I decided to share some of my pre-book writing journaling with my daughter the other day. I was surprised that I enjoyed it as much as I did, and she was quiet as I read. I guess maybe I started writing earlier than I thought I did! I may share more as the weeks go by. I hope you enjoy an evening (or, like, 10 minutes) of my life about four years ago!
The clock on the couch side table read 6:00. But that clock had stopped years ago, before I even moved into the house. It was a stylish analog clock and went with the decor. The light was fading outside the window.I could see the rays of early autumn light through the reddening leaves. So it must have been about 6:00. But where was everyone? The house was so quiet. I was used to activity. Endless sound and movement. The feeling of needing to escape into my own mind to avoid the overload. Going into my room and burying my face in pillows to block out the noise, but noise would seep beneath the hastily closed door. There was the fear of being followed into my room, which usually occurred, and could not be ignored. I was never alone. I was never free with my thoughts. The music never stopped. That day it was a Billy Joel song from my childhood, not even a popular song, maybe a B side I heard from my mother’s turntable while I was counting cars driving by in front of my house. From my favorite perch, the radiator under the window in the living room. “Brenda and Eddie were the popular steady/and the king and the queen of the prom….” But I didn’t know why it was repeating with annoying clarity and regularity in my head that week. I had narrowed it down to boredom or under treated, free flowing anxiety. I took a deep breath and held it for 3 seconds. Exhaled.
Where were they? I had gotten home at 5:30 after walking home from the bus stop. I recalled the one time I came home to an empty house that smelled of fresh baked cookies. It was 6 years ago. The Tollhouse cookies were cooling on the rack, no baker in sight. It was surreal at the time. They never went anywhere. They were always about to sit down to dinner. I couldn’t remember where it was they went, probably to the grocery store to get some ingredients for dinner that night. There were never enough ingredients. Which I always found strange, since there were so many trips to the grocery store. But somehow we always needed more groceries. The cookies were fantastic that day. There were no cookies this time.
I knew I should take advantage of the silence but I had no idea what would fill the minutes until their return. Reading was always good. There were so many books to start. There was the dog eared mystery in my purse that I had been reading on the way home on the bus. It was a new author to me, and most likely it would be the last of her books I would read. It didn’t grab me. I really didn’t care who killed the guy. I just wasn’t invested. So what to read, what to read. I thought of turning on the tv, but there was no way to avoid the news, no matter how fast I flipped the channels. No more politics. It was too much. But now it’s taboo to not do politics. Not being involved was being complicit. But how much anxiety was one expected to ingest in the span of a day? Was feeling sick to one’s stomach from morning until night mandatory? Being scared of one’s future the new carrying card of today’s liberal? I was not in a place to fight Nazis that night. I would don my armor tomorrow and fight the good fight then.
I thought of the possibilities as I stretched my legs across the couch, often occupied by long, adolescent legs in repose. It seemed like a luxury to have so much room. My shoulders not squashed on both sides by hot sweaty bodies, my legs not trapped in pretzel form by a cat who chooses to jump on board just as I tuck my knees and feet beneath me, as if my lap was a safety post from the volcanic lava that made up the floor. Where were the cats? Why did they not approach when I first came in the door, looking to rub their furry hides against my shins in an act of reownership as they did each day? The house suddenly seemed that much more empty.
I closed my eyes. My ears were ringing. Most likely a result from hours on the phone at work, fixing problems and navigating dilemmas. My mother would say the buzzing in the ears was caused from taking too much Ibuprofen. She had read an article about this. I listened to the hum, to see if there was a pattern, a song, some sort of code. It was a constant, high toned drone. It soon lost its appeal. Maybe music would help, but the music…it was not doing its job properly. C’mon Brenda and Eddie!
A small sound pulled me out of my reverie and my eyes popped open. A scraping sound. From the bedroom. I went to investigate. As I entered, I could make out a soft mewling from the closet. I cracked the door. I was rushed by two angry, most likely hungry felines. Well, that mystery solved. Cats locked in the closet. But why? How? How long? Who locked them in there? When would they be home?
It was probably nothing. Maybe they went for a walk. No. She would never agree to that. It took actual effort for her to move one foot in front of the other. It took energy. It took some kind of kick in the butt. They were not on a walk. The mall? No, not together. That would cause a family scandal that would not be lived down for days. Out for ice cream? Unimaginable without waiting for me. Ice cream is my love, my muse, my heart and soul. Anyone found out to pursue ice cream without me would be given the gaze of death long after the offence had passed. Play date? She told me she had no friends, and she was too old to call them playdates. She had friends. It was an exaggeration, a play for pity, and possibly for offers of gifts of sympathy. Or maybe a ply to get money for shopping.
The clock still said 6:00. But it wasn’t really. It felt as if hours had passed, or maybe only 5 minutes. The thoughts in an ADHD mind tend to compress and unzip all at once, days of information in a 30 second period. It always amazed me when it was not midnight at 8pm, or bedtime at 5. But some things are expected at certain times. Family being home to greet me, dinner almost ready. The unpredictable in a predictable setting. I was not expecting it.
I walked out of the bedroom as the front door opened. Our car was silent, a Prius, with a stealth engine that did not even alert bicycle riders that we crept up behind them, so they tended not to pull to the side. I had suggested a bike horn outside the driver’s side window to alert them, but as of yet it had not materialized. So I had not heard them pull in.
“Where were you?’ I asked, keeping my tone cool and carefree.
“Grocery store,” he replied. “I needed to get some things for dinner. We were also out of cereal for tomorrow morning.”
I sighed. This was a mixed blessing. The irritation of the everyday, along with the predictability of life under my roof. It was at once reassuring and annoying. I sat back down on the couch. She approached, told me to move over, plopped down with her iPad and headphones, and threw her legs across my lap. The cat jumped on my lap.
“We got you some ice cream,” she said, not making eye contact, putting on her headphones.
Debby Meltzer Quick, Author 