All Back Full

by Robert Lopez

  This was some kind of turning point for the man.

  The woman said, See, you love him, too.

  The man didn’t have to resurrect the dog, but he was prepared to do so.

  He says, About your friend. Was she naked?

  She says, I don’t know, why don’t you call her back and ask?

  He says, She doesn’t like me.

  She says, She likes you.

  He says, Has she indicated such?

  She says, Not to me, she hasn’t.

  He says, Then how do you know?

  She says, I don’t. It’s only a guess.

  He says, It’s all guesswork, our entire lives.

  There is quiet. They are reading. It seems as if they are finished with the pastries, but probably not with the conversation.

  He says, How do you know her again?

  She says, I’ve always known her.

  He says, I thought she was a new friend.

  She says, She is, yes, but I’ve always known her.

  He says, Yes, but how?

  She says, I don’t remember.

  He says, How can you not remember?

  She says, I don’t know.

  He says, Well, then.

  Around the same time the dog developed health problems, the man developed problems of his own.

  These problems included overactive bladder or enlarged prostate, carpal-tunnel syndrome, tinnitus, some sort of kidney infection, vertigo, and anxiety.

  The man also developed a sleep disorder.

  He’d wake with a start, believing he was dead. He’d fly out of the bed and run over to the window for air, his heart beating audibly. Thirty or so seconds later, he’d come to and calm down, realizing he wasn’t dead, that everything was more or less fine.

  Otherwise, he’d jerk upright and put his hands on the woman.

  The first time he did this the woman didn’t know what to think.

  Eventually she grew accustomed to this disorder, as she had with his other disorders.

  She’d urge the man to see a sleep doctor but he’d say something about overextending themselves.

  During this time the woman’s own health problems continued. She still had asthma, still wheezed through the night.

  She still had TMJ and fibromyalgia, which the husband couldn’t believe was an actual condition.

  Also, she contracted Lyme disease one weekend while visiting the cabin upstate.

  Whatever the minor procedure corrected seemed more or less fine.

  Fibromyalgia is a chronic condition characterized by pain in the muscles, ligaments, and tendons; fatigue; and multiple tender points on the body. While no one knows what causes fibromyalgia, it is believed to involve psychological, genetic, neurobiological, and environmental factors. There is evidence that people with the condition may be more sensitive to pain because something is wrong with the body’s usual pain perception processes. More women than men have fibromyalgia, which doesn’t surprise the man at all. Fibromyalgia tends to come and go throughout life, which also doesn’t surprise the man. The whole thing seems arbitrary and capricious.

  The condition or syndrome tends to coexist with sleep disorders, anxiety, depression, and irritable bowel syndrome.

  The woman, indeed, has all of these.

  The woman can spend days on end in bed, only leaving to visit the bathroom. During these times, she asks her husband to sleep in the guest room.

  The guest room has a futon that is not at all comfortable. After two or three days, the man will go into the master bedroom and say, I can’t take the futon anymore. The woman will say, I know.

  The woman takes various muscle relaxants and tranquilizers during these episodes of prostration.

  The man wasn’t aware of these episodes of prostration until well into the courtship.

  That’s what he calls the episodes—prostrations. He’ll tell his friend that his wife is prostrate in bed again. He’ll talk about the futon, how he can’t take it, specifically the bar running down the center, how he can feel it through the thin mattress.

  He decided to ignore these prostrations, hoping that maybe one day she’d get better.

  Out of everything wrong with her, this is perhaps most troubling.

  The man will spend entire days researching these conditions on the Internet. He’s not sure he believes anything he reads, and at the same time he is convinced that something is very wrong.

  She did say early on, one night over dinner, that there were some things she hadn’t told him yet. She said they had to do with certain medical issues, family histories, genetics. She told him she’d understand whatever decision he might make at any time.

  This was the same night she told him she might not be able to get pregnant. Not only did she suspect an inability to conceive, but she also doubted she could carry a child and then deliver it successfully.

  The man asked if a doctor had told her this and she said no. She said she had a feeling.

  The man told her not to fret over this. He said there were other options.

  He wasn’t sure what he meant by this and was grateful she didn’t ask or agree.

  They both agree how they are cared for medically is guesswork. They each have visited traditional doctors, homeopathic doctors, alternative therapists, talk therapists, acupuncturists. They have taken herbs and supplements. They have changed their diets.

  They haven’t tried exercise, as neither is physically capable of exercise anymore.

  Years ago the man was a gifted athlete. But he has been inert for twenty years.

  Every part of the woman’s body hurts. Her whole body is killing her.

  Whenever the man exerts himself, his legs will burn. Even during a leisurely walk in the park.

  No one knows exactly what is wrong with them or how to address it.

  They are typical. They are Americans.

  She says, Are you hungry?

  He says, Do you think it strange that I’ve not seen her for so long now?

  She says, No. Do you think it strange we’ve not seen your father for so long now?

  He says, Then what do you base your guess on?

  She says, What guess is this again?

  He says, Your friend.

  She says, Yes, I remember. Most people like you. Most people seem to enjoy your company. Surely you’ve noticed this.

