Eventually, the date for the repossession was set. I had nowhere to go. I’d called Matt again. He told me that, once his parents’ house sold, he didn’t know where he would go either. I knew that wasn’t true. Shortly before that conversation I had driven to the house, hoping to talk to him. When I had pulled into the driveway, the first thing I noticed was that there was no for sale sign. He was not home, so I’d peeked through the windows. The entire house was filled with boxes and piles of stuff he had been sorting. A pillow and a blanket were on the couch, and empty drive-through cups sat on the table alongside. I wondered if he slept there. I wondered if he was going through the stuff to get rid of it, or just stuck in some sort of permanent memory lane. I had thought about leaving a note on the door, but did not. Instead, I got back into the car and drove home without ever telling him I was there.
“I would tell you to come here, but there are always people in and out of here looking at the house,” he’d told me. I had not replied. Finally, he’d suggested his parents’ lake cabin in Michigan.
I look back down at my suicide note. If I could have looked into my future two years ago, I would not have believed this moment. It is one of those moments that, even as you are living it, makes you wonder: How did I get here? What choice did I make that resulted in me sitting in the cabin where Matt and I honeymooned and writing a suicide note? I mean, obviously, I chose to come to the lake. But before that. Before—when life seemed normal, and seemed as if it would always go along just like that. I was living my life, and I was making the right choices. I was a good mother, a loving and faithful wife, and then it was all pulled from underneath me. Like one of those magic tricks where the magician unexpectedly yanks the tablecloth from the table but leaves all of the china upright. Only in this case, all of the pieces have crashed to the floor—and after I spent twenty-two years setting the table.
Chapter 3
Dear Matt. I’m sick of those two words. I cross them out. I try to remember the note I wrote in my head right after I woke up this morning. For some reason, I cannot. It remains as distant as a fuzzy dream. I look back down at the paper, stare at the crossed out words. This will be a rough draft. I will rewrite it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just a few sentences. No big deal. Lowering my head, I rest it against the paper and close my eyes. I take a few deep breaths and try to relax. I am so tired. So very, very tired. Weary. Exhausted to the bone. I consider going back to bed.
The spring on the screen door stretches, someone walks in, and the door loudly snaps shut. I jump, sit upright, and send my pen skidding across the hardwood floor.
“Hey,” Tony Walker says.
My car is parked at her store. She brought me across the lake yesterday when I arrived. Unless you have a boat of your own, she is the only source of transportation to the few islands that dot the area. She is here for some reason, but I cannot remember what that reason is. I stare at her blankly.
“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” she says, but the smile on her face tells me she enjoyed it.
“You didn’t scare me,” I lie. “But you could have knocked.”
She shrugs, dismissing my comment. “Where’s your grocery list?” she asks.
I remember now. Yesterday she told me I had three choices if I wanted to eat. I could row across the lake in the canoe near the pier and then drive half an hour to a major grocery store. I could row across the lake and get groceries from Tony’s small store. Or I could pay her to deliver groceries from her store to me once a week. At the time, I chose the latter. At the time, I thought I would be around for another week.
Up until this moment, I had forgotten the entire conversation. Now, I’m not sure what to say. Now, I don’t need groceries. But how can I explain that? If I tell her I am going to kill myself, she might call the authorities and they might haul me off to the loony bin. The very thought is embarrassing.
“I was just making out the list,” I finally say. Getting up, I quickly cross the room, pick up the pen from the floor, return to the table and pull a clean page from the notebook. “I don’t need much,” I say, wondering what to write. I need to order a few things to keep her from getting suspicious. I don’t want to order things that will spoil, though. I write a quick list and hand it to her.
She reads it. “Seven cans of soup and a box of oatmeal?”
I nod. “I’m on a diet.”
“Don’t you want milk for the oatmeal?”
“No. I like water in it.”
“What kind of soup?”
“Any kind.”
“Any kind?”
