And also, if I try to call the ocean and it does not appear, then I will only be the sad fiancée with the heirloom ring, living on borrowed time until I am replaced with someone more suitable.
I wrap my thick cream robe around my body and venture out into the stillness of the kitchen and combined living room. Everyone has left—even Peggy. The absence of her is a small victory. She has said her piece and gone. This makes her power, her words, diminish a bit and I can almost feel my heart lighten a little. Then I realize that “everyone” also means Truman. He is gone, left me without a goodbye. Should I have expected a goodbye? I left the party without imparting that comfort to anyone…
Sighing, my body moves on autopilot into the kitchen area and my eyes take in the expanse of countertop, which is now covered in used plates, half-eaten stuffed mushrooms, avocado slices atop tomatoes and cheeses.
An overwhelming part of me wants to leave the food there, the trash and crumpled napkins and lipstick-stained glasses. Let everything stay there. Let the food begin to brown and rot overnight. But I know that I will lie awake in bed for hours if I ignore the mess.
Gathering the soiled napkins, I depress the trashcan lever and watch the white paper disappear into the black hole. The china is next. It makes no sense to me—why Truman would have used the plates that must be lovingly, painstakingly washed and carefully dried to preserve the hand painting on the surfaces.
But maybe it is Peggy’s doing. She set up this gathering, coordinated the food. Was it some form of punishment? To make my inevitable cleaning of the kitchen a larger burden than it needs to be? I almost feel paranoid. Surely she is not so petty and vindictive. Then I let loose a giggle, because it is Peggy. Of course she is that petty and vindictive.
I let the sink water run awhile, waiting for it to get warm. It takes a few minutes, which gives my mind time to wander. I’m beginning to realize that an idle mind is not a safe thing for me right now. Brilliant coral clouds my vision, cobalt water, sunlight bouncing from wave peak to wave peak.
“Shit!” I gasp. The tap is steaming hot and I yank my hand away, which is now an angry red rather than its usual porcelain. I normally like the feel of scalding water, but this has surprised me with unexpected pain.
For the price Truman paid for this condo, gold should come out of the pipes, not water that is slow to warm and then raging hot without warning. Adjusting the water temperature until it is a step above lukewarm, I begin to wash the dishes carefully, using the softest side of the green sponge in the sink.
The repetitiveness of cleaning the plates is soothing: my body can continue to scrub and rinse and dry while I watch the bronze clock above the sink tick away the seconds of my life. When I am on the last plate, I refocus and my heart stills.
My hands and wrists are silvery-green.
Truman will never forgive me if I have ruined his great-grandmother’s wedding china, with its lovely blue-green vines and fading purple flowers and silver flourishes. Setting down the last plate atop the drying mat, I examine every inch of the dishes I have washed. But they are fine, all perfectly patterned and as beautiful as the day they were designed.
Moving so that I am fully illuminated by the Edison bulbs above the island, I look at my hands. They are still an unnatural hue, but the shade is fading, disappearing beneath my normal skin color. It is as if I have sat on a beach, the kind with the sand that leaves you silvery and glittery after you’ve brushed the grittiness from your body, but this special sand is not only shimmery, it also colored.
I stand there transfixed, watching my fingers and palms and wrists until the blue-green is completely gone.
“What are you doing?”
My body jolts, so startled am I by Truman’s presence. “Did you see my hands?” I look at him curiously, a taint of desperation in my voice. I want to know if it was real or if I am being the daydreamer again.
“What the hell are you talking about?” His gaze moves from my face to my hands and I see a tightening at the corners of his eyes, as if he is hoping there is something actually wrong with me. I know in that moment that he doesn’t believe the doctor; he doesn’t believe that I am sane, despite what he said at the hospital.
“Nothing… it was nothing.” I murmur the words, feeling deflated. I am not insane, but I am the daydreamer again. I crave the reality that is not real at all.
“I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”
“I need to put the food up first.” In that moment, I love the leftovers; they give me a reason to stay here a little longer and wait for Truman to complete his nighttime ritual of face-washing and moisturizing. Perhaps he’ll be asleep by the time I am done, and then I will be saved any intimacies.
“Leave it.”
“You know I won’t sleep if I do that.”
“Always have to have things neat and tidy, don’t you?”
“Would you rather I left everything out to spoil? Wake up and have our jellied toast next to rotten tomatoes?”
“We have a maid, Lena. Every morning.”
“Marianna shouldn’t have to clean up this kind of mess, Tru. We don’t pay her enough.”
Truman grumbles something as he turns away from me and stomps into the bedroom. I feel triumphant; I’ve won this battle, as silly and unimportant as it is.
I take my time putting away the food and cleaning the platters. By the time I enter the bedroom, Truman’s soft snores fill the space. The sound is heaven to my ears.
Chapter 6
Love me tomorrow
The morning comes quickly and as I begin to wake, the smells that surround me are confusing.
In the days that I was gone, Peggy threw away all of my cinnamon candles and vanilla air fresheners. I suspected as much when I’d first arrived back home and walked into the hallway of the building. Pale purple reed diffusers and fancy glass spray bottles have taken their places in the bathrooms and living room. They make me feel like another piece of myself has been stripped away, which is silly. They’re only scents, only flickering wicks and aerosol comfort.