  He says, Maybe I have and maybe I haven’t. What I don’t know is…

  She says, There are people who seem to enjoy having you in their company. They seem to enjoy having you in close proximity. They enjoy drinking with you, talking with you, dancing with you, engaging in all kinds of exotic behaviors.

  He says, I’m not sure that’s true.

  She says, Well, we both know differently.

  The man and woman have struggled financially.

  The woman is a licensed acupuncturist and was hoping her private practice would take off in this community.

  The people in this community seem typical and unwell. They seem as if they would patronize a licensed acupuncturist just as they do the local yoga studio.

  So far this has not been the case.

  Two of the few clients she’s been able to procure are the neighbors who were out walking the dog earlier.

  She dragooned them into booking an appointment while they were helping clean a mom-and-pop delicatessen that had been flooded during the most recent hurricane.

  One came in for high blood pressure, the other general maintenance.

  Right now, the neighbors are probably napping. The dog is probably asleep, too.

  The woman sees maybe two or three patients a week.

  Sometimes she calls them patients, other times clients.

  The rest of the time she’s had to find work in various nursing homes as an occupational therapist.

  Occupational therapy is the use of treatments to develop, recover, or maintain the daily living and work skills of patients with a physical, mental, or developmental condition. It focuses on adapting the
environment, modifying the task, teaching the skill, and educating the client/family in order to increase participation in and performance of daily activities, particularly those that are meaningful to the client.

  Most of her patients suffer from dementia or have had strokes or some other kind of debilitating injury.

  She teaches them to make coffee, balance a checkbook.

  Their own checkbook is often out of balance.

  They sometimes do the math together at the kitchen table. This is usually after dinner and never on Sundays.

  One says something like, I’m not sure we can make this work. The math doesn’t add up.

  The other agrees.

  They are referencing the mortgage, the second mortgage, the home equity loan, the bills, their lives.

  Part of the problem has been the upstairs bathroom, which needed to be gutted and then reassembled a couple of years ago. This process involved a contractor, painters, plumbers.

  The man was charged with taping off the doorways so that the dust didn’t spread all over the house and inflame the woman’s asthma.

  He says, People sometimes….

  She says, Of course, people.

  He says, Do you want breakfast?

  She says, I don’t think so.

  He says, Are you not hungry?

  She says, I don’t think I am, no.

  Sometimes the pastries are not enough. Sometimes one or the other will make bacon and eggs. They will make toast, too, to go along with the bacon and eggs. She prefers either whole wheat or multigrain; he enjoys rye, be it seedless or no.

  He is supposed to avoid seeds and nuts due to his diverticulitis.

  Most of the doctors and other medical practitioners have advised him to avoid seeds and nuts. However, the latest research on diverticulitis has found no linkage between the aggravation of diverticulitis with the consumption of seeds and nuts. In fact, it now appears that a higher intake of seeds and nuts can help to avoid diverticulitis in adult males.

  He says, My father doesn’t get around like he used to.

  She says, This means what?

  He says, Why we haven’t seen him.

  She says, I’m sure that’s part of it.

  He says, Sometimes the answer is clear.

  She says, Except when it isn’t.

  They look at each other again, past and through.

  One sips coffee, the other doesn’t. Neither bites into a pastry.

  Outside on the street, there is a sedan parked directly across from their front gate, which is directly across from the front door.

  The car is colored like the pages of an old book, somewhere between yellow and air. There is probably a word for this shade, but the man and woman don’t know anything about cars. There are rust spots scattered about the hood, roof, and doors, what might be dubbed the body of the car. One assumes the previous owner had the car painted by professionals, though not the same outfit that painted the house. It is doubtful a car would be made available to the public in this color by the manufacturer.

  There are a number of dents, as well. The most conspicuous is located on the driver’s side door. Whatever accident caused the damage had to have been serious. Perhaps there were injuries, fatalities.

  The car has been out there for a week.

  Last night the man said something about the car.

  He said, Do you know whose car is parked outside?

  She said, No.

  Between the car and house, on either side of the gate, are hedges.

  The outer rim of the property is lined with hedges.

  This was a selling point for the woman, the hedges. She liked how they looked and that they afforded a certain privacy.

  The man wondered who would maintain the hedges and the rest of the property, which included a rather large and uneven lawn.

  Turns out the man was charged with maintaining the lawn and grounds for the first few months. He mowed once a week, which was trying and difficult, but trimmed the hedges, which took hours, only once. Mowing was a slow walk in the park compared to trimming the hedges.

  Trimming the hedges involved ladders and extension cords and chargers and gloves and reaching and leaning and was a total misadventure.

  The hedges were misshapen like an old widow’s arthritic toes.

  The woman took one look at the hedges and said A child could do better.

  The man feigned an allergy attack the next time he mowed the lawn and attempted to do the hedges.

  He sneezed and rubbed and scratched and gasped and wheezed and finally said I can’t take this anymore and the woman said, I know.

  They hired landscapers the next day even though they couldn’t afford landscapers then and still can’t.

  The man wonders who the car belongs to, if anyone. It looks abandoned. It looks like it was involved in something heinous and illegal.