“Yeah. I like any kind of soup. Any kind of soup will work.”
She looks back down at the list, as if she might have missed something.
I suddenly feel so silly in this woman’s presence. I look at her with curiosity and a certain degree of awe. She is probably about ten years younger than me, but she exudes the confidence I never found. She is a little taller than me, and as I look over her body I guess that she weighs much less. Her body is trim and hard, almost boyish in the width of her shoulders and the well-defined muscles obvious in her forearms as she holds the list. She is wearing a tank top, an old pair of cutoff jeans that ravel against her tanned thighs, and hiking boots on her feet. Her light brown hair pokes out haphazardly from under a baseball cap, and most of it has been pulled through the opening in the back to form a careless ponytail that falls a little past her shoulders. She wears no makeup, and I wonder if she ever does. I cannot imagine going out in public without makeup, although I did not put any on today.
I have always envied women like Tony. Women who can slip in and out of their femininity like an old sweater. I always feel awkward around such women, as if they share a secret I do not. As if one day someone passed out a memo that read: We’re not playing dress up anymore. We’re not baking cookies. And no more ridiculous high heels. Only I never received the memo.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll bring this back later today. Payment’s due on delivery. Plus twenty bucks delivery charge.”
“You’re bringing them back today?”
“Yeah. I told you that yesterday. I deliver the groceries, you pay me, and you give me your list for the following week.”
If she is bringing them back today, I might as well eat something I like. I think for a few moments before asking, “Do you have Doritos? Cool Ranch?”
Tony nods.
“Bring me a bag of those. And an eight-pack of Dr. Pepper. Do you have Dr. Pepper?”
“Yep.”
“And a box of Ho Hos and half a gallon of milk!” I say excitedly, realizing I no longer have to watch what I eat. I won’t be around long enough to gain weight. “And a frozen pizza with everything on it. And a small jar of instant coffee. And some instant tea.”
Tony looks perplexed. “What about your diet?”
I start to think of some sort of rational explanation, some plausible lie, but then simply respond, “I changed my mind.” I take the list from her, quickly add the items and hand it back to her.
“Okay.” She turns to leave. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
Oddly, I find I do not want her to leave. I do not want to be alone.
“Do you have to leave so soon?” I ask.
She looks at me as if that is a strange question, and I guess it is. “Yeah. My uncle is watching the store. I got a couple more stops to make before I can even get back there and get yours.”
I try to think of something to say to prolong her departure. Finally, I say, “Alright. I’ll see you later.”
“Don’t forget, it’s twenty bucks for delivery plus whatever the groceries cost,” she adds, turning to walk out.
After she leaves I sit at the table, but I’m unable to concentrate on the note. All this talk about food has made me hungry. I wonder how long it will take her to return with the food.
I look back down at my suicide note. Dear Matt. I sigh, put my pen down, and get up to search the cupboards. I glanced into them yesterday wh
en I first arrived, but took little notice of their contents.
I find a bottle of pancake syrup, two cans of pork and beans, one can of corn, and assorted cleaning supplies. I opt for the corn. While it heats, I slip on an old pair of shoes. Then I pour it into a bowl, grab a spoon, and carry it outside. Even in my current state of mind, I cannot help but notice the beauty of the woods. They smell of acorns, leaves, and dirt; oddly enough, the combination is clean and fresh. Rays of sunlight fall through the green of the forest in soft dusty shafts. I walk along the path, toward the clearing near the lake, weaving in and out of the rays, the sun and shade alternately warm and cool upon my body.
At a picnic table just outside the woods, I stop. Sitting down, I eat my corn and gaze toward the lake. I feel an odd sort of reverence. This is where my life will end. I am surrounded by water and trees. Across from me, another larger island with a pier can be seen in the distance. Far away to the right, a solitary sailboat floats lazily. To the left, another long stretch of water fades into trees. I am in a small clearing of sand fringed with patches of grass. Alone with the picnic table, pier, and an overturned red canoe near the water. I look back toward the lake and the canoe sparks a memory. I wonder if it is the same canoe. No, it can’t be. That was over twenty-two years ago, during our honeymoon. It seems odd that I have chosen the location of our honeymoon to perform such an act. Perhaps it is fitting.