But the whole stupid house smells like honeysuckle and freesia.
I play with the starfish pendant as I lie in bed, trying to reassure myself that the house does not matter, it is not who I am. The change of smell continues to confuse my sleep-addled brain and make me feel lost, though, like I have not arrived home at all.
Banging in the kitchen draws my attention away from the condo’s aroma.
Truman is upset with me for having abandoned the welcome home party so soon. He is banging around the kitchen; the smell of coffee wafts to me and mingles with the floral notes. They do not meld harmoniously at all. Truman has used the single-serve espresso machine and not the large French press. I can tell by the gurgle of the machine. There’s a reason for this: he does not want me to come out for a cup; he does not want to tiptoe around morning niceties.
It makes me feel like I cannot leave the room and reaffirms, like the freesia, that this condo is not my home. The feeling of homelessness is not strange to me, yet it chafes against my insides. Like water across stone, it strips away the cuts and bruises of adulthood and returns me to my youth of foster families and group homes.
I would not return to my childhood for all of the money in the world. And I do not want to stay in this adulthood I have made for myself—despite Truman’s wealth.
Yet I want to leave the prison of this room, demand a cup of coffee, and tell Truman what his mother said to me in the bathroom yesterday. My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as I remain motionless. And that stunted, unfinished desire reaffirms that a part of me, even if it is miniscule, still wants Truman to say that Peggy’s words are untrue; that he will marry me, that nothing will stop him.
But that would be something a true love would say, not a false love.
So I am just a fish, parting my lips and clamping them shut again because I cannot breathe.
God, make me the stone in the water, make me smooth again, make me str
ong for my future, not for my past.
“I’m going to work. Your breakfast is in the microwave.” Truman pokes his head into the bedroom; his eyes are cold, staring at me.
I am sitting up in bed now, lounging really, against fluffy pillows and the summer green comforter. My eyes see him, but my brain is still arrested by thoughts I cannot banish easily.
“Did you hear me, Lena?” He walks into the room, stands beside the bed, and waves a hand in front of my face rapidly.
I blink and swallow. My vocal chords are sore, like I’ve fallen into the ocean and drunk my fill.
Salt water in my mouth again.
My eyes tighten at the corners, as if the soreness in my throat is some untapped strength that helps me ignore the part of me that still loves this handsome man who is so empty inside. “Yes. I heard you.”
He seems surprised at the hardness in my voice; it’s a sharp paring knife this morning when normally it is a butter knife, edge dull and harmless. I see the Adam’s apple of his throat rise and fall as he swallows, uncertainty playing across his face. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then opens it once more. Ha, who’s the dying fish now, Truman?
“You need to make an effort, Lena. You need to make an effort for us. I can’t do this alone.”
A million retorts flit through my brain, but my short-lived resolve falters. “I am trying, Tru. I promise I am.”
“Try harder. I don’t want to lose you.” He rubs his eyes roughly and then shakes his head sadly. “Marianna won’t be here until ten today.”
I want to ask why, but I also don’t want him to stay any longer. So I just nod and say “okay.”
As he leaves the room, a pain in my chest is my response to his words. He has already lost me, because he has never had “me.” He has had the idea of me, molded and dressed to fit his world, but that is an empty shell with no substance at all. The realization makes me question if the real me is worth a real life—one with that substance that is lacking.
I want to bury myself beneath the blanket after I hear the condo’s front door close. I want to hide from everything, much like I’d so recently buried myself beneath the water in my tub to escape my perfect life and perfect fiancé. Then I hear a voice in my head that cannot be ignored. It is rich and lovely and full of conviction; it makes my fingers grip the pendant around my neck. It is Vera’s voice reminding me to live.
I force myself up to embrace the day. I know where I want to go now and who I want to see. Back to the hospital. Back to the woman who calls me Ocean Eyes. Vera will help me build strength so that it is not fleeting and short-lived.
Chapter 7
Gutted
My feet move, one foot in front of the other, helping me get to the bathroom.
I want to wash my face. It feels grimy, like I’ve sweated all night and there is a salty film coating my skin. There is a Post-It Note on the bathroom mirror. It makes me want to scream. Truman and his damn Post-It Notes.
Lena, please try.
My fingers grip the bright yellow and I rip it away angrily, toss it into the trash, and try and forget it is there. It taunts me, though, as I wet the bleach-whitened cloth and dampen my face and neck. I scrub the grainy paste into my pale skin, forcing it into my pores with an unnecessary violence as if I wish to rid myself of every freckle and God-given blemish. When I wash the grit away, my skin is bright red and blotchy. The hue does hide my freckles.
And then I am sad, because I have always loved my freckles.
The soothing lotion I use afterwards smells like vanilla and it makes me glad. Peggy has not tainted this with her flowery scents. It’s another little victory. As I inhale deeply, the yellow of the Post-It Note catches my eye again. And I realize that this is the only note I have seen in the condo since returning from the hospital.
