| Lisa Mae Brunson is a talented writer who weaves stories filled with personal inspiration and vivid characters. She is one of the best poets around and her fiction sparkles as brightly as does her prose. She is the author of the autobiography Rose Colored Glasses. Her work is a look into her own heart. She gives such descriptive details of the people and the events of which she writes that the reader often feels like he is in the story too. This is a talent that is genuine and honest. It's something to be celebrated. She lives in California. |
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| I don’t remember how long I have been sitting here at the computer. I vaguely recall turning the monitor on and logging into Yahoo with the intent to email Jenkins to bring a peach cobbler. Everything else after that is lost in translation. Must have had a blackout again. That’s what Jenkins calls them. Says I am an alcoholic and that’s what alcoholics do. They blackout. I understand what that means, but I like to give Jenkins a blank look whenever he hands over a piece a paper that contains that word. I pretend I don’t know what the hell he is talking about, but we both know the truth. Sometimes the blackouts come at the most inconvenient times. One minute I might be sitting in my bedroom staring up at the burgundy ceiling, the next I might be knee deep in a mess I might have made during an angry fit pulling drawers out of dressers, and spilling the contents of closet shelves and kitchen cabinets. Usually I come to when I am holding a fistful of fancy clothing in my hands, or in the middle of tearing up notebooks full of scribbled words on paper. My confusion lasts several moments and then I usually cry. I cannot pretend I don’t know what the word ‘blackout’ means after these episodes. I am smack in the middle of the definition. I had a sudden craving for peach cobbler and I wanted to send a request to Jenkins before his next visit. I have the feeling long moments might have passed between my sudden craving, and the moment I consciously felt hard cherry wood resting against my back. My tongue feels dry. When was the last time I ate? My belly growls as if to answer the question. Perhaps that is why I thought about mother’s homemade peach cobbler. She used the juiciest peaches. I used to pick them from the tree in Old Lady Addelson’s yard. I never called her that to her face; she would have bitten my head off. But her peaches made the sweetest cobbler. I figured Jenkins could pick a cobbler up at the bakery a few blocks from here. I used to buy pies for my husband’s dinner parties there. I haven’t ordered any since the last one--the very last party. I don’t recall the name of the woman who owns the bakery, but I remember her face. I remember the way her eyes crinkled into welcoming slits each time she smiled when I walked in. Her pleasant voice was almost a whisper when she spoke. What was her name? Mrs. Gladstone? Mrs. Peterson? Shit! I can’t remember. I hurriedly type a short email to Jenkins and sign off the internet. I don’t feel like browsing through the Top News section today. It’s always full of bombings, killings and death. Why add to my misery? I slowly rise from the chair; my world spins. I grab the edge of the computer desk to brace myself. One... two... three... I count five seconds, and then let go of the table. The dizziness subsides, and I brave taking a few steps. You would think I would stop with the madness--the pain of having to brave taking a few steps each day. I simply don’t know how to stop. My stomach growls again. I should make a sandwich. Turkey and avocado sounds good. When was the last time I ate anything? I pad through the living room into the kitchen with my cold bare feet. I must have forgotten to put slippers on. I step into the kitchen to find the cat digging in the trashcan. I clap my hands to scare it out of the garbage. Bits of trash litter the ground as the cat scurries out of the can and out the door. I don’t think I remembered to feed it this morning. The cat never digs in the trash for food. I feel guilty making myself something to eat when the cat hasn’t eaten, so I set a fresh bowl of Meow Mix and a bowl of clean water next to the litter box. It should find the food the next time it needs to use the bathroom. Now I can go about my business and make that turkey sandwich. After preparing lunch I debate whether to have the meal outside on the terrace or at the dining room table. I opt to sit at the table for now and join Jenkins outside the next time he comes to prune the flowers. The air will do me good. The combination of seasoned turkey meat and crisp avocado feels good against