By Elizabeth Derby
Dear Reader,
I don’t know if you realized this, but you and I have a special relationship. Ours is a deep and meaningful bond, the sort that can only exist between two people mutually engaged in fiction. Your endurance of last week’s ranting expository and your lenience toward current tardiness have earned my appreciation, and my heart warms with admiration and sincerest sympathies for you.
Above all other virtues, however, your existence is that which has most surely captured my affections. Your weekly attention is my raison d’etre—even if this devotion, like so many other elements of our relationship, is a product of total fantasy.
So thank you, for everything. Now back to the story, and thus I remain,
Yours,
Of course. Congratulations to me, for some reason. Even though I don’t know why, I can’t help feeling terrifically excited.
Soon the combination of emotion and sunlight manifests as a trickle of sweat on my brow. No matter. The bird still sings, and I keep moving, even as perspiration pours down my forehead, my cheeks, my limbs. My body feels like it’s dissolving, turning to liquid right here beside the corn rows. But even this can’t dampen my spirits.
Eventually I see a small white dot on the landscape, a structure that slowly pulls into focus. It’s a church. I sweat and I sweat, I walk and I walk, and I finally reach the front steps. The door is open, expectant. Bells chime gleefully through the bright air.
Suddenly I realize several things. It’s my wedding day. I’m wearing a wedding dress. Everyone is waiting just beyond this doorframe: family, friends, a faceless groom-to-be. And my ring is gone.
I look at my left hand in disbelief. My fingers are familiar, bare and lonely. The swallow hops off my shoulder and flies away. I must have sweat my ring off.
The bells finish their chorus. I turn away from the open door, its yawning cool and promise of happiness. I survey the road stretching endlessly across the landscape with the terrible certainty of dreams: I must retrace every step to find what I’ve lost, in order to lay final claim on my future. Time may run out before I make it back.
I look down at the ground as I walk away. When tears mix with sweat, I wipe at them angrily. Sorrow will only make it harder to see.
Then I wake up, hot and sweaty, sunlight pooling on my damp pillow.
Hmm.
I change into shorts. After cross-eyed face wash and oral cleanse wherein I almost stick my toothbrush up my nose, I’m awake. I fumble downstairs.
I plop myself down at the kitchen table. Mom is setting out salt and pepper. “Hello, ladybird,” she grins, placing a kiss on the top of my head. “You’re up early.”
“Early to bed, early to rise,” I say. My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling rocks.
She turns to the stove and flips spitting bacon. “Do you want me to make you some eggs?” Her free hand dangles over the open egg carton on the counter.
“Oh, tempting, Mom, but—I think I’m OK.”
“Bacon?”
“No, I think I might just—“
“Toast?”
Yikes, she sounds a bit miffed. “Toast would be great, actually. Perfect.”
She scooches over to the fridge and pulls out a loaf of whole-grain. Mincing toward the toaster in worn-away slippers, she does a little twirl on the linoleum and grins at me. “Thanks for letting me fuss over you. It’s the mother instinct; I can’t help it.”
“The smother instinct?”
“Haha, haha.” She rattles dishes around, and I stretch my arms up as high as I can, listening to the bubble-wrap crack of my spine. “Well that’s what you get for moving home after college,” she says abruptly. “If you’re not in the market to be smothered, you shouldn’t live with your family.”
“Mom,” I begin to protest. “I was just kidding. I like—“
She comes over and sets my toast in front of me. “You’re my baby, you know. No matter how old you are.”
“I know, Mom. I like being babied, believe me.” I smile and wrinkle my nose at her. “Sarcasm is just my early-morning defense mechanism.” Slathering my toast with butter, I add, “That’s why I stopped taking 8AM classes last year. I couldn’t make Dean’s List without non-snarky insight.”
“Oh I see,” she says, dropping two plates of scrambled eggs on the table. “Sleeping in for better grades.” She raises an eyebrow and salts her breakfast. “Here I thought you just partied ‘til 4AM every night.”
“That too, of course. I mean, function does follow form.”
“What?”
“I don’t know; I’m still really tired.” I push my plate aside and lay my head on my crossed arms.
“Well, you went to sleep at nine last night. Avoided us like the plague, I noticed.”
“I could hear you arguing,” I mumble into my bicep. “I didn’t want to get sucked into it.”
“What?”
I sit up. “The Great Scrabble Debate. I didn’t feel like moderating.”
She frowns and scrapes her plate. “Your father was cheating. As per usual.”
“You mean he won?” She reaches across the table and bops me on the head with her fork. “Oh, gross,” I say, feeling for egg particles. We look at each other. “You must have lost pretty badly, huh?”
“It was a contested victory,” she sniffs. “But I forgive him.” We grin at each other. “Plus he’s going to be late for work, and his eggs are definitely cold by now.”
“You’re heartless, Mom.” I grab my plate and push back my chair. “Actually, I’ll let the cold eggs be my cue. I’m going to go for a bike ride. Seize the day and whatnot.” I dump my plate in the sink and peer out the window our sunny backyard.
“Great idea,” she says. “I want to do some weeding later, if you wouldn’t mind helping me.”
