I remember the quiet.
Staring at the green countertop while she stared out the window. Trying to think of things to say. The orange afternoon sun streaming through
the south windows. I still don’t know
why they sent me.
Maybe because I was old enough to stand watch over a
breaking heart and responsible enough, at 12, to call for help if something
else broke…like her sanity. As far as I
could tell, something else had broke and the woman I knew wasn’t coming back. Not any time soon anyway.
Maybe ‘cause everyone else was having their own hard times
dealing with it, and I seemed just fine.
It’s a gift, really.
Pushing everything out and finding something else to think about. So is pretending
to be fine.
I’d dusted everything, taking extra care to get all of the
fingerprints she hated off the shiny wooden furniture. Looking back, maybe I shouldn’t have done
that. Maybe I had wiped away the last
goodness she remembered.
I’d vacuumed every inch of carpet, following the lines in
the carpet in a zen-like repetitiveness just to have nothing to think about.
I left her sitting at the table, staring out that window at
God only knows what. Not much out there
to see, but a tree dying by the sidewalk, the big red shop, a graveled drive-way,
and the path to the burn barrel. Last I’d
eavesdropped, word had it she got some real use out of that barrel, and
probably pretty amazing she didn’t go up in flames with it. Seemed to me at the time, her soul certainly
had.
The evening was chilly.
I wanted to sit and cry with her, but there were enough tears everywhere
and nobody needed mine. Mine are too big
anyway. That’s what they tell me—I have great big alligator tears that follow
me everywhere; when I laugh and when I cry.
I took the well-worn path through the pasture, remembering a
red coat I had and holding Papa’s little finger while we walked through the
grain to feed the horses.
I walked the slough, careful to avoid the mud. The smell brought back memories I felt guilty
for remembering. Moss and stagnant
water, the smell of the mud. They
reminded me of finding duck nests, chasing kill deer, and catching frogs.
I found myself at the very back of the field, against the
fence, and I realized I’d never been out this far. Not even on the horse. New territory, but instead of feeling
adventurous, I felt scared. It reminded
me how much I don’t know…about anything.
Parts of the fence were falling down in the marshy ground…worn
and gnarled from the weather, the foundation turning to mush beneath it. The
desert, gaining ground in the distance.
I walked back to the tack room and stood staring at the
faded door. She hadn’t made it past the
burn barrel in weeks, and I was guessing from my last few days, out of the
house in at least a week.
I knew what it used to look like in there. Saddles hung up and lining the right wall
with the bridles above them. There
should be a black rubber bucket, a quarter to half full of oats, next to the
door. Behind the door, a washtub with
the grooming brushes and combs. Wool
horse blankets on the left. I liked the orange
and brown one. The room should smell
like leather and Absorbine, Jr. If I got
close enough, I knew I could smell it without opening the door.
I used to hide in that room when the boys chased me with
snakes or tried to shoot me with the BB gun, and I holed up in there for hours
the day I threw my Easter Tinkerbell perfume in their eyes, like mace, so they
would leave me alone. The door was easy
to latch from the inside, and once you got it latched, no one could make you
come out, especially if you were real good at being “bullheaded.” Whatever that
meant. Near as I could tell, the bull in
the last corral was mean as anything I could think of, and if he got out, I
always planned on hidin’ in the tack room then, too. But, that’s what she
always called me when I got my mind set on something, like not coming out of
there.
The kids would run off to the house to tell her I was locked
up again, and she’d march out there, yelling at me to quit being “bullheaded,”
and eventually she’d shrug me off and walk back to the house, leaving me alone
in the dark, with the smell. I’d wait
until the other kids had wandered off, giving them enough time to make it far
enough away in the field they couldn’t hear or see me come out, knowing she’d let me back in the house if I
was alone. When I got back, she’d ask if
I was “done throwing a spoiled WOP fit,” and give me an ice box cookie or
peanut butter cookie, smeared with butter, then let me sit in the gold chair by
the back door and read. Or, she’d have
me dust. She used this stuff called
Klean and Shine, and it foamed when you sprayed it on things. I didn’t mind; I liked the foam.
I couldn’t make myself open the door, so I climbed the
haystack, and sat at the top, watching the sun sink low until it almost kissed
the mountains. Something crazy had
changed the world, and things just weren’t ever gonna be the same. Maybe
I didn’t want to open that door because I knew it couldn’t block out the world
now, and she sure as shit wasn’t gonna give me a cookie when I came out. The cupboards and the fridge were bare,
except for a block of moldy cheese.
I’d found a tub of frozen stew in the pump house freezer,
but that woman wasn’t eating. I don’t
think God himself could make her right then, even with a cookie and all the
butter in the valley.
I sat on the hay, feeling helpless. Old enough to do chores and try to feed her,
but too young to know what the hell was really happening or even to know what
to say.
The phone would ring every now
and then, and she’d answer, and I’d wander off, knowing I wasn’t supposed to
listen. Half-knowing she might talk to
someone if I wasn’t in ear shot, but I’d stay close enough to hear her cry, and
then reappear, feeling awkward, but wanting to stop the tears.
