The Third Wheel

4:45 Am, Monday - just another mournful, melancholy day when Friday seems eternally far away and unreachable. The tea made and blanket on my lap, I should be all geared up to grind away the bottomless list of work. Somehow my mind wandered elsewhere. For the past few days I had been preoccupied with the same questions that wouldn’t go away: “Is J going to show up? And if he does, when does this doom come?” J is another coworker who bluntly asked the “unthinkable” request on Thursday when he found out my sacred morning routine, “Do you mind if I walk with you?’. What was more unthinkable was that I conceded with a yes.

Why I ever committed the unpardonable sin is another mystery to be explored. Was it my “Sure why not” eager-to-please old nature’s treachery act or was it my optimistic hope that this time it could be different? Above all, what makes J an exception? He is from another group, one of those old-timers that have remained unchanged while the company does exactly the opposite, perpetually morphing in her names, administration, even operations over the decades. Our paths never did cross till we were assigned to the same training class for one whole week. Even then, we hardly talked. He was quiet, non-intruding, almost ghost like. I remember having bumped into him a few times prior to the training whenever he popped out of his cocoon and not ever exchanged a word or nod. I took no offense – in terms of work relationship (and life in general), I am a firm believer of “less is more”. However, the training week changed it when I brought in cookies on the last day. J loved them. I have been soliciting my homemade goodies whenever my impulsive nature comes to play. Many here have been the beneficiary recipients, but little ever returned with more than a “thanks”. Since there is no obligation involved – just me and my vanity, I keep it up voluntarily without expecting anything. Thus when J dropped a small box of chocolates for Christmas, I found myself surprised and delighted as if it had been the precious thanksgiving from the one leper out of the ten.

Since then, he remains on my random cookie distribution list. We still don’t talk much – a little of IM, an occasional drop-in, light yet appreciative exchanges serve us well. Maybe that did the trick to unlock my iron cast door to my forbidden walk? Granted he was warned to keep the pace and most importantly the sacred peace, I still have plenty of my after-fact remorse for my concession.

So 6:30 came – and so did he. I greeted the new comer with a curt nod and put on my IPOD – the ritual must carry on, unchanged and untouched, with or without company. I charged forward without so much a look at the shadow one step behind. We walked the entire route in promised silence except for the ceremonial “you OK?” during and “how was it” after. Not exactly awkward, but crowded enough. My Bach could have told me so, but I was knee deep in the predicament with no one’s fault but mine. J did not fail to keep the 2-P (peace and pace) golden rules, so why was the walk still not quite the same spare the talk? Was it the presence of the third wheel, as gentle and quiet as it is, that made it so intruding and disquieting? Maybe the better question should be: Am I a lost cause for good when it comes to company?

I thought of another occasion when talk was actually required – the Saturday’s dinner party at friends’. Unlike my walk, where silence is gold, parties by definition actually call for conversation and social etiquettes. And participate did I do, more than the share I desired. For over three hours, I became one of the merry party, enjoying plenty of good food, talks and laugher. As we drove home, before the clock even stuck 12 and carriage changed back to pumpkin, the Cinderella was already back to her rags and shame, wishing the ballroom memory lost like her glass slipper.

Talk or no talk, both occasions have but one common element – me. All the while I have the safe guard of staying away from trouble. It didn’t dawn on me till now that the troubling third wheel is none other than me. However painful this revelation is, the biggest and most impossible question remains: How do I get rid of this third wheel?

Lost and Found

It was Tuesday night when I was lying in bed and out in the blue something hit me: Where is my ring! Not exactly a question, but an alarming exclamation mark that kicked me right out of that after-dinner lazy moment, and the bed too. I scrambled around turning the room upside down, digging and groping for that diamond ring my mother had given me a few months ago before I headed back to U.S. Never a jewelry person myself except for some fun, cheap things to satisfy my spur-of-the-moment girly fancy, but then and there I was almost panicking with fear. The ring was more than a piece of expensive jewelry. It was something my mother had purposely saved and tailored made for me. She eyes were glowing from the joy of surprising me when she opened that blue velvet box where the white gold diamond ring twinkled back in a matching glow. I remember making a big show of “oooh” and “wow” while I put it on my tawny, wrinkled finger. It looked totally wrong, and yet it was perfect because it made my mother happy.

That night ended with me going to bed with a heavy load of sadness and regret. I remembered finally that I had put it in my pocket during my morning walk a few days ago and then totally forgotten about it afterwards. Clearly my forgetfulness and carelessness proved me again unworthy of any good things, but most importantly my mother’s trust and faith. I have been the notorious klutz in a family of my opposite – organized, driven and competent. And a diamond ring put me back in that corner where everyone’s reprimanding look became my worst punishment. I went back to work with the smallest thread of hope that it might be either at my desk or turned in to the lost and found. No luck with both. By then I was finally forced to face the ultimate verdict: the ring was gone.

Why do we never love back till we lose it? I had worn the rings less than a dozen of times for the duration of 5 months. Even when it did show up on my finger, it was hardly accompanied with much pride – in fact, I’d pay much more attention with my coworkers’ accessories. How pretty their rings, bracelets and necklaces look! How I wish I had something like that! While I envied their acquisition, my ring sat forgotten in my cheap plastic “jewelry box”, accompanied by their same fated friends that I showed little regard of. Now that it is gone, my affection has miraculously resurfaced. How beautiful my ring was! How I wish it were still here! Like any unfaithful lover that faces the loss of his love, I was buried in such intense remorse that I would have reversed time and moved the heaven and earth to recover it at all cost.