Matt had wanted to show me around and take me across the lake in the canoe, despite my repeated protestations.
“Come on. It will be fun,” he’d said, pulling me by the hand toward the water.
“No. It won’t be. I don’t want to do this.”
“Quit being such a chicken.”
Even now, I remember how he looked that day—that smile, those brown eyes.
“I’m not a chicken. I can’t swim! I told you that!”
“That’s what the canoe is for. We aren’t swimming—we are rowing!”
“I’ll drown.”
He had flipped over the canoe and pulled out an orange life jacket. “That’s what this is for. See! It’s like a well-oiled plan. Just you and me on the lake all afternoon.”
I had managed to get the life jacket on, and even managed to get in the canoe, but I was terrified. I clung to my seat, my feet planted wide apart to steady me.
I remember Matt pushing us off. He did it at a run, leaping into the canoe and then taking up the paddles, so comfortable and so sure of himself. I had never seen him like that before. He had spent many summers and many weekends here. It struck me, how opposite we were— how comfortable he was and how terrified I was. He was smiling and enjoying himself, anxious to share his love of the water with me.
He had not paddled out very far when a speedboat passed. It was not very close, but the waves from it soon rocked our little canoe. I started screaming and crying. Bewildered, Matt rowed us quickly back to shore and held my hand as I got out of the canoe. I will never forget his tenderness as he unbuckled my jacket and then wrapped his arms around me. “You’re safe now. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken you out there. I just didn’t realize.”
I finish my corn and ache for that tenderness.
Summers spent skiing, tubing, and swimming in the lake were all given up when Matt married me. I hated being here. I always felt uneasy near the water and never wanted to spend any time at the lake. He never complained, so I guess I assumed it never really meant that much to him. Sitting here, surrounded by all of this natural beauty, I realize he must have missed this lifestyle very much. Until he married me, Matt had spent every summer of his life at this lake, on this island.
A movement on the island across the lake catches my attention. Though I cannot see clearly due to the distance, it appears to be a man. I watch him wade into the water and begin to swim in my direction. I watch for a long time, amazed he can swim so far. I wish I could swim. Then I realize that if I could it would be much harder to drown myself. He is now almost halfway across the lake and I begin to wonder if he is coming here. Surely, no one could swim that far. That’s not possible, is it? After a few more minutes, he turns and swims back toward his island. When he gets close to the shore, he stops swimming and wades ashore. I wonder if he is tired. If his legs are wobbly. He occasionally stops to pick up something and throw it into the water. Maybe rocks? He appears to be tanned with dark hair and an athletic build, although from this distance it is hard to tell. I wonder if it is just my imagination? After ten minutes, he stops throwing rocks and turns to disappear into the trees.
I get up, taking my empty bowl and spoon with me, and walk back toward the woods. I spot another path that must lead to the other cabin. Following it, I enter the woods again, although this side is denser and the path is strewn with broken branches. I stop frequently, bending over to pick up branches and throw them aside. After a while, this strategy proves too much work and I give up, merely stepping over the branches and following the poorly defined path. The possibility of getting lost occurs to me but I dismiss it quickly, telling myself I can always turn back around and follow the path to the cabin. I try to keep my eye on the lake, catching glimpses of it through the brush and trees. By keeping my eye on the lake, I cannot get lost, I reason. I am not far from the shore, although I seem to be moving away from the water. Moving on, I trip over unseen vines and make slow progress.