  Their own cars are parked in the driveway of their freestanding garage.

  This is the driveway the slugs have maneuvered through on their way to other pastures, though none are green on account of the sunburnt lawn.

  The man and woman have a freestanding garage, which is often a feature of a Cape Cod.

  The garage is located behind the house and actually sits on another street. Meaning their mailing address is on one street but the garage is on another.

  They walk in and out of the house through the back door, which opens into a mud room.

  He says, And the movie last night. I was also thinking about the movie.

  She says, Did you like it?

  He says, It was fine. It could’ve been better. I liked it well enough. What about you?

  She says, It was something to do.

  He says, So, you didn’t like it?

  She says, No.

  He says, What was wrong with it, exactly?

  She says, Exactly.

  He says, I know what you mean. It was exactly familiar.

  She says, The same thing all over again.

  The man wants to talk about familiarity, about sameness and monotony, about predictability, about standardization and tedium, about uniformity. He wants to know why this is the norm, why everyone settles for this. He thinks everything is a repeat, a replication, some kind of formulaic simulacrum.

  It’s the everydayness of life that kills a man in the end.

  He wonders if there are no alternatives, if the very nature of our humanity calls for these things, demands them.

  He decides to speak up. There is time for him to speak his mind, as it is Sunday morning.

  He says, It is dense, the way things go unattended. It’s how it is every day here now, everyone uncertain, everyone feeling around in the dark for what might be right in front of them, unsure of their footing, hands extended, like a zombie in the old zombie movies or a mummy in the old mummy movies.

  She says, There were no zombies or mummies in the movie last night.

  He says, They couldn’t have hurt, that much is certain.

  The man looks at the woman but the woman is tracking a caterpillar climbing up the windowsill.

  He says, There are too many people here, everywhere you go people, people with other people, people with older people, people making newer people, be it the bus depot or the public parkways or the city streets or even in your own kitchen, fighting your way through the zombies and mummies to boil a pot of water, maybe dropping some converted rice in there so you can have something to eat, so you can stay alive another day, but none stand a post anymore and check passes, check identifications and credentials, ask questions, conduct surveys, these zombies and mummies today go through the very slow motions and this is a problem because I’m talking about who is left to keep on top of things, how all of us should get up in the morning and go to work, how it is we should behave, who it is we should talk to and how it is we should talk.

  There is no telling how the caterpillar got into the house. The woman suspects she accidentally brought it in when she was gardening yesterday.

&nb
sp; The woman maintains a small vegetable garden in the backyard. She grows tomatoes and basil.

  She says, When you’re right…

  He says, Sing it, sister.

  She says, What is converted rice?

  He says, I don’t know.

  She says, That’s what you said, right?

  He says, I do believe, yes.

  She says, But you don’t know what it is.

  He says, I don’t know quite a lot of what I say.

  She says, There’s no point arguing.

  He says, I don’t know what converted rice is but I like the sound of it. I like to think the rice used to be one religion but found another, it doesn’t matter which or what, like it used to be a zombie but became a mummy after reading through a pamphlet, after listening to a sermon or two, after seeing the light, so now it is part of the flock, a member of the congregation, can go out into the overpopulated world and evangelize, see how many it can bring into the fold, see how many it can birth and baptize, so that everyone is crowded together everywhere, at bus stops and parkways and kitchens, everyone insisting upon staying alive another day, insisting upon procreation, upon locomotion, moving around the inundated world, hands extended in the dark and right in front of them, unsure of their footing, uncertain and unattended.

  The caterpillar has attained the uppermost part of the windowsill. The molding is next.

  She says, No one makes movies about bathrooms, about cleaning bathrooms.

  He says, Maybe the French.

  She says, Someone should make a movie about cleaning the bathroom for two hours because her father-in-law is in town visiting. He says, Maybe the Italians.

  She says, The trouble is, no one ever has a movie star scrubbing the sink, the mirror above the sink, the bathtub. They might have her in there for a minute or two, maybe she’s smoking a cigarette, has her hair under a bandana, is wearing blue rubber gloves. She’s in there cleaning and her husband is out with his best friend and his darling new wife, so she’s cleaning the bathroom and drinking gin and listening to the stereo loud. He says, All the filthy Europeans.

  She says, But then as she is cleaning the phone rings and it will be the husband who is out with his best friend and his darling new wife, or it will be the best friend’s darling new wife who is drunk and nearly incoherent, and they are all of them up to no good, and then on the phone they all talk gibberish to each other and maybe it sounds like Greek or Swahili but it doesn’t matter because just then the father-in-law who is in town visiting will ring the doorbell and the father-in-law will approach the daughter-in-law and the daughter-in-law will tell him what she thinks is really happening and she will feel ridiculous because she knows the father-in law’s story, she’s seen how he operates, and he will comfort her and say there there, there there, and she will feel ridiculous and the next morning all of them will go together out for a pancake breakfast because you can’t have the movie star in there cleaning the bathroom for more than two minutes. You can’t have her hair under a bandana, drinking gin and talking to her father-in-law for too long. People won’t stand for it and the movie star won’t stand for it either.