The Moth

The Hospital Shorts, Michael Gray Griffith

A short story written based on a story from a Filipino woman.

I'm a heavy sleeper. Years ago I was in a house fire, and if it wasn't for my dog biting my hand, I wouldn't be talking to you now.
Nothing wakes me—earth tremors, storms, burglars. But every time he turns up, I wake up too. I don't know how. He never makes a sound.
It's always the same. My eyes open, it's dark, and I can feel him. It's like he's an atmosphere in the room, a pressure in the air.
And she is gone.

She's only small. My first wife was almost double her size—may she rest in peace. Cancer. It came, went, and then came back again, and that was that.

I was alone for years. I don't like being alone. I lost weight. I made people worry. It was one of those worrywarts who took me to the Philippines, where I met Maria.
There were a lot of younger women there I could have chosen, prettier too, but Maria had a defiance in her eyes. She looked at me like she wasn't asking for, nor expecting, any pity.
Yet that's what I felt for her. At her age, no one was gonna pick her. She'd already had a kid whose dad had been killed by a train. She'd done it tough—you could see it—and now, with her kid grown, apart from her parents, she was also alone.
So that's why I asked her to come live with me.

The kid comes over sometimes. He's a nice boy. Quiet.
We have one of our own now too. I didn't want another child, but she kept on at me, so I gave in. She was right.
It's a little girl, and she has become the love of my life.
Plus, since I'm retired now, I have all the time in the world to spend with my daughter. I have more time for her than I had for the three kids I had with my first wife.

Maria works in a local nursing home. She never says it, but she doesn't like it much.
I used to tell her she should quit. Financially we're sound. She doesn't have to work. But she wants to.
Plus, she sends most of her money back to her son, and her mother and sister. I don't know where those three would be without Maria doing this.

She's good to me too. She doesn't have to be. If she left me because of our age gap, no one would blame her.
But she won't—and it’s not just because of her religion. It's because she's accepted the price.
That's the difference between Filipino women and our Aussie girls.
It's one of the reasons I've come to love her.
And I do.
In many ways, she's not only the toughest woman I’ve ever known, but the toughest person full stop.

Tonight they're in the living room. I can sense it.
Weird—I’ve never been sensitive like that before.
Maybe I'm in her heart now too, like a passenger. Her mother, her children, her sister, this moth man, and me.
If she's moved by him, I feel it. Maybe. I don't know.
But I know it's real because he wakes me.

I sometimes wonder—if I took a picture of them, what would be there? A light? A smudge? Or would there be nothing?
Maybe he's something beyond pictures; something spiritual.
I don't know either. I just know I can see him. And every time I do, he amazes me.

The first time, I thought I was dead.
I thought I'd died in my sleep and woken up in heaven, only to find heaven was my house—filled with my furniture and my photos on the wall.
I half expected to turn around and find my first wife standing in the kitchen, dressed in white and smiling.

She wasn't.
It was just him.
And I was alive and awake.

The other thing is that I’m not jealous. I should be. In the past, I would have been. But here, I'm okay. Even glad of it.
It's not like she asks for much. She doesn’t get much either. Never has.
So what right do I have to disturb this little indulgence?
It's not like he turns up every night. Sometimes it's weeks, months—unless, of course, I don't always wake up.
No. No, I don't believe that.
I believe I'm in her heart too.
I do.

Tonight they're in the living room. They've been in there before.
Usually they're in the spare room. A few times they've been in the shed.
I don't know which of them picks the room.
I never ask, and I won't.
I've never mentioned him to her at all. Not once. I never will.

But I will get up.
I will sneak up to the edge of whatever room they are in, and look.

Tonight he's holding her.
Her arms and head are back, and her eyes are closed, and he's kissing her slender neck as his great white wings—which glow as though they were shaved off the moon—flutter as he hovers with her in his arms in the middle of the room.

I know who he is. I've seen the picture of him. They were married for a year. Not even.
But she's never told me what happened.
Just that he was hit by a train.

And tonight, like other nights, she's crying.
The glow off his wings is reflecting in her tears.
My poor little love.
How I'd love to hold her—but not tonight.
Tonight it is his turn.
Hers.

Instead I’ll go back to bed, as I always do, and pretend to be asleep until she comes back to bed.
And I will never mention that I know.
Not once. Not ever.
Because that is the price of Maria.
That I know.