Auf Wiedersehen, Freundin Fiction

by Katelyn Rieder

You had never been to Germany before. I scoffed, “really?” And you had that shy, embarrassed smile on. This smile was worlds different from your toothy grin usually paired with a loud laugh that you would feel embarrassed about. Your hand would fly over your mouth.

“I’ve always wanted to,” you sighed, “just never had the time, I guess.” You looked at me, right into my eyes like you always do. You could never break that eye contact, something that I was never good at. For some reason though, your eyes didn’t make me nervous, they made me feel seen. I don’t know if I’ll ever understand how you were able to absolutely bewitch me.

“We have to go then,” I said with the upmost confidence. And you chuckled softly, rolling your eyes. “No, I’m serious! You would love it.” My brain raced back to the last and only time I’ve been to Germany. It was just a weeklong trip around the country with mom. She was there for business, and I, pleasure. On the few days she was in corporate’s headquarters, I wandered around Berlin. I spent my mornings in a café right around the corner from our hotel, sipping hot apple cider paired with some sort of roll or croissant with jam smeared on every square inch. One of my favorite parts about that café was the notorious people watching spot just outside. I would sit on a black iron chair and watched tourists take photos, men hurry to work, kids play in the fountain followed by their mom’s watchful eye. I was on the outside looking into this vast, bright culture. It was so much different from back home, how I always felt like I was being watched. People watched me not out of interest, but for anticipation of mistakes. For clumsiness, inadequacy.

“I don’t know, I feel like if I were gonna go I would want more money, you know? To do it right,” You sighed again, this one a little longer, “I guess that’s why I waited.”

I rested my hand on your forearm, “Hey don’t beat yourself up, let’s go this summer. Just you and me,” I smiled. “We don’t have to go to Berlin like I did, although it was beautiful. I remember seeing this gigantic cathedral with these really pretty teal dome roofs on top. But maybe we could go somewhere more in the countryside and like, visit the castles and stuff. You ever heard of the Danube River?”

You nodded.

“There’s like tons of castles along it. It’s something like ten hours away from Berlin though. If it wasn’t I feel like I would have begged harder for mom to go with me.” I looked at my shoes and chuckled a little. I hesitated to look at you. I knew you would be far away.

“What kind of food did you eat?” You were still holding on.

I sat up more in my chair next to your bedside, gripping your arm a little tighter, “Oh, all kinds of stuff! For breakfast I would always go to this café near our hotel that had the most amazing apple cider, I wish I had asked for their recipe or something before we left.”

You smiled, showing me your teeth. My heart pounded in my chest, “But for lunch we would normally have like, a pretty big meal. Their lunch and dinner are kind of flipped. So we go out to some restaurant and get like, pasta or meat. I remember getting this thing called Käsespätzle, which is like small egg noodles,” I formed my hands in the shape of a circle, “drenched in some kind of cheese. That was always really good.” I looked across the room at your parents, who kept their eyes on you, their only daughter. I could tell your mom had tears in her eyes. Your dad (such a stoic) was frowning, his bushy brows so furrowed they almost blended together.

You suddenly looked so much more pale than you were five seconds ago. It felt like the rhythmic beeping of your heart monitor was getting so much louder, like I was waiting for it to get out of beat.

It did.

And you looked at me, scared. Scared of what was happening to you and the body that had taken care of your soul for so long. Scared of what would happen after.

And I was terrified. The room was getting so much louder, so much more crowded. A nurse pried my hand off of your arm as doctors were trying to do their job. My cheeks were getting stained with salty and stunned tears. I could hear your mom wailing, crying out for someone to help her baby girl.

Then it stopped. The noise stopped besides the flatlining of your heart. A constant, droning hum. Everything else in the world stopped and it was just you and your body.

You had been sick for far too long; I think we all started to forget that everything comes to an end.