Maybe Someday

by Ede Clarke

  “When?” I asked, looking straight ahead at belts and pockets of scores of well-wishers.

  “In . . . a few days . . . maybe. Would that be alright? Would that . . . work with your schedule?”

  Very slowly, each word a gift that I choose to give or withhold I tell him in my thoughts, I never fully put on the identity of mother, Ted. I knew I wasn’t. But I fully put on and chose to love them. So . . . so . . . So, I won’t answer your ludicrous question of can I fit into my schedule, not our schedule anymore, but my schedule, time for you to rip my heart out. “Yes, a few days would be fine.”

  “Thank you . . . for meeting tomorrow . . . to finish the paperwork.”

  I have reached my limit of graciousness. Unable to even reply a simple, “You’re welcome,” I rise and feel the air get thicker, acquiring a taste of . . . something bitter or acidic. The smiles and dark tones and sounds rush together in a dusty lava lamp swirl, ebbing and soothing my senses. Something is tugging at my skirt, almost at the waist, and I don’t need to respond. I have freedom to ignore. This is not my responsibility anymore. I can walk out and cut the pain short. Just then my hand finds the top of Jackie’s head and my fingers thread through his cool, sweaty hair. “Want me to pick you up?” I ask him. With a teary nod, I raise his heavy body to mine and rest him on the hips I’ve thanked God for ever since meeting The Five.

  “I still fit,” he says with a sad smile.

  “Always,” I tell him straight in the eyes. He nuzzles my neck and I find a chair on which we can finish our moment, our good-bye.

  When I was quitting smoking, I wanted to die. I wanted to die because I couldn’t live in between. It was unbearable. Five days into no cigarettes was hard enough for me to commit to not having another—ever again. The complete pain, through and through, I endured for those few days was awful enough that it could not be in vain. So, I found myself to be a smoker who could not smoke. I could not have a cigarette, yet I could not live in this pain of not smoking. What to do, but not do—not live. Those were the thoughts of the worst seasons of the first month of quitting smoking.

  For the first time in years, since that first year after undergrad graduation, I really want a cigarette. The idea of it doesn’t disgust me. I find myself holding pens and lighter silverware as I would a cigarette. I find myself thinking about the word cigarette a lot. Even the shape, the smell and the feel of an unlit cigarette is cause for pause—before I am out of bed, as I am realizing I don’t have to get out of bed . . . right now . . . for any reason . . . for any needs . . . other than I probably ought to either get up and go to the bathroom or fall back asleep so I don’t know I have to go to the bathroom. Or, I could get up, throw on a pair of jeans, hop in the car, and buy a lighter—no matches, they’re cheaper—and a pack of cigarettes . . . Aawwwh, who do I know who I can call at 6 a.m. and bum a cigarette from?

  The thought totally cracks me up. So, now I’m awake and in the bathroom taking care of what should have happened fifteen minutes ago . . . much better now. And then the silence creeps in again and almost kills me—arrests me—on the spot. Reality is so crisp when it is not the preferred reality. Without ambiguity I know for certain my situation and hate it. Doubled over on the toilet, wishing my forearms were warmer as they chill my thighs, I sink into myself with a desperation of labored breathing. I don’t want to be so aware of my body, my self. But, everything I do takes such awareness and energy that I’m consumed by my self—my needs, my pain, my thigh cellulite, my lack of strength, lack of desire, of hunger . . . I’m just so sick of me.

  Snapping off the toilet, I can’t believe how old I look! Where’s Mom’s old hand mirror? The light is different in the bedroom. What do you know? I don’t look any better with different light, a different mirror . . . I’m just shocked at how bad I look. Let’s pluck a few strays. Not like getting a little red on my chin and eyebrows will stand out much anyway at this point. Bethy was so right that after thirty the hair just comes and comes with more of a vengeance. Concentrating on each hair, each pore, noticing the little imperfections and removing them is so gratifying. I continue and continue—moving on to squeezing blackheads and whiteheads and anything that might be dirt. This is good. This will make me look better. The changing sun slinks over the vanity and hits my wrist with brilliance. 7:15?! I’ve been picking at my face for an hour?!