I didn’t have to work that much. 3 days’ regret was all it took to bring back time and space when I found my ring under the bed, where I had searched, or I thought I had. Imagine the ecstasy and surprise I had as I held it in my palm, my eyes wide open and my heart pumping as if it were going to stop. Fate has taken a pity on my grief and pardoned me from my sin of negligence! What accompanied the joy was a renewed vow of devotion and protection. The prodigal son has come home to stay for good.

I thought of another lost and found and wondered if it has recovered my allegiance from the 2nd round around like my ring. It too disappeared, only much slowly and less noticeably over a good period of time. The void from its absence, though not as dramatic, brought far more casualty than my ring ever did. I was living, but not alive, seeing without eyes and walking yet going nowhere. Its reappearance was just as soundless as its evanescence with a dose of calming assurance instead of delirious thrill. There was no magic moment or drama as I felt when I found the ring under the bed. I remember that day during my morning coffee time with D, just like that, I said thoughtfully to him: “I think I am saved”, as in He was as real as day 1 when we first met in that room, the constant in my ever wandering heart for the past 30 years and the only hope for a fleeting life like this.

Never find myself lucky, but this time I have to declare exactly the opposite. A double dose of lost and found, two second chances – you couldn’t get luckier than this.

"I just want you to be happy"

8:30pm – bed time prep for the early bird like me. I was brushing teeth when the father of the children walked in and smiled with an arched brow: “S has got a B+ with his Physics test.” I blurted out: “Wonderful! Did you praise him up and down?” Some men are not accustomed to big shows of emotions and mine is one of them. He handed me the phone: “Why don’t you?” I dialed and followed up with the “good for you… I am so proud” dutiful yet truthful praise. I could almost see his mouth curved up with a slight smile as he accepted my congratulations. After over 21 years, I learned to take his not-at-all exciting excitement as true excitement. He was happy despite of his scant exhibition of emotions.

A B+ from a relatively ordinary state college is nothing extraordinary comparing to our friends’ children’s A’s from those prestigious schools. To us, it is. May marks the end of his junior year, a miracle of itself that exceeds all our wildest dreams. It also has been the calmest time since the day he was born. Distance has mended much wound for us all. Now that he has leased a year-round apartment, his trip home has become even more scarce. Whenever we see him, he seems relaxed and almost confident, in contrast to the tormented (and tormenting) phantom that was so miserably inapposite. As much as I want to keep the safe guard of low (or no) expectation about this once explosive tragedy, I can’t help feeling hopeful – that the future might be good, that he would be fine and that he could be happy.

I recall having a conversation – one of those mixed-agenda talks before his junior year to prompt him to strive for a good school year. I started with a picture of the past of gloom and doom and then paired it with a contrast, a future filled with prosperity and joy - if he would work for it. “You deserve to be happy. It’s time for you to be happy.” I emphasized. It sounded like one of those pep talks a parent would say to encourage his unfocused child. And yet I meant every word of it – of all the goals, dreams and hopes I ever had for him, I wanted him to be happy.

I thought of one particular sermon when our pastor admonished the secular mentality of parenthood – “whatever you do, I just want you to be happy”. Have I just defected to the other end after 21 years of Christian education and fervent prayer we have invested on our children? I found myself choking on this frightening question. Is there any ground to pardon a convict when the cause of her crime is as unintentional, even innocent as the offense itself? Surely there have been and will be plenty of suffering lives much worse than him, but he is in fact the saddest human being whose unhappiness has been incurred not by his poor choices but by being himself. Can I, as his mother, find exception in God’s judgment for a superficial hope like “happiness” for a sad child like him?

Nerely 3 years he has gone off to college, giving this family a much needed time and space to heal from a volcanic nightmare that feels like yesterday and a life time ago. Such paradox is confusing but every bit true, just like him. I have to discipline myself to stay at the farther end where memory fades out and almost seems unreal. Still, there are moments when the past would flood in and become present, and there it is all over again: his tears and agony were mixed with mine, his hell became mine and his suffering mine too. I have not yet fully forgiven myself when I remember his loneliness – not one, his family included, ever offered friendship to him. For 18 years of his life, he was subjected to nothing but his peers’ cruel tease and cold alienation. The phone never rang, birthday invites hardly came and at the youth group the ball conveniently skipped him. He was the square peg in a round hole, unwelcomed if not unseen. The two words he carved on his wall in NH home “I SUCK” might as well be engraved on my heart forever. I could still see him there, the poor boy at the far end looking at this world with every longing but no capacity to fit in, all the while thinking it was all his fault that he was this lonely and unhappy.

No, I have not forgotten man’s chief end and that without faith all happiness in life is but vapor. With an exception like him, whose disability is who he is, I have but the comfort of not only God’s limited atonement but also His unconditional love. If he is His sheep, the Master and Maker would continue to care for him to the end, despite of what this poor mother’s guilty and selfish wish, even when it is plainly “I just want you to be happy”.