12. A tormented man in the street

In the late 90s, there are no cell phones or smart phones. There are pay phones on the streets and there is one single phone line available for our entire dorm. There is a “door reception lady,” always sitting at the desk behind a thick sheet of glass. When I get a phone call, she announces it to the entire building: “Jarka, you have a phone call…Jarka, you have a phone call.” Her voice is echoing through the hallway while I rush downstairs to see who is calling me. My mother had called me a few minutes ago and her voice got me very worried. I just hung up with her and got back to my room. I only spend a few minutes sitting on my bed, pondering my conversation with her when I hear the door lady once more:

“Jarka, phone call….”

Who could it be again? Did my mother forget to tell me something? I run downstairs, nearly tripping down the stairs. 

I pick up the phone while the door lady is eyeing me with suspicion. 

“Hello,” I say hesitantly.

Silence…..”Jarka…..” 

More silence.

“Hello?” I say louder, knowing that it is my father. I immediately realize that he is not in the right mind. I can recognize it from his voice, from his breathing, from the air in between us. 

“Are you ok, dad?”

He is not saying anything but I hear his distress from his soft, muffled sniffles.

“Dad, are you ok? Say something! What’s going on?”

He sighs, “Yes, I am ok….wait, NO, I am not! She left! They both left!”

Now it’s my turn to be silent. My best bet is to be calm and reassuring. I take a deep breath, 

“I know, dad, it will be fine. I promise,” I lie.

“Did you know about this? Did you? I thought you were my girl! I wanted you, not a boy, remember? I wanted you to play the piano and I have sacrificed everything for you! I wanted a daughter!”

His voice is so loud that the door lady can hear him through the phone receiver. A few students passing by look at me worriedly and I motion to them that I am just fine.

“Where is she? Where is she hiding?” He is crying and screaming at the same time. His tone gives me chills.

I try to keep my voice from shaking, “I don’t know, dad. She didn’t tell me.”

Another moment of silence before his disturbed voice speaks up again.

“That’s it! I am going to look for her! I will find her.”

“NO!” I scream before finding my composure again. “Dad, listen… listen to me! Promise me you stay home and don’t go anywhere. Promise! It’s better this way! Dad, dad….are you there?”

He hangs up. It’s getting late and it’s my curfew. I am not able to make or receive any more calls this evening. I slowly walk up the stairs, go to the bathroom, wash my face. I go to my room and lay down in my bed, not knowing what to think. Both of my parents leave me rattled and I don’t know what to do now. “Are you ok?” Emily approaches me gently. “Yes, Emily, I am ok. I am tired. I need to sleep.”

The very next morning I call my mother to make sure she and my brother are alright. They are. She reassures me that I don’t need to worry about anything. She tells me to focus on my studies.

2 uneasy days go by.

“Jarka, you have a visitor downstairs,” the door lady’s voice loudly carries through the hallways. 

“Oh no,” my mind is racing, my intuition telling me that this cannot be good.

I slowly walk down to the bottom floor, taking my time, scared to see who my visitor is. I peak around the corner. I see several of my friends chatting and laughing. And I also see a homeless person who looks like my father. Oh…..wait….it is my father! Messy hair, sick eyes, dirty clothes, disheveled, fidgety, lost, desperate, frightened, vulnerable, helpless, fragile..….all of this, waiting for me.

“Dad, let’s go,” I come up to him, gently touching his arm and pulling him out of the door. As I am closer to him, I can tell he hasn’t showered in a few days. I try to breathe through my mouth. “Dad, come on, this is not a good place to talk.” My friends are looking at us as I am rushing my father away, out of everyone’s sight. I can’t believe he followed me here. His mental illness followed me here too. I am a teenager. I try not to dwell on my selfish thoughts but I am not very successful in pushing them away. I don’t want to mess up my relationships with my friends. I don’t want them to see my father and especially not in this state! I don’t want them to know that he is not ok. I don’t want them to think that I am crazy too…..

  I keep pulling him away from the dorm building, onto the street. I sit him down on a bench on Main street. It’s dark and cold. “Dad, I am so sorry. I can’t stay here with you very long. I have a curfew, I have to go. But I want you to get up, get on the train, and go home, go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day, ok? We will talk to mom. We will figure it out.” 

Blank stare.

“Dad! Do you understand?”

I know there is still one more train leaving for my hometown this evening and I need him to catch that train. I need him to leave. Otherwise, he will be waiting for another connection for hours. Through the night and in the cold.

“Ok, dad, do you hear me? You HAVE to go home.” I am more urgent now.

He hesitantly gets off the bench, nods quietly, but keeps standing there. 

 “I am leaving……ok?” I keep my eyes glued on his face, trying to get a reaction out of him.

I start walking away slowly. He is watching me go. He is an adult. And I am a child. But in reality I am the adult and he is the child. I am worried for him and I wish, hope, pray, with everything that I have that he is capable of getting himself home safely.  My heart breaks for him. I am heartbroken for this lost human being. Because I cannot do anything for him. I cannot save him, I cannot help him. And I have to be back in my dorm room in a few minutes. I have a curfew because I am an underage child. My stomach is in knots. I must remain strong. I have to. 

I turn and look back over my shoulder one more time. I see his dark silhouette glued to the pavement, motionless. He is still standing exactly where I left him. His tall figure is dark in the distance, a glow of the street light glimmering around him.

I enter the dorm building and the door closes shut.  The door lady walks up to me, her now sympathetic eyes observe me with genuine concern. She locks the door behind me with visible relief……because…. there is a tormented man left outside in the street.