I just couldn’t stand her staring out the window anymore,
saying nothing, wiping a tear every once in a while.
Maybe I didn’t want to open that door, because if my last
refuge was gone, or altered, or changed, my heart would break too.
That’s the funny thing about adolescence. Clinging to what we know about ourselves,
scared of changing, but having no control over it. I couldn’t alter what was happening; hell it
already happened, but I had control over that door.
Seemed everything in life that was normal and
sane, was locked up behind that door. If
I opened it, and it was different, or the smell was gone, what then?
If it really is the same back in there, can I contain the
flood of memories and the knowing that there won’t be anymore? So much hidden behind that door. So much in that formerly safe place that
could fly out at me and kick me in the guts and take my breath away. No matter what’s happened in there, it’s
gonna knock me to my knees and make me sick.
I never opened the door.
It’s hot. Hot enough
I have to have a partner in the field. I
don’t like it. We’ve walked for miles,
and he talks too much.
The desert sun is beating down, and my skin is getting red. I turn towards the river, and he
follows. Always a few steps behind and
always chattering. If he really wanted
to be a help, he’d shut up and walk in front to flush snakes. I hate snakes, and he doesn’t seem to
understand I need quiet to be on alert.
Maybe I’m just being a control freak.
He doesn’t know I’m headed for the river because he never
gets out of the office and you can’t see it from here. But, I’m tired of him talking and maybe if we
stop for lunch, he’ll shut up long enough to eat. He’s telling me ALL about the desert and how
I need to stay hydrated. I get his life story. Am I sure I know where I’m going and how far
we’ve walked? Sight lines are diminished,
you know? Something about his divorce. I’ve
detoured a lot, can I find my way back to the vehicle? Where are we going now;
the GPS says we need to go straight?
I watch the sagebrush rustle in the light breeze and notice
the grass seeds are popping. “WOW!” He
says as we come down the hill towards the river. “I had no idea this was here.”
I remain silent, set down the metal frame I’m packing, and
park on a rock. I take off my backpack,
have some water, and reapply my sunscreen.
“You don’t want to go down there?” He says and points to the river,
which actually has water for once.
“Cooler down there.”
I say, and he nods in agreement, giving me a funny look. “Snakes,” I reply. I like the heat, and we
don’t get enough of it for long enough. I want to bake
like the lava rocks.
Mostly, I’m hoping he’ll wander down there and prove me
right, but he just stands there instead.
There’s still some snow scattered on the peaks in the
distance, and I stare at Smiley Mountain while I have some more water. My dad used to tell me legends about a blown
up gold mine on that mountain, and as I look at it, the heat waves rippling and
distorting it, I remember those stories. “You never say much,” he says while
opening his lunch.
“Nope. Kinda like listening to the birds,” I hint.
I’m irritated. This
is my place now. This is where I go to
sit and be alone. This is
where I go to hide and breathe in the smell of safety. I don’t like sharing it—especially with
people who don’t appreciate it. I’m
pretty sure this is just a wasteland to him, a bunch of meaningless sagebrush
that goes on forever. I’m pretty sure
the fact that he’s one of a handful of people that have set foot here in over
60 years is lost on him. I doubt he gets
it that this place has no doors, no place to hide.
“I never realized how beautiful this place is,” he
says as he sits.
I look at him out of the corner of my eye while opening a
granola bar. He does appear to be taking
it all in, and I realize he’s got a better spot. All I can see is his head above the lupine in
front of him.
“I love this place,” I say and stare at the river.
He chuckles. “What?” I ask.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’ve never seen you use emotion,” He says with a wicked
grin. “We make fun of you, ya know.”
“For what?” Now I’m really irritated. I want to stomp off, but there is nowhere to
go, so I nudge the dust with the toe of my boot instead.
He laughs again. “We
placed bets the other day on if you’ve ever cried.”
I don’t know why it infuriates me, but it does. I swallow hard. “I’ve cried a lot,” I say, while thinking, “Probably
would today if you weren’t here.”
“It’s just a joke. We
think you’re tough; that’s a good thing.
It’s just weird hearing you say you love something. You don’t seem the
type.” He’s turned his head and is looking away now.
I start to feel guilty for being irritated with him. I know he’s heard the rumors--the ones no one
will admit to hearing (because they’ll give away the ONE person I told), but
aren’t above peeking in the office door to ask if I’m alright and tell me they
are worried--and maybe he’s just trying
to cheer me up. I sigh…deep and long.
“I love a lot of things,” I reply. “My kids. Sagebrush, rivers, the mountains. Wine…chocolate. Mostly chocolate,” I chuckle.
“But you don’t care a lot for people, do you?” He finally
looks at me, and I look away, back to the river.
I tear some leaves off the sagebrush next to me, crush them
and roll them between my fingers. I hold
them to my nose.
"Broken hearts destroy people," I say. "People break hearts, and I left that door closed a long time ago."
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