my tongue. I hungrily devour the sandwich as days of neglect remind me I haven’t taken very good care of myself lately. Has it really been days since I last eaten? It is as if my whole body came alive with each bite I took. Perhaps I will make another one. Robert never liked sandwiches. He preferred Ahi tuna ribbons soaked in sesame oil on a bed of greens for lunch. Or perhaps, pasta salad with fresh vegetables and herbs and a breast of rosemary chicken. I spent hours watching cooking shows and poring through recipe books just to fix a meal suitable for his selective palate. I don’t miss having to do that. After finishing lunch, I spend a few moments sitting in blank stillness--resenting it. I detest feeling bored. I hate the restlessness of it all. Usually when one is bored they might pick up the telephone and call a friend. Maybe they might turn on some music, or go to the theatre and watch a matinee, or hang out with friends and go shopping. When I am bored I don’t have these options. My agitation crescendos into a smothering blanket of quiet emptiness. The kind of quiet that is loud in its presentation and never ends. Maybe I’ll read the newspaper. I haven’t done that in a while. I usually skip over the first few pages and get to the community page and the entertainment section. I like to keep informed of the local events in my area-- not that I will ever go to them, but I like to know what my neighbors might be up to on any given day. I glance down at my choice of clothing--a pink cotton nightgown, covered by a large black velvet robe. Pathetic--I know. I felt foolish last time trying to get ‘fixed up’ just to grab the paper. I won’t do so again. I just need to grab a pair of slippers and maybe put my hair in a ponytail before I head outside. I see the newspaper boy missed the front door again. Doesn’t he know how to throw the damn paper? I can do his job with my eyes closed and my ears broken! It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to throw a paper with enough momentum that the damn thing lands as close to the front door as possible. Today’s edition sits next to the other paper near the mailbox. I bet the kid didn’t bother to throw it at all. Maybe I will send an email to the Daily News and complain about the service. I rattle off a list of complaints in my head as I angrily march to the end of the yard to collect the papers. In my fury, I don’t notice a little boy having trouble riding his bike and headed in my direction. I bend down to pick up the newspaper just as the little boy crashes into the back of me. I feel the front wheel of his bike ram into my left leg and buttock. It hurts like hell! My first reaction is to scream at the boy, and I attempt to do so, as the little boy’s eyes widen in alarm. All he hears is a loud distorted sound that randomly escapes my body. I feel the strength of it vibrate out of my throat. Both of us stare at each other, our eyes heavy with emotion. Mine filled with pent up anger, his filled with absolute fear. He begins talking rapidly, but of course I cannot understand what he is saying. The pain runs down my leg and ignites another round of fury. The nerve of this damn boy running into me like that! What did he think; he could play a little prank on the ‘poor deaf lady’ who lives down the street? Did he think it would be funny to show off in front of his friends? I look up from his ashen face and see no one else standing around. I bet the little brats are hiding behind the bushes. The boy is still talking, tears streaming down his face. For a moment I feel the buds of compassion begin to blossom within. Perhaps it was an accident after all. Perhaps... He looks about seven or eight. Younger than my boy would have been... My heartbeat roars inside my head. I clutch the papers tighter as I run away from the child. I cannot make it to the front porch fast enough and almost stumble up the stairs. I don’t take a moment to look back. I don’t bother to see if the little boy is all right, or whether he pedaled off to tell his mother of the mean lady on Chesterfield Lane. I slam the door and feel the weight of the impact in my chest. The salt of my tears mingles with the taste of panic in my mouth. I let the tears pour out. My hip is throbbing, but it is not the source of pain that bothers me. I limp up the stairs to my sacred closet and pull out the latest journal. I need to write. I need to write NOW. I must pour the rage I feel. I have to release the anger. How dare that little boy crash into me! How dare he resurrect old wounds I saturated with gallons of vodka! I scrawl incoherent sentences onto the purple pages, hands trembling with impatience. It doesn’t