by Sara Arnell
“This could be my dream house,” I told my daughter as we were sitting in my bed together looking at it on the wall, both happy that she was back home.
“I’m so glad you moved that painting. It was depressing.”
“I know,” I said. “I don’t know why it took so long to realize that I shouldn’t be staring at a death scene upon waking. But this feels like possibility. It feels like something to look forward to—a simple, uncomplicated existence—one that’s easy to live and live within. I feel like selling all my possessions and starting again. I want to unclutter. I want clean surfaces, no knickknacks, and I want a uniform. I want to dress the same way every day. People do this,” I told her. There were fashion editors that did this to make their busy lives a little bit easier. “You wore a uniform all throughout middle school,” I reminded her.
“I just want to be happy,” I continued. “Stuff doesn’t make me happy anymore. It used to once. It used to validate my being. I bought things I didn’t even want or need just to know that I could. But they weren’t inspiring. They served no purpose in my happiness. Someone I knew a long time ago remembered that I had a diamond necklace—a really expensive one—and asked if he could buy it from me for his girlfriend. I told him that I had only worn it once in all the years I had it and that I would be willing to sell it to him. It didn’t mean anything to me. It never had, I realized. Then he said he would give me half of its value because it was secondhand jewelry. I couldn’t believe it. What a scam. So, of course, I didn’t follow through because I didn’t want to get ripped off, but it made me think that having too much, having more than you need, is a burden in so many ways, and I don’t want to live that life anymore. I want things that inspire me.”
Chapter 26
Turn Left
I found a small, nondescript rental house that we could live in for a year while I looked for a new home—a first home for the new, new me. The me that meditated every day, twice a day. The me that was not rampantly and meaninglessly consuming material possessions. The me that washed and got dressed, at least on most days. The me that was digging out of the deep dark hole that I had resided in for two years. The me that had my younger daughter back home, going to a nearby college as a day student. The me that wanted a fresh start in a new home where I could make the memories that would sustain me as I moved forward. The portal that was sucking me into blackness is closing, I thought. I was on the other side of it, in the light.
“I’m running to the store,” I told my daughter one weekend afternoon while we were packing to move to the rental. “I’ll be back soon.”
I thought about how much I liked driving down roads I knew intimately and the comfort that came with living in the same place for close to twenty years. I dodged the pothole at the end of the driveway, bypassed the rock that stuck into the road too much, and shook my head in disappointment at the trees that were planted too close together and dying at the bottom where the sun couldn’t reach the branches. I smiled at the cairn—the pile of rocks that someone had built on the lawn, next to the driveway entrance. I let it stand and wondered if the new owner would too. I considered the idea of leaving a piece of me behind, something that would be secretly lingering, lurking, and holding my place here. Then I remembered that I had recently buried a small statue in the yard.
“My house is for sale,” I told my psychic during one of my continuing readings.
“Take this,” she said. “It’s a statue of St. Joseph. Bury it in your front yard, upside down, facing your house. Then say a prayer.”
“What kind of prayer?”
“To St. Joseph, you know. Something like ‘Saint Joseph, I want to sell this house quickly; please help me.’ You might as well also sprinkle a line of salt around the house to keep out negativity. It can’t hurt.”
I threw the groceries in the back of the car and headed home. I turned off the highway onto the narrow dirt road—my road. I navigated like I was on autopilot. I knew where every ditch, hole, and bump resided. I swerved with complete confidence. I’ll miss this road, I thought. It’s right out of a picture book that could be entitled, Quaint Country Roads. When I came to the stop sign at the end, I looked both ways to make sure there weren’t any cars coming before I took the right up a hill that led to my house. Or, more accurately, my soon-to-be-former house. In front of me, stuck in the ground on the opposite side of the road, was an “Open House” sign for another house that was for sale, with an arrow pointing the way—the way I didn’t usually go.
I turned left.
“I can’t believe it,” I said aloud to myself.
A version of the Poolside Gossip house—the title of the Aarons photo that now lived in my bedroom—loomed in front of me. It was slightly different than the house in the photograph, of course, but similar enough for it to be a sign—white, modern, and sleek. Even the “Open House” sign was a sign, I thought. A sign that appeared right in front of me that told me to turn left instead of right. A sign that pointed out a different path. A sign that had never been there before any of the hundreds of times I’d driven home and that showed itself when I needed it most. “Thank you,” I said aloud, to put my gratitude into the world.
I believed for the first time in a long time that the universe was talking to me:
Hey, don’t live in the past. It’s over.
Follow the sign.
Come up this driveway. See something new.
You made this happen. You have to believe.
Left is the new right.