That’s unusual. They’re normally everywhere.
I’m not sure what it means, that Truman has relented finally on his obsession with the neon reminders that speak of his controlling personality, but I am glad about it. Maybe I shouldn’t be; maybe it should indicate to me some great change in our relationship, like he is starting to give up on me and us. But I ignore anything it might indicate, because I find that I do not care to dig deeper.
I am just happy to have a break from them.
I take my time getting ready, pick out my favorite billowing floral blouse and palazzo pants. The outfit increases the look of me ten-fold, the material swirling loosely about my too-thin body, but I feel free in it, comfortable and myself. Before leaving, I write a note on the grocery pad in the kitchen for Marianna, telling her that I’m sorry I missed her today and that I am looking forward to seeing her. She is a lovely person and she’s teaching me Spanish.
Actually, she’s trying to teach me Spanish. I’m terrible at languages and cannot roll my “r”s to save my life.
***
I find it so odd to walk back into the hospital as a visitor rather than a patient. It’s nearly as odd as that last lunch, fully dressed and readying myself mentally to journey home to the life that is beginning to feel so foreign.
I was only an occupant inside these sterile walls for a matter of days—a string of long, cyclical moments involving a sun rising, a moon rising, the pair of celestial settings that change the hours from day to night—yet it feels like I was here forever. Inside myself I feel tormented, a poet who is weaving sad words together until they make no sense; yet in their nonsense, they deliver the world to me somehow.
Finding my way back to the nurses’ station nearest my hospital room takes me longer than it should. You would think I would have learned my way around this place of internment, but each hall looks identical, with faux stone tile, pale blue walls, and fluorescent lighting. Finally, I see a wall map. I am here. A star indicates my position. I may be here, but I am not a star. Stars are bright, beautiful, blinking balls of fire dancing in the heavens. The poet awakes in my head again. I tell him… or her… to shut the hell up. I don’t have time for stupid words.
There it is. I place my finger on the map, caressing the icon for the psychiatric ward. Easy access to head shrinks and limited access to anything sharp or long enough for a makeshift noose. I’m not even on the correct floor of the hospital. Brilliant.
“Excuse me?” I should speak louder, but I find myself shy, half-hoping that no one here will recognize me; the other half of me hopes that someone will, though—that they will look at me, smile wide, and comment on how well I seem. I’ve put on makeup—mascara, even. Truman would be pleased. Not that I’ve done it for him. I think, for some reason, that I’ve done it for Vera. I’m not attracted to the older woman. No. That’s not it. Yet, she is the first person in a long time to make me feel genuinely special and beautiful.
I want more of her.
Like I want air to breathe so that I am no longer that suffering fish out of water.
I do not see Vera as I approach the nurses’ station. So I wait patiently for the young nurse to give me notice. She is texting away on her dainty pink phone. It is bedazzled, which makes me nearly roll my eyes. “Um…” I read her nametag quickly. “Amy?” I wait a second and then clear my throat loudly. “Excuse me.” This time, my “excuse me” is not a question, it is a demand; and I surprise myself with how forceful I sound. That’s twice today… three times in the past two days, that I have stood up for myself like I am worth more than two dollars on a red-light district street corner.
The woman looks up, pushing an unruly blond curl behind her left ear. “Yes?” She is annoyed. Like she has any right to be. Excuse the hell out of me for making you do your job.
“Is Vera working today?”
“No.” She looks back down at her phone and my body feels suddenly boneless and squishy. I’ve lost my reason for being awake today. It is an awful feeling.
“Oh…” The forcefulness has drained from my voice. “Will she be here tomorrow?”
“Yes.” The nurse doesn’t even look at me this time. The rudeness f
urther deflates me. It should make me mad. Why can’t I be stronger?
No. I won’t be defeated. “Before I was discharged, Vera gave me her phone number. I’ve lost it and I’d very much like to call her.”
“Cell or home?” She looks at me again, her eyes closed partway as if she does not trust me.
“Um… her cell number.” God, my voice is so weak.
“Vera doesn’t have a cell phone. Only a pager and a landline.”
A pager… no one still uses a pager. “Oh… ok. It must have been her home number then. Can I leave her a note, please?”
“Sure.” She hands me a small white pad of paper with the hospital logo on it and a black pen. My note is short—name, number, and a thank you. When I give it back to the young nurse, I turn away immediately. This way, I only have to hear her crumpling the paper and tossing it away instead of having to see it too.
My ruse has failed. I have failed.
I am devastated, gutted, and guilty for some reason. I am all the words that can break my spirit and leave me in ruin. That paring knife in my voice, the one I’d used to be forceful with Truman before he left for work, has left my mouth and cut me so that all my insides trail behind me as I walk.
Chapter 8
A Piece of Happiness
When I’m feeling out of sorts, I often walk along the beach and most mornings, I run on the dock. It wakes me, fills me up, and satisfies the emptiness inside. I love the smell of being so close to the vast ocean, so salty and somewhat dangerous in its undeniable beauty.
Falling in Deep Collection Box Set Page 81