“Sho’nuff,” I say. “Have fun with
She laughs. ”Oh, wait a minute! Tell me about your trip!”
I stop in the doorway, pedaling my arms. “It was good. It was great to see Sarah, you know, in her element. Schmoozing with third-years.” I pause. “She says she really likes
Mom fakes a shudder. “The first year of law school is the worst,” she says.
“I’ve heard the rest is pretty bad, too.”
Her lips purse. “Actually, being a lawyer is pretty terrible in general.”
“Especially if you’re an artist trapped in a lawyer’s— suit.”
“Exactly!” She stands and makes a grand sweeping gesture with her arm. “I am an ar-TEEST,” she hams. “Now I must return to my CRAFT.” She clears the table except for Dad’s plate, which is beginning to look like a dish of wet cat food. “If you’ll ex-CUSE me, these dishes are simply INSPIRATIONAL. They MUST have my immediate attention.”
I grin and thumbs-up. “Great. Keep living the dream.” As I exit into the hallway, I see my father shrugging on a tie.
“Hi pumpkin!” he says, tugging at his collar. “You’re up early.”
“Eight hours of sleep,” I shrug. “My body is very confused.”
“Fair enough,” he smiles. I head to the door. “Well, enjoy your day, sweetheart. It’s supposed to be a high of 72, with a 5 to 10 mile-an-hour breeze. Perfect weather, basically.”
“Will do.” Dad loves the Weather Channel. For its hilarious unreliability, I assume. “I’m going for a bike ride.”
He puts up his hands. “Well don’t let your old man hold you back.” Moving toward the kitchen, he adds, “Have a good one for me.”
“Sure thing, Dad. Oh, and watch out for your eggs.”
He nods as though he knew it was coming. I step outside.
Soon I’m bathed in sunlight, skimming along pavement and pumping my legs with post-sedentary ferocity. Back road scenery whistles by.
At nine in the morning on a late summer’s day, the suburbs are empty. Commuters are long gone, and school kids are desperately soaking up their last long sleeps before Labor Day. Only a privileged few—the unemployed—inhabit this place. Whizzing by on a bike, one is treated to its special form of quiet: the blur of wind, the staccato of sprinklers, the visual rhythm of fading white fences. The world feels like a secret.
I bank left around the furthest outfield of our high school, sharpening my wheels against downhill pavement. The sun is warm and inescapable. I cut up the school’s back drive and stand, pressing my full weight against the incline. Sweat trickles down my neck. I’m flanked by green fields, fast approaching the stadium parking lot, when a wave of desperation rushes through me. That dream. I can hardly remember it now. Blinking perspiration from my eyes, I pedal harder.
“Mary!” A body barrels out of nowhere.
“Oh my God!” I shriek, swerving. I jump off as the bike clatters to the ground and stare wildly at my assailant.
Rob.
He’s standing on the curb, hands on knees, doubled over and breathing hard. When he lifts his blonde buzz cut to meet my eyes, I see he’s laughing.
“What is WRONG with you?” I shriek again. My heart trembles in my throat. He stands and moves towards me, hands open. “Touch me and you DIE.”
“Jeez, Mary.” He drops his arms at his sides. “You’re a wee bit sensitive today.”
“Yeah, well, I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”
He shrugs and wipes his brow. “I saw you from afar. I had to say hi.” His face is flushed, cheeks blotchy under their tan. He’s been out for a run, obviously. I pick up my bike and shake my head.
“Potential paralysis need not be part of your greeting.”
He rolls his eyes and presses his hand to his heart. “I promise not to do it again, Queen Mary.” I glare at him. “Next time I’ll just ignore you.”
“That would be preferable.”
“Aw, come on,” he says. “Be nice to me. I’m still licking my wounds from last night.”
I climb on my bike. “What happened last night?”
He wipes a sweaty hand back across his head. “You ignored my phone call.” I give him a look and start pedaling away. “Hey, wait!” he calls. A minute later, he’s at my side, loping easily in time with each cycle. He’s pulled off his tee-shirt and tied it around his head. I can’t help but smile. “Oh, you like?” he grins. “You like what you see?”
“A six-pack will get you nowhere.” I pause and consider. “Your headdress, on the other hand, is captivating.”
“Phew, good,” he pants. “Because, really, I didn’t do anything wrong. You were hilarious back there, screaming and falling over. How did you not see me running at you? We were the only people in a two-mile radius!”
“I try and avoid stalkers,” I say, pedaling faster.
“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.” He’s really panting now. Cross-country runners aren’t built for speed. “After you blew me off last night—“puff “—I started having all these horrible visions.” Puff. “You were lost in the city somewhere.” Puff. “You’d gotten on a slow boat to China.” Puff. “You got amnesia—forgotten I am your only—friend—abandoned me in the ‘burbs.”
“Uh, yeah, I gotta go.” I narrow my eyes and start pumping the pedals, giving the machine everything I’ve got.
His sprint is impressive, but he can’t keep up. “Fine, Mary,” he yells. “Be that way.”
“This is how I show affection,” I shout back. “Pain—“ pant—“and possible”—pant—“cardiac arrest.”
He yells something as I round the corner, but his voice is lost to the wind in my ears.
0 comments:
Post a Comment