THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE SEAHORSE
"There is a letter to Pop from you, Adrian. It looks as
if it was written some time ago. I will keep it until you come up day after
tomorrow," said Mrs. Chalmers on the phone to her son.
Mrs. Chalmers, a widow, lived alone in a council flat in Cumbernauld, in
central Scotland. While still nursing the loss of her husband these past
two years, she had begun to look forward to a life markedly different from
her previous one.
As if a veil had come apart in front of her, she began to see things differently.
Thus, whispers of the winds, the sounds of footsteps upon fallen autumn
leaves on her front yard began to take on new meaning for her.
She was becoming more sensitive to the fluttering lives around her. But
most of all, she was looking beyond. A bit philosophical, perhaps. Who was
her husband? What kind of a person was he? She started to wonder about
the moments they shared, captured in the many photo albums. Why was he not
smiling? Why did he appear to be in deep thought? There was somberness
throughout. She had not noticed this before.
Abruptly, she picked up the letter again. Adrian never wrote a letter.
He always called. He always drove up from the big city of London. There
was no need for writing. Why this time?
Mrs. Chalmers was a little perturbed now. What could Adrian be writing
Pop, her husband, that she was not a part of? She looked closer at the
stamp. It was two years old! Two years ago, her life came to a stop-shattered
by Pop's death.
While she became more curious about the letter, she promised herself to
wait until Adrian came up. Maybe he would let her read it, too. Or were
there secrets? As expected, Adrian arrived in the afternoon of that weekend.
Tea was ready. So were the biscuits and a box of strawberry-filled chocolates,
Adrian's favorite.
"Mom, what is the occasion?" asked Adrian.
"Nothing. Just this letter I mentioned to you on the phone. It is
special, is it not?" She proceeded to retrieve the letter from her
bedroom and gave it to Adrian.
Adrian was excited. He had no immediate recollection of the letter. Why
did he write it? From where did he write it? The letter was his, written
and posted from Petra, two years ago.
His trembling hands almost tore the letter in half as he took it out of
the envelope to read it.
"Do you remember the day Mr. Calder, the school principal, sent me
home because I was ill? I stayed home one week. Pop came home early every
day to check on me. One day he brought me this seahorse. He said a Chinaman
gave it to him as a good luck charm. Pop said people from the Orient used
it as a medicine. I have always kept it close to me. I sometimes wore it
around my neck with a silk string. I have never shown this to anyone. In
the letter I asked Pop to look for the seahorse in my bedroom drawer, wrapped
in a velvet pouch, and to wear it. I wanted him to hold it. I thought it
would hasten his recovery. Maybe he would feel a little better, more comfortable.
I was hoping for a miracle. I wanted also to be near him."
"Your Pop cried very hard that day you took ill. I saw him wiping
his tears one day when he came out of your bedroom. Both of his eyes were
red as poppies. You meant a lot to him. You, an only boy. I remember he
asked me several times to call the village doctor. I knew then that your
illness was a benevolent one, with a brief course. So Pop and you had this
secret-a seahorse. What is it?"
Adrian described the seahorse, its origin and its oriental mysteries. He
went to his bedroom to look for it. It was still there. After many years.
Adrian put the seahorse in the palms of his mother's hands. At that moment,
both of them stopped talking. They gazed at the dark, strange object.
Suddenly, she burst into a loud cry. She felt the need for the belief in
the healing power of the seahorse. At that moment, she believed the object
held the life of her husband. Adrian was speechless. He fought back his
tears. Did he believe that the seahorse could have saved his Pop? He must
have. He himself was saved. He recovered. With all this remorse, he felt
prostrated. The letter. Why did it get lost?
Mrs. Chalmers finally broke the silence.
"It was love, Adrian, that brought you back to us from sickness. It
was also love that took Pop away. He was there in the mines, twelve to fourteen
hours a day, six days a week. I still can see the black stains that colored
his nails and hands. We argued about working too long. He was adamant. He
said he wanted an extra pair of shoes for you that Christmas. He would not
hear of my suggestion that I work in Mrs. Caddell's millinery shop. I was
good in those sort of things, you know?"
"Was that why almost all the photos of Pop were somber?" Adrian
mused, knowing the answer already.
"We had our dreams, Adrian. I prayed. You gave your most precious
gift-the seahorse. It was in fact . . . love. Don't you think so?"
"Pop's seahorse," nodded Adrian as he pronounced the words.
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