw snapped shut at this inquiry. I had not even thought about it. “I don’t know. He was folding cranes by her bedside.”
“You mentioned this. Why?” His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“Because . . . he . . . he read somewhere that if you fold a thousand cranes, your dearest wish will come true. He had already folded nearly seven hundred when I arrived. They were hanging like streamers all around her bed.”
He pursed his lips together. “This guy sounds like a flake.”
I was utterly confused by this reaction. I had found Greg’s gesture to be so . . . inexplicably beautiful. “How do you figure?”
“His fiancée is lying on a hospital bed dying of cancer. Her family is working overtime to cover her medical bills. Instead of trying to organize a fundraiser or find a doctor who specializes in some sort of experimental treatment that might save her life, he’s sitting there doing an arts and crafts project? Why doesn’t he get a job and help in a constructive manner?”
My confusion only grew. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Apparently, neither has Greg,” he pronounced with a trace amount of disgust.
“She loves the cranes. He told me they . . . they make her happy.”
“He should work on saving her life first. Then he can worry about making her happy,” Ryan stated bluntly.
My confusion was replaced with frustrated anger. “You’re . . . you don’t see anything beautiful about this?”
He shrugged dismissively. “There’s nothing beautiful about waste. He’s wasting his time, and he’s wasting her chances.”
“No! It-it’s beautiful, Ryan. He sits with her all the time, and he makes her happy. When she’s happy, he’s happy. As long as they’re with each other . . . doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Maybe. All I’m saying is that he’s going to feel less than happy when he folds his thousandth crane and his girl is still dying in front of him.” Ryan was merciless in his appraisal.
And yet, I knew that he was . . . right. In a sad, twisted way, Ryan’s dispassionate analysis had a ring of truth to it. There might be many more constructive things Greg could be doing with his time. Yet, everything Ryan suggested ignored the beauty of Greg’s gesture. His undying devotion. His unwavering love. His quest for happiness.
What was I doing here? I stared at Ryan after he made his last coldhearted pronouncement . . .
. . . and I realized something.
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” he replied.
“You don’t understand what he’s trying to do, so you’re ruining it by making it sound ridiculous.”
“Now, you’re being ridiculous,” he scoffed as he leaned back into his chair.
“No, I’m not. I just figured it out. I get it. You don’t. You can’t stand that.”
“Tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. I just feel bad for this girl,” he remarked.
“I don’t. I actually envy her,” I said firmly.
“You sure you’re not on drugs?”
“I envy her because she’s happy. Even if it’s just for one ridiculous moment a day when she sees hundreds of tiny cranes swaying around her, she’s happy! He makes her happy!” I cried as I jumped off the sofa.
My rapid movement startled him from his posture of wizened judgment. Suddenly, he looked almost like a small boy afraid of the impending dark. As I stared down at him, I realized why I was supposed to be here. What I needed to do.
“They deserve to be happy. I deserve to be happy.”
Don’t think. Just do.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the little velvet bag with the ring. “I’m sorry, but I will never believe in us again, because there’s nothing left to believe in.”
“Cristina,” he choked in shock as I put the bag on the coffee table. “I don’t . . . don’t do this. Why?”
“You’re not the person I fell in love with. I will never be the person you want me to be,” I whispered.
I could feel the invisible manacles drop from my arms. Free of their weight, I threw my shoulders back and lifted my chin.
“But I love you,” he said in a tight voice.
“It’s not enough. I’m so sorry.”
I turned on my heel and walked towards the front door. As I passed by the light bulbs on the ground, I reached down and picked one up.
My heart pounded, and my hands trembled, but I refused to leave him in darkness as he did to me.
Standing on my tiptoes, I screwed the bulb into the wall sconce.
“Goodbye, Ryan,” I breathed. I went to the door and flipped the light switch on behind me before pulling the handle shut.
The spring air smelled fresh, and the sun lying low on the horizon stretched its rays towards me with an embrace I had ignored far too long. Blissful ignorance always pales next to the electricity of awareness.
I yanked my phone out of my purse.
“Hello?”
“Hana? Can you help me find Tom?” I ran towards my car as I spoke.
My tires squealed as they hit the asphalt.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I’m conferencing in Gita!” Hana shouted to me as I slammed the accelerator of my little Civic to the floor. It roared in protest, but I didn’t care.
A few moments later, both of my best friends were positioned in front of their computers waiting for my directives.
“Where the hell do I even look?” Gita wailed.
“Try Twitter. Try fansites. Do a general Google search!” I replied.
“Can’t you just call him?” Hana yelled with exasperation.
“I tried just now while you were calling Gita. The number I have doesn’t work. It’s out of service,” I admitted.
“I knew it! I knew you were going to cave in!” Hana crowed.
“Focus! Okay, so I just did a Google search. Holy shit . . . there are fifteen million results!” Gita moaned.
“I’m looking at Twitter for links to fansites,” Hana responded.
“Where are you?” Gita demanded.
“I’m on I-40 heading to the airport,” I said.
“Do you even have your passport?” she demanded.
“I didn’t get that far in my thought process. Hopefully, he’s in the continental United States,” I replied sheepishly.
“Hey! This site says he’s attending a movie
premiere in Chelsea tonight!” Hana cried.
“Can you guys try to verify that?” I pleaded.
“Shit, this one says he’s in L.A.!” Gita stated with irritation.
“But I’ve already found two websites that say he’s in New York!” Hana protested.
“Does he even have a Twitter thing? I ask because I’ve found no less than ten people claiming to be him, but they all have grammar skills Forrest Gump would openly mock,” Gita said. “Two of them are clearly teenage girls.”
“I don’t think he has Twitter. At least, he didn’t two months ago.”
“Wait, wait, wait! This site says he’s supposed to be at the Clearview Chelsea Cinemas on 23rd Street! The red carpet starts at nine thirty!” Gita yelled triumphantly.
“That’s good enough for me!” I shouted back as I pushed the speedometer over eighty.
They both hollered in support, and I felt my heart soar with affection for them.
“Cristina, I’m so glad you’re doing this,” Gita said when the fervor died down.
“And I thought you were my sensible friend!” I teased. “Lately, your penchant for romanticism has shocked me to no end! I’m rather disappointed. I never thought you would be such a sucker for love.”
“Piss off.” She chuckled.
“There’s a Delta flight leaving from RDU to LaGuardia in thirty-five minutes. How far are you from RDU?” Hana demanded.
“I’m ten minutes away,” I replied.
“That’s cutting it kind of close, Hana,” Gita pointed out.
“Look, if she misses the six fifty flight, the next one leaves at eight thirty! She’ll never make the premiere!” Hana exclaimed.
“I’ll be on that plane,” I vowed. Please, let me make it.
“I’m buying your ticket right now,” Hana said with conviction.
I remained silent for a moment so I could reestablish control over my emotions. “Thank you so much. I love you both.”
“Call us as soon as you get there! I’ll book you a hotel room at the Marriott in Times Square! We have some points, and it’s not too far from Chelsea!” Hana replied.
“Hopefully, she won’t need a hotel room!” Gita teased.
“We love you too! Don’t worry! It’ll work out!” Hana called back.