  “I’m so sorry, Toura,” I said in a blur while whirling to the coat rack and over to the back counter. “I really had no idea how late it was. I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain.”

  Her kind face met me with a slow hand on my left elbow and forearm, “Not a problem, my friend. Can I get you a cup of coffee while you’re in the back?”

  Grace and an offering of love. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.” These were the first words of the day I had said to any other human being. My voice was scratchy. Maybe this is why I see people talking to themselves in their cars in the morning. Although, I’ve noticed lately they’re actually talking to their cell phone attachment on their ear. But, it always looks like they’re talking to themselves. Did I talk to myself when I worked at Erie Public? I just can’t remember.

  “Patty, go get your apron on, okay?” Toura snapped me back to the bakery and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t moved since her coffee offer. I felt like I was going at warp speed, yet there was obviously no movement.

  “Yes. Of course,” I quickly replied and shot to the back. What a gift to not have to explain my insanity. I wouldn’t have the energy anyway.

  “It’s been a disaster, Candy. I can’t even get to work on time. No one told me this pain would turn me stupid. It’s ridiculous . . . ”

  “Who cares, Patty. Everyone is going to give you a ton of space right now. This would be the perfect time to do any ol’ thing you’d like, you know? You can run down Main Street naked and folks would not even talk about it.”

  “Yes, they would.” We both laughed in unison. “I feel myself holding onto the responsible part of me—the woman who goes to work, eats vegetables, and is slowly going through this and will not make waves and must do the right thing and make the right choices—But, what I really want to . . . ”

  “What, you want to go crazy? You want to use this to give you the permission, the excuse? To run off somewhere or eat chocolate for dinner every night?”

  I took a sip of tea and waited for her to say, “Go ahead.” But, she isn’t saying it, or anything. “What is all that noise in the background? Are you in the office or on site?”

  “We’re about an hour outside of Bangkok in a huge bakery—at least what they call a bakery.”

  “Yeah? What’s weird?”

  “Ever seen purple sliced sandwich bread? Tastes like white, but it’s purple. Taro.”

  “Uh, huh.”

  “And raisins. Every bread has raisins in it. I don’t know why . . . So, back to you, Patty—you want to run off somewhere with a cute twenty year old and not say good-bye to a soul?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want change, or you want self-destruction?”

  “I want to choose. That is all. This time I choose my happiness and misery, and why. This time it’s up to me.”

  “At least you’re still you—as arrogant as ever.”

  “You think I can’t control things more now than before?”

  “Maybe if you go back to staying in every night with a book. But, you’re talking about the opposite of that. You’re talking about livin’ large with a cabana boy at your beck and call and getting plastic surgery or something.”

  “I would never get plastic surgery.”

  “Never?”

  “Never! Well, we’ll see in about ten years . . . ”

  We both giggle and muse at us at 45 and just when I’m about to say I might be in favor of a little somethin’, somethin’ to keep the butt from hitting my knees, Candy cuts us short, “Listen, I gotta go. This is getting too tricky to unde
rstand you and the translator and the body language of the three people in front of me. I’m starting to talk to them about liposuction.”

  “No worries, call me in a few days when you can.”

  “That’ll be perfect. I’ll be down south for a few rest days early next week. I’ll call you from there if I can get my cell to work.”

  “I’ll be praying for safe travels.”

  “Thank you. And, I’ll be praying you don’t go insane until we talk again—But, hey, if you do go nutty, I’ll still love you. Just let me know where you’re headed so I can join you.”

  “Will do. Talk to you soon.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  The tea is cold so do I get up and refresh it or just sip on it anyway? Why settle? Because I’m lazy or tired, or something, and don’t want to get up. That’s why. I don’t have the energy for better.