matter that it is incoherent--I never re-read what is written. I fill two pages with exclamation marks mixed with liquid sadness. The droplets of tears blur the ink, leaving my emotions one big jumbled mess. My breathing is ragged as I close the journal and throw the pen down. I lean my head against the closet wall and continue crying. Eyes fall closed forcing the tears to escape through tiny slits. I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Though I know it will not bring comfort, I rock myself back and forth. The warmth of darkness closes in and my body shudders with buried memories. I won’t give in! Dammit! I can’t let them come today! A scene from the past flashes across my eyelids. I taste the history in my mouth--acidic disappointment mixed with potent anger. I am standing in the kitchen with my back to the stove, facing Robert. Earlier that morning, I found out we were expecting our first child. I was thrilled with being pregnant, but Robert was not. How could this happen, Meredith? We haven’t discussed having children yet! You know we need to plan for these things. He throws the newspaper down on the kitchen table and meets my eyes. The excitement I had felt fades as he verbally tears into me. You did this on purpose, didn’t you? He rises from the table and walks over, his mouth twisted in anger. His blue eyes have turned the color of slate gray. A clear indication he is very upset. I lower my eyes to the floor, unable to meet his. Don’t be ridiculous, Robert, I did nothing of the sort. I am just as surprised as you are! And I am. I had never dreamed I would get pregnant our first year of marriage. But I cannot pretend I was not pleased when the doctor declared I was four weeks pregnant. Robert grabs my arm rather forcefully and I wince in pain. Though his manner has always been abrupt, it is not often Robert becomes physical. We just moved into our new home Meredith. You have responsibilities as my wife. You don’t have time to be a mother right now. I pull my arm out of his grasp and turn around to finish making dinner. I get busy with chopping onions and bell peppers until they’re ground into mush. I feel the heat of his breath against my neck as he mutters the words that set my blood boiling. Get rid of it! My hand pauses mid-air, knife poised just above cutting a green pepper. I feel my heart crash into my stomach, and I struggle to suck in air. Did he just say what I think he said? I slowly turn around, as he stares intently at me. My eyes must have held my question inside of them, because he is quick to give me an answer. Yes, Meredith, I want you to get rid of it! We can’t have a baby right now. I feel the cool weight of the knife in my hand, as I clinch the silver within my fist. How dare you tell me to get rid of our baby, as if it were a pile of trash! My words are loud and forceful, startling both of us to attention. Our eyes meet, both of us staring the other down with determination. Neither one of us will cave in. I am stunned by my vehemence. I have never contradicted Robert’s demands. He knows this too--the shock on his face is real, and for a moment he is left speechless, mouth hanging like a cornucopia. But I am not prepared to back down, and I tell him so. I will have this child, Robert. I will not kill our baby! Before he could respond, I slam the knife down and run out of the kitchen to lock myself in the closet. The closet I sit in now. The flash of memories subsides leaving a roaring pain in my temples. I open my eyes and see only darkness, a smothering blanket of midnight. I wipe the remaining tears off my cheeks and slowly bring myself to a standing position. My whole left side of my leg hurts. I rub my left buttock wishing I could curse out loud. That fucking kid! There! That feels a little better. That fucking boy doesn’t know how to ride his fucking bike! At least I still have the power of thought. I limp back downstairs to quench my thirst. On the way down, I almost trip over the cat, which is napping halfway down the staircase. I bend down to pick it up. It has been a while since I sat with it on my lap. Sometimes it brings me comfort to stroke its soft fur and feel the vibration of its purr against my fingertips. It is comforting to know I can make another living thing respond to my touch. I carry the cat downstairs and together we head to the kitchen. I set it down in front of its food, while I mix a drink and root around the fridge for a piece of fruit. I think I will watch a DVD tonight. (To Be Continued...) |
| "A Lifetime Of Tuesdays" (Chapter Four) by Lisa Mae Brunson |
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| Photo courtesy of Lisa Mae Brunson |