I know my life isn’t rooted in walls and things and rooms that are empty, I thought. This was meant to be. I’d passed this driveway hundreds of times without any interest. I had never even considered what was hidden at the top of the hill.
I cringed at the memory of that New Year’s Day in my bathroom. I relived it almost every time I used the toilet. The stain was still on the floor, etched into the white, marble tile. It was impermeable to every cleaning solution and YouTube hack. Nothing could penetrate that night to make it disappear. The shadow of my vomit screamed at me. Every time I looked down at the floor, it looked up at me.
You’re a fuckup, it said.
You’re a fat mess, it said.
Act like a mom.
Get a job.
Go back to work.
Move on.
Earn the respect of your children again.
Shower.
Dress.
Fucking do something.
“I’m going in,” I said to myself and walked to the front door, which seemed to me like an entryway to a new world, one that had been beckoning to me for a long time.
“Hey,” I said to the realtor who was sitting at the kitchen counter.
It was December 2016. My home was sold and I moved into a rental house, which was isolated down a long driveway out of view of neighbors whose homes were similarly isolated. A handyman who worked for the owners sometimes emerged from the woods to see if I needed anything, reminding me that there was life nearby. The main bedroom was on the first floor, next to the front door and down a short hall from the kitchen. I liked that I could stay in bed and see or hear everything that was going on in the house. I bought an artificial, pre-lit Christmas tree from Amazon and put it in the front hallway next to my bedroom. Happy holidays, I said to myself. This is home for now.
“New year, new chance,” I said aloud as I plugged in my fake tree and thought about real life and what this new year would bring.
“I like this house,” my daughter said one day when she came home from her classes at the nearby college she was now attending.
“Yeah. It feels good, mostly because you’re here,” I said, “but also because it’s the start of something new for us. It’s inspiring, in a weird way. The house is a bit of a wreck and none of our furniture fits, but somehow it all hangs together. It’s good enough for now.” I shifted into a more
positive tone. “I’m good,” I assured her. “Really good. I’m getting ready to take off my sweatpants, no joke. I’m seeing a doctor to help me lose this weight. I’m finally taking control of things.” I turned on the gas fireplace in the kitchen with the click of a switch and settled down in front of it to keep talking with my daughter as she made herself something to eat.
“I saw your sign,” I said to the realtor who was in the kitchen of the white, modern house at the top of the hill.
“Welcome,” she said, handing me a brochure. “Have a look around. It’s a very unique house for this area. It’s all in the folder. Read it.”
The white brick house was constructed as two circles sitting on top of each other. Circles, I thought, like the moon and the sun.
A cocoon.
A womb.
A wheel.
A curve.
I couldn’t wait to walk around.
I manifested this house, I wanted to tell her.
I see a modern house, almost like this, every morning when I wake up.
It’s fate that brought me here.
I should have taken a right, but I went left for the first time in all the years I’ve lived here.
This has to mean something, I wanted to say.
Circles are spiritual. They’re safe places. They envelop you within their walls and keep you wrapped in their energy. God is a circle.
“Does it have a pool?” I asked.
“It’s across the driveway,” she said.
I walked to the pool so I could picture myself on a lounge chair looking across the blue water like the ladies in the Aarons photo, then walked back to the house. Yes, I thought. I can see myself here.
“Do you have any offers?” I asked.
“People think it needs a lot of work. Also, it’s not the house people tend to want up here. They’re mostly looking for a farmhouse style or a center-hall colonial.”
A couple walked in while I was talking to the realtor. “We love modern houses,” they said. “Can you tell us about this one?”
“Sure,” the realtor said and excused herself from me.
They must look like serious buyers, I thought. She stood up when they walked in. I could see her gesticulating and pointing as she walked away and left me in the kitchen. I wished I had worn real pants and not my baggy old sweats.
“I think it’s perfect,” I said to the realtor and the couple on my way out. “I love it. I’m going to buy this house. I’m in a rental now, so I’ll have the time to fix it up,” I yelled over my shoulder, confirming my seriousness.
The couple smiled. “You should,” they said. “It’s amazing. It needs too much work for us.”
Chapter 27
It’s Just a Cold
I landed in Los Angeles to visit my older daughter, who had relocated there from the Bay Area. She picked me up at the airport and told me I looked like shit and asked why I didn’t tell her I was sick before I got on a plane. I said I had a little cold that I couldn’t shake, but it would be fine. I felt sorry for the people sitting next to me. I squirted Afrin up my nose relentlessly and went through a box of tissues. I also consumed an entire family-size bag of Ricola cough drops to try to control the hacking cough that had roused more disgusted looks and comments than I’d had the energy to respond to.
“I don’t think I’m contagious anymore,” I said to the woman sitting next to me on the plane. “Don’t worry.”
