by C.T. Millis
Chapter 5
She was too young to have white hair, James’ mom thought to herself as she peered from the wrinkles around her glazed eyes at her hollow frame in her nightgown. She looked over at the coral pink house robe that became her outfit, her uniform, her death garb. She was dead, sure of it, during the nights. Since it happened, all of her outfits seemed to sprout coffee stains on them. There was one on the near-sheer yellow housecoat she was wearing. It spread out from the collar and curled around her left breast and ended in the shape of an anchor. She could not remember spilling that. She felt strange because she always drank her coffee so hot so it would feel like it lit her up inside, and it should have hurt to spill that much. It should have hurt.
She shivered and the housecoat pulled her in as much as she pulled it onto her. She lifted the collar around her neck and she felt as protected as a tortoise. Looking down, she could see her name stitched in contrasting royal blue. The regal letters curled around themselves, ‘Karen,’ that was her name. She could not seem to make her face move right anymore. When she was trying to seem happy, she could not smile, when she was trying to look like she was not breaking apart, people still noticed. Her husband bought her that housecoat, but she never wore it when he was alive. Now that he was dead, she wore it all the time. She shut the door so the only person who could see what she was about to do was him. She moved to the corner of the room. His dresser was there, not yet with dust.
The first drawer slid open in a bumpy disgrace. There were pictures that slid together to the brim. It was a cornucopia of memories. She had given most of his clothes away. The next drawer held his letters; he called and wrote so often when he was away. During cracking conversations sent from around the world, he would talk about the humor and confusion of daily events. In his letters, which he hand wrote, his words and thoughts were clear. He hardly alluded to his surroundings- but instead expounded on complex ideas and ideals like love, family, war, and time. He wrote as if he really knew the answers. Week to week his epiphanies would flip around and he would believe the opposite. Many of his letters ended with: I wish I could just believe in something, like you do.
She was on the floor before she could look even further or read his words. She whispered:
“His name was James,” she put her hand above her, “I loved him,” she slid the drawer closed, “his name was James,” she covered her face with her hands, “and now it’s not.” This happened every night for her, sometimes several times a day also. A pull to the drawers would compulsively take her in, she was convinced her life was in there.
As she was lying on her back, she stopped breathing out of surrender. She felt like her empty stomach was being pulled downward by threads into the ground. Without breath, she could hear the wrist watch collection she was too afraid to see. They, in themselves, held so much time. It was as if he was right there.