  “Thanks everybody for coming together today for this meeting,” Greg started with as he passed around a plate of his homemade ginger snaps. “As we head into summer many will be traveling.” The grease stain on the panel behind Greg is still not clean. I can’t believe it. What will it take? “I’ve gone ahead and posted a calendar on the bulletin board by the prep list so we can see when everyone is gone on vacation. I don’t think anyone is overlapping anyone else, so we should be okay. Thank you in advance for covering for your fellow family member.” Family. I think I’ll start Fairie Queenie tonight. Something destructive and anti- status quo feels right . . . it’s been so long since I’ve touched anything from the 16th century. “Well, I think that is about it. Patty, can I please see you for a moment before you go? Thanks, everyone.”

  “See you tomorrow, Patty.”

  “See you tomorrow, Toura. Yes, sir?” I stood before Greg.

  “Patty, when you look at the calendar you’ll notice I still have you blocked out for those two weeks at the lake. I have no idea if you still want to go or not. And, it is, of course, completely up to you. Cindy and I just want you to know that you are more than welcome to go there and take a friend, or not. Just whatever makes the most sense to you.” After a bit of silence he continued. “So, that is all I wanted to say . . . to you.”

  Hmmm. “Oh. Okay. Thank you. Can I . . . can I think about it?”

  “Of course, of course, Patty.”

  “So, that would be next week, right?”

  “Yes, next Monday would be the first day of the two weeks off. Yes.”

  “Sorry I forgot and haven’t really thought about it.”

  “No problem at all, Patty. No problem at all.”

  ‘Okay, I’ll let you know tomorrow. Is that alright?”

  “Yes, that is fine. Thank you.”

  Tomorrow.

  Time becomes a problem, a strain—even a nuisance, when there is nothing to look forward to. Before, it was a boundary that helped things along, a useful tool to continue us all moving forward. But, forward holds not the same kind of flavor as before. Backward sounds best, if I go back far enough. But, forward is cold and outside of safety or warmth and has nothing I can envision, no sound or smell for sure. So, time is no longer helpful. If not useful, I’m not interested.

  That is the way I would normally think: practical. What if I do run off with a cute guy without saying good-bye? What if I do just not show up for my life one day? What if I don’t eat green vegetables for a whole month—at all? Then usefulness is not the only criteria for desire. Other things can consider getting on the list. Things like growth—but in a carefree and short-term way. This can blow the lid right off any kind of list I’ve ever made. Lots of things can come streaming into my life that would have never made the cut before. In fact, I think I’ll go to the lake, all by myself, and see what comes of it. With no plan, no schedule, no energy—that’s for sure—we’ll just see . . .

  “You’re not packing more than a backpack? That’s not like you, Patty? Is this how you’ve decided to go insane?”

  “Yes, it is. In fact, it’s even worse than you suspect. I also don’t have a schedule for those two weeks, and will not be making one either. Aren’t you impressed?”

  “Completely!”

  “I knew you would be proud of me. I told Mad, too. She said I don’t even need therapy if I’m able to really stick to this.”

  “I don’t know about that one. I’ve thought for years that you could use some good therapy.”

  “You’re hilarious. Don’t you have a cabana boy you could be beckoning at right now, or something?”

  “Na, this is much better. But, I must tell you Phi Phi is fantastic. We’re on the east side, and there is something magical here that speaks to me, calms me.”

  “That would be sun in the day and moonlight and palm branches in the breeze at night.”

  “Well, I’m just saying that I hope you find something at the lake.”

  “I didn’t know I was looking for anything, Candy. I just want to rest. I’m exhausted. I want to sleep in and not eat real meals, and just . . . be.”

  “And read?”

  “A lot.”