“Sick people shouldn’t travel,” someone nearby said aloud for my benefit.
“Sorry,” I said.
My daughter took me straight to an urgent care center in Brentwood. She picked Brentwood, she said, because it was a nice part of Los Angeles and most people there probably had their own doctors, so it might not be too crowded. She was right. It was empty, and the doctor saw me right away. I left with an inhaler and a Z-Pak. The doctor suggested I get a chest X-ray. I told her I didn’t have time.
“Ridiculous,” my older daughter said as we drove to her house.
“It’s just a little cold.”
“Have you seen yourself? And all you do is cough. You have to see your doctor when you get home. And get that chest X-ray.”
I had moved into the rental house during the first snowstorm of the season in early December. The storm was unexpected. The snow began the minute the moving trucks arrived and didn’t let up the entire day. The house was freezing from the doors being propped open, and I was cold and wet from running back and forth, inside and outside, grabbing boxes and organizing where things needed to be placed for unpacking. That is when I got sick, I thought. It’s how I got the cold from hell that I just can’t shake.
“I got this cold when I moved to the rental house,” I told my older daughter. “It snowed the entire day I moved in. I got a chill. I need to rest. I finally can, now that I’m all unpacked. It took me months to get organized. I just didn’t have the energy. But I’m here now. I missed you and couldn’t wait any longer for a visit. Maybe we can sit on the beach in the sun a bit,” I said. “The sun is so healing. It might help dry me up.”
“I hate the sun,” she said. “It causes skin cancer. You need to stay in bed. Besides, the move was three months ago. No one has a cold for three months and does nothing about it.”
“I know,” I said. “But the good news is that I bought a new house that I’m going to dive into fixing up when I feel better. It needs a lot of work, but it will be great. I really love it.”
“Was it hard to sell the old house?” she asked, remembering that my life had recently been uprooted, remembering, maybe, that I had caught this cold during a stressful period of upheaval and change.
“No,” I answered. “It was time.”
“I get it,” she said.
“Yep,” I said.
“You better see your regular doctor—not your chiropractor or some other quack you found as soon as you get home,” she repeated.
“We can still have fun,” I said.
The doctor that I was seeing for weight loss called me and asked if I’d been fighting off a cold or infection of some sort.
“Yes,” I said, “I had a cold that was hard to shake.”
“Yes,” I said, “I just got back from LA and was sick the whole time.”
“Yes,” I said, “I’ve been fighting it off for months.”
She said my white blood cell count was a bit high so I should come back in when I had time to get it re-checked, but not to worry; it was most likely from the lingering cold. I put it out of my mind and carried on with life. I was ready to shed the pounds I had gained. I wanted to button my pants and tuck in my shirt again. I wanted to be able to hold a plank at the gym without crumbling into a crying mess. I wanted to walk down the street and be able to make eye contact with people instead of hiding because I felt so bad about the lumpy mess I had let myself become. I wanted to be able to honestly answer the question “How are you?” with optimism, sincerity, and truthfulness.
“Fine” wasn’t cutting it for me anymore.
“Great” was a lie.
“Eh, you know” was a cop-out.
The doctor was thorough. She drew blood to check for vitamin deficiencies and allergies. She told me to cut out all dairy and not to eat bananas. She said I was allergic to bananas.
“I knew I didn’t like them for a reason,” I said.
“Listen to your body,” she said.
She told me that I was the hardest kind of patient to treat because I never complained when I didn’t feel well.
“You suck it up, but you need to be honest about how you feel because we can help you feel better. You don’t have to power through things. If you tell me how you’re responding to the diet I’m putting you on, we can adjust it so that it works for you,” she said.
“I want you to feel good.”
“I do too,” I
told her.
“I’m going to give you supplements to take and a protein shake. You need protein and to work out. You need to build muscle and decrease your BMI. We’ll get you there,” she said.
“OK,” I sighed.
Back home, I quietly listened to the sound of my breath as I settled in to meditate. I chanted my mantra silently and lazily as my guru instructed. When I opened my eyes, I stared ahead.
I tried to feel nothing.
I tried to forget how I got to this place in my life.
I tried to forget my fears.
I tried to focus on my hopes.
I saw a piece of dust on the floor. I watched it dance on the air being pushed up through the floor vents. The breath of the house was moving it around, having its way with the dust. It moved up and down, back and forth. The air stopped blowing, and the dust settled back on the floor. That’s me, I thought. I’m like a piece of dust that’s moved by a force beyond its control. I liked the idea of being driven by a breeze. Good things come in on a breeze. I still need to pay attention to things that move in front of me, that cross my path. Everything has meaning when you’re on a journey.
“It’s still a little high,” she said when I picked up the call from my weight loss doctor a week after my second blood test.