I stop to tie my shoe, and then stand back up and look about. The thought crosses my mind that if I close my eyes and spin around in a circle I would have no idea which way I have come. The path ahead looks the same as the path behind. I consider turning back, but logically, I know it would be impossible to get lost. There is only one path. All I have to do is stay on it. Still, as I move on, I can feel panic creep in. The little girl in me is crying, “What if I get lost? What if I never find my way out of here? What if monsters find me? And what about scary people? Everyone knows that the woods are full of scary people.” I keep walking, take a deep breath and remind myself I am an adult. What is the worst that could happen? I run into a crazy killer and he shoots me or something? He would be doing me a favor. I walk on with no fear.
Slowly, the path begins to clear. Although I can no longer see the lake, the going is easier and I am able to travel at a faster pace. After a short time, I spot a cabin. It is stained a cedar color and huge baskets of white flowers hang from each side of the door. I try to not think about my magenta-colored petunias, which I threw in the trash before leaving our house. The path leading to the cabin is bordered with running mounds of pink impatiens. Near one of them, a silver-haired lady is kneeling. Crap. I didn’t want to run into anybody. I try to turn and walk back into the woods but she spots me before I can do so.
She speaks before I do. “I didn’t even hear you! You must be part Indian!” Standing, she drops a handful of weeds into a nearby wheelbarrow and wipes her hands on the seat of her faded jeans. She pushes back an errant strand of grey hair and extends her hand. “Irene Wells,” she says.
Hastily, I switch the bowl and spoon to my left hand. “Grace Adams,” I respond, shaking her hand.
“Are you taking your bowl for a walk?”
I laugh. “Something like that. I had breakfast on the picnic table and thought I would go for a walk afterward.”
“You must be staying in the Adams’ cabin.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a nice cabin. We really miss John and Paula. You must be related. Or are you Matt’s wife?”
“Yes. Matt’s wife.” Soon to be ex-wife, I think. I try to think of some excuse to leave.
“Are Matt and your little girl here too?”
If she knows so much about my life, why doesn’t she know we are not together?
“No. Just me,” I say.
“Oh, okay.” Her expression tells me she realizes she might have asked one too many questions. But she still asks another, “How long are you staying?”
I hesitate. I hate to lie to her. She seems so nice. “All summer,” I finally say.
/>
“Good! It’ll be nice having another woman on the island.”
“You’re staying for the entire summer, too?”
“The summer, the fall, the winter, next spring—God willing,” she says with a smile. “We live here year-round now.”
“Oh, that must be nice,” I lie. I turn and look into the woods, back toward my cabin. Why in the world would anyone want to live here all year long? I cannot even imagine what the winters would be like.
“We like it. Did you bring a phone with you? The cell service isn’t very good here.”
“No. I don’t have a phone.” I resist the urge to tell her Matt not only quit paying the house payments, he quit paying our cell phone bills too.
“Let me tell you, that can be a blessing. No phone ringing all day long. I’ve got one in my purse. We call the kids once a week and leave it in there the rest of the time. If you ever need to make a call, you’re welcome to it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“If you ever want to take a ride to the store, or anywhere for that matter, that canoe you have over there is a nice one if you don’t mind rowing. Practically new. Or if you don’t want to row, you could get a ride from us. We’ve got a little fishing boat with a motor on it.”
I say nothing and smile in response. “I should be going so you can get back to your weeding.” I really want to leave. A nap sounds great. A nap and then I will finish that note.
“Don’t be silly. These weeds will be here later today. Even tomorrow. They’ll wait for me. Let’s have a glass of tea and sit on the porch for a spell.” Irene wipes the dirt from her knees and turns to walk toward the cabin. “Come on,” she says, as she gives her hands a final swipe across the seat of her pants. She does not wait for me to answer, just walks toward her cabin. It is annoying. I don’t feel like talking to her. I just want to be alone. I sigh and follow. Maybe she will have something to eat, I think in resignation. The corn didn’t exactly fill me up. I follow her and notice hundreds of orange daylilies planted the full length of the porch.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 25
