A Tiny Bit Mortal (2 page)

Looking up and out the window, I scanned people getting in and out of their cars.  Everything and everyone were completely normal.  I slowed my breathing as I tapped my index finger repetitively on the steering wheel.  Shifting my car into reverse, I backed out and then made my way from the parking lot to the street.

As I drove down the interstate, oncoming headlights flashed in the darkness like strobe-lights.  Removing one of my hands from my steering wheel, I swiped my hair behind my ear and then stabbed at the button on my CD player.  Switching to a different album, I found a song that I knew the words to and sang loudly until I felt too dizzy to think.  

Parking my car on the street near my apartment, I stepped my way along the sidewalk, hyper aware of the rhythm of my breathing and my feet hitting the ground.  I was startled by a pack of bar hopping college kids heading towards me, loud and clearly drunk.  One of the guys in the group said something loud and slurred at me, like “Heeerytheeere.”  Avoiding eye contact, I moved past them and ran up the dimly lit stairwell to my apartment. 

I locked the deadbolt on the door behind me and called for George with a “heeere-kitty-kitty-kitteeee.”  He came bounding out from my bedroom and greeted me by rubbing around my legs in figure eights.  Crouching down, I pet his soft orange back for a while.  If I didn’t pay tribute, he’d try to trip me on my way across the house.

Wrestling on my pink pajamas, I grabbed my new book and went into my book room.  It had every square inch of wall covered in bookshelves.  In the center of the room, I kept a dusty blue chaise lounge sofa, and a little coffee table in front of it.  It was my sanctuary.  Pulling the soft, white fleece throw blanket from the back of the sofa, I read late into the night until my eyes wouldn’t stay open.   

Getting up in the morning I drove straight to the lab, ignoring the whole “Saturday” and “weekend” thing.  The whole way I had windows down, enjoying the crisp air and my breath coming out in foggy clouds when I exhaled. 

Shifting into park and removing my keys from the ignition, I opened my creaky car door and stepped out.  My feet on the gravel parking lot went
crunch, crunch, crunch
.  I could hear myself breathing.  Wrapping my gray and black striped scarf up closer to my ears,   I felt like I was alone on another planet that early in the morning.

The front door was unlocked.  It was comforting to know I was not the only one without a life on the weekend.  Greeting the plastic skeleton man at the reception desk, I smiled and waved.  My sense of humor was still intact, so I felt a little glimmer of hope for my sanity.

I found Rick at his desk on “his side” of the lab, gave a polite hello, and made my way to my side of the room.  We had collaborated some days, but most days we respected each other’s need of silence for concentration. 

Deciding that day was a perfect day to organize my desk,  I sifted through paperwork and made a pile of useless documents to shred.  I wiped down my desk and lined up all of my pens and notepads like perfect little soldiers in formation.

Spinning from side to side in my office chair, I thought about how I had evolved over the years.  The more involved I had become in my work, the more petty and simple my college friends seemed.  I remember how I began to loathe nights out at the bars, staring into my drink thinking about work from earlier in the day. 

I remembered when I started hearing the music in the background, the words and the rhythms.  I  began to watch the way people moved, and the way they spoke to each other.  I had noticed the pattern of the conversations and the pitch of voices.  I was seeing it like a symphony orchestra play, and less like a social experience. 

During that time my friends gravitated away from me, naturally.  My closest friend told me that I was becoming a snob, and that was the last I heard from her. 

Stopping myself from spinning in the chair, I leaned forward, looking down at my black Mary Jane shoes.  I remembered back to when I had stopped wearing the clothes my girlfriends told me I should wear and wore what felt natural to me.  My wardrobe became black Mary Jane shoes, tights, skirts, t-shirts, scarves and a wool pea-coat.  All of these items were black or a shade of gray.

I couldn’t help but wonder if all of those experiences were part of a long, slow, mental breakdown.  I was twenty-nine years old and talked to my cat more than I talked to all the humans I knew put together. 

My cat, George, had been with me for years, since I first moved into my apartment.  I tried for a long time to find his owners, but he seemed set on living in my apartment, running through the front door every time he caught me opening it.  He became so much a part of my life I couldn’t imagine it without him.