  “Alright then. Go to it. I’ll call you tomorrow and you better answer from the beach.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  I lay crying in bed, waves of pain calmly rubbing over my entire body like they don’t know that what it’s inflicting is bad, but think they are instead natural and life giving—my limbs lapping in rhythm with my trunk, all washed up onto a shore being lulled into a light sleep by the consistent, constant rhythm. My body’s warmth coming not from a tropical sun, but from the work necessary for the water from within to agitate and salt my heaving skin. Wrenching uses muscles in the face, neck, and stomach. I feel the work inside me minutes into the session and wonder how long this unnecessary reminder will last. I’m already anticipating the soreness after. Why is it that it almost feels better while in the throws of pain, rather than after? It’s like an athlete’s injury—only feeling the real pain when the hurt muscle isn’t warm, when not doing what aggravates it. The euphoria while in the depths is grace from above to help me think it just might not be real.

  I continue to wake with uncomfortably dry lips and deduce it must have been caused from the deep breathing exercises I forced myself to do to get to sleep. Blindly groping for a glass that I was dearly hoping still had some water in it, I accidentally knock over a stack of books and try not to care that I wonder if my first edition Keats is among them. Halfway through my first sip I remember it was not and admit a sigh of relief. “That spine couldn’t of taken that kind of fall,” I muse. Mmm . . . my lips are available again for full extension without pain.

  A short list of unfinished, unimportant hobby projects whiz through my mind before I can even get the glass back on the side table. Several of the tasks open doors to alter personalities that I just know I could fulfill if skill mastery could be attained. The montage of larger-than-life slides flip through quickly and clearly as if projected on the opposite wall, ignoring completely the large woven tapestry hung right in the middle of the viewing area: Various not-very-good (yet) paintings; small, but very detailed, wood carvings of . . . something; very colorful, but not very consistently, woven rag rugs; purely broken porcelain pieces waiting to become a mosaic; spools of color wanting to overlay into an Asian silk story; and boxes and a drawer of cards, letters, pictures, and notes of thoughts, anecdotes, stories, people, places, and lives waiting to meet the rest of the world. I should pick one of these and take it to the beach with a book.

  And then, just minutes after I awake, the reprieve is gone and the siege continues. I remember what happened only weeks before, what sent me sailing through memories that had me wanting the wind to stop so I could take a break and rest. But it won’t relent and instead keeps pushing and pushing until I lay down under its weight, and let my body take the beating that my mind can no longer bear. In this ordinary morning it blows over me again so suddenly, yet so c
risply that it is like the first wisp of the Fall breeze that takes you by surprise, but at the same time is so familiar that you almost say hello. And then I sink into myself, in a heap still half under the covers in pity and curiosity that this underbelly depth of pain is not a stranger.

  I’m freezing! Why is it so cold in here? I flip on the lights as I stumble in with my suitcase and a swoop of loose top snow. No wonder! The side window is cracked open. I totally forgot to close it before I left. You’d think I was 25 going on senile! Scarf unwrapped. Mittens laid out to dry with my coat. Messages or tea first? Bathroom! Definitely bathroom. It felt good to be home for the feel of me. Everything I see is me, crafted with independence, experience, hard work. Simple history in each item and related thought. My history.

  Coming home to Christmas decorations after Christmas is always so depressing though. I wish I would have had time to put them away before leaving. But, Erie Public was so crazy that week. What am I saying? There was no time. I did my best. Hey, it’s a miracle the presents were wrapped and that I had packed clean clothes.

  The heat begins to seep in and the warmth reminds me I have thick wool socks on as they faintly begin to itch. So, I strip them as they join the pile of laundry that was my suitcase clothes. Several items have holiday giveaways like a splat of gravy and a dribble of candied sweet potato goo. In relation, the socks could even be considered clean if it wasn’t that I wore them for three straight days. Mad’s parent’s house has always had the worst drafts. It took me years to learn that wool socks were the only effective barrier.

  Three messages: the first two are nice Christmas cheers. The third message begins as I put the tea kettle on the stove and crank up the burner: “Hi, Patty. It’s Russ. Uh . . . Merry Christmas. I guess you aren’t around so I’ll catch you next time. Take care, Patty.”