Rolling back in my wheeled office chair, I pushed off from my desk.  I whirled around, stood up, and scurried about in my office. I spent hours tidying and organizing things that hardly needed it.  Even the plastic skeleton man in the receptionists chair got a good cleaning.  With a huge portion of my day burnt up, I felt I could finally head home.  

After buttoning up my coat, I grabbed my scarf and flung it around my neck.  I waved and said “Bye!” to Rick and he replied by looking back down at his paper and waving with his arm straight up in the air. 

Walking down the hall towards the front exit,  I paused just before the door.  Listening, I heard cars and distant voices.  It sounded as though the planet had populated since the morning. 

I stepped out the door and the sun was low in the west, beaming through fluffy gray October clouds.  I was too busy in my cleaning and organizing spree to notice it had rained that day.

Taking my time walking to my car, I scattered gravel from the parking lot with my feet along the way.  I felt so distant from everything that I wasn’t sure what any of it meant anymore.  I was supposed to go home, turn on the television, and let it all drift away into commercials and sitcoms.  I was supposed to go spend all of that money I made, get the newest this and the latest that.  I was supposed to paint my walls and care about fashion.  If only I’d spend some time in the spa, I’d be as gorgeous as my mother told me over and over that I could be if I just tried a little.

Standing next to my car, I looked up at the dark sky, searching for stars through the moonlit clouds.  I gave up the search and looked down at the dark sea of gravel in the parking lot.  I imagined myself as one of the tiny rocks, sitting amongst a sea of others.  Then, I realized it was worse than that.  I was one among billions. 

I thought “Even if I am going crazy, does it even matter?”  I shivered, not just from the cold.  Throwing the door of my car open and closing it behind me, I started the ignition and cranked the heat up.  I shook off the feeling as the car warmed and thought about being home in my cozy bed with George purring at my back.

Holy Trunk

I woke up in the morning
,
late in November to the phone ringing.  I left my half eaten bowl of cereal at my little oak table and picked up the phone. 

“Hello.” I said, staring off into the distance to the view out the front window.  Fog was hanging over the mountains like a drape, bright white from the sun rising behind it.

“Em-mily!” My mom yelled through the phone.   

I stabbed at the down arrow on the volume button of the phone.

“Hi Mom.” I said, after taking in a deep breath.

“I haven’t heard from you in over two weeks.” she said.  “Why do I always have to call?”

“I do call you.” I said.

“Thanksgiving?” she asked.

“Should I come up?” I asked. “You aren’t thinking of making a turkey are you, for just the two of us?”

“Of course.” she said.  “It just wouldn’t be right if I didn’t.”

“I’ll head up the night before Thanksgiving after I get off work.” I said.

“I can’t wait to see you, dear!” she said.

“You too mom.” I said, moving my hand towards the phone receiver to end the call.  “Take care.”

“Oh wait, Emily, don’t hang up!” she shouted.

“What, mom?” I asked, tapping my left foot on the floor.

“How are you doing,
really
, sweetie?” she said with concern in her voice.  “I worry about you.”

“I’m fine mom.” I said, hunching my shoulders over and leaning my elbows on the counter.  “You shouldn't worry about me, really.  I’m happy, I have George here with me.”

“I wish you’d trade that cat in for a man.” she said.

“Where’s your man,
Mom
?” I said with a snarky tone. “At least I have a cat.”

My mom laughed a deep laugh and said “Oh honey, you’ve got me there!”

We said our goodbyes, and I hung up the phone.  Sitting back down at the table, I contemplated my trip to mom’s house in Portland.  I considered taking George with me, but my mom thought cats were bad luck. 

My mom had been superstitious since I could remember.  She had salt in her window sills and crosses on the walls in every room.  If zombies or vampires ever attacked, my mother would be prepared. 

She didn’t want me to leave the house without her when I was a little girl, and she would see me to the entrance of a private Catholic school every morning.  We weren’t even catholic. 

She kept me locked away until my teenage years until we had intense arguments ending with me slamming the front door.  I would take off to the library and spend hours on end reading books or wandering downtown and exploring all the shops. 

The arguing stopped after a while and she would just watch me leave without saying a word.  She would look at me with watery eyes.  I felt bad, but I also felt that a life locked up in the house with my mom was not healthy for a girl my age.

I knew she was lonely.  I was all she had.  Her parents had long since passed away, and she was an only child like me.  No aunts, cousins, or any other relative to speak of. 

My dad died in a car accident while she was pregnant with me.  He left her with a large estate, and enough money to survive without working for the rest of her life.  I knew that’s why she didn’t want me to leave because she was afraid of losing me like dad.  As for the superstitious stuff, I wasn’t sure what that was about.

Swirling my spoon around my soggy cereal, I stared into the bloated flakes.  Lifting my spoon to my mouth, I forgave the flakes for their awful texture because I didn’t want to waste an entire bowl of cereal.  Thankful when all of it was gone, I got up from the table and placed my bowl in the sink. 

While I washed out my dish, George arrived at my feet, rubbing against my leg and purring.  Kneeling down, I stroked him across his back and thought about the trip again.

George would have to be left alone for a few days.  I didn’t like leaving George alone, not because he wasn’t safe or didn’t have enough food and water - but because he’d hold it against me for weeks when I got home.

Closing the top of my full suitcase, I noticed George in the doorway of my bedroom.  As soon as George saw the suitcase, he knew what was up.  I spent my last few minutes with him sitting in the middle of the living room with his back turned towards me, tail twitching. He finally let me pet him goodbye, and he let out a stifled purr. 

After throwing my suitcase into the musky smelling trunk of my car, I got in and turned the key in the ignition.  I left town and merged onto Interstate 5 early enough to see the sun set while my car climbed high into the mountains.  There were trees and mountains as far as the eye could see, and fog was hanging in the folds of the mountains.  Through my cracked window I could hear the sound of my tires on the wet pavement and breathed in the cold damp air.  I felt so alive there.

By the time I rolled into Portland late into the evening, my butt was aching from sitting for so long.  When I approached the City of Portland after hours of driving through the dark mountains, it seemed like a beacon of civilization with its tall buildings and lights sparkling like a great sea of fallen stars. 

Sighing, I shifted in my seat and watched the mileposts to look for my exit.  Traveling up to the hilly side of town where my mom lived, I found her street and parked my car in front of her house.  The sound of driving on the road for so many hours
whooshed
in my ears. 

Her house was a beautiful three story town-home, with dusty bricks and covered in ivy. There was a little wrought iron fenced garden out front, with a pond surrounded in angel statues.  They were all praying.  I stopped to watch the giant goldfish swim around the pond when the front door flew open.

“Emily! Oh, Emily!”  My mother stood in the doorway with teary eyes and open arms.  Had it been that long?  It had been a year since I saw her in person.  I’d been so busy.

I pulled my suitcase up the porch stairs and gave her a warm hug.  She didn’t let go for a while and it felt awkward.  I had theorized that was exactly the point she ended her hugs, on purpose.

She led me to the guest bedroom and told me I should get to bed, like I was twelve and nothing had changed.  She had planned on getting up early to put the turkey in and insisted that I be up to join her.

I laid out my pajamas on the four poster bed covered in frilly, white eyelet covers.  The bed-skirt, pillow shams and the curtains all had the same matching white eyelet ruffles. The walls were a pale blue. A five foot bronze cross depicting the crucifixion of Jesus was hanging on the wall at the head of the bed. 

“Jesus” I said, stunned by the sheer size and the disturbing image of the crucified man with his head hanging.  My mom was so weird.  She didn’t even go to church.

Sinking into the soft, fluffy mattress I faded away. When I became conscious again, I recognized the sound of my mom singing.  I wrapped my blanket around me and headed down the stairs towards the noise and found the kitchen with lights ablaze.  She was stirring and swinging her hips and singing some bubbly show tune. 

I looked nothing like her.  My mom, Ellen, had natural blond and straight hair, which was fading out to white in some places.  My hair was light brown with natural, unruly waves.

She had a gorgeous body, even for a woman in her fifties, with curvy hips and a busty chest.  My hips were narrow, and boy like.  My chest was full, but nowhere near the “busty” category.  She was five-foot-four, and proportional.  I was five-foot-six, and way too leggy.

Her eyes were small and brown, and mine were big and green.  She also had a cute spray of freckles across her nose that made her appear young and cute, despite her age. For years when I was a kid, I’d search in the mirror for freckles like my mom had.  I didn’t have a single freckle to speak of.

I often wished I knew what my father looked like.  Mom said its bad luck to keep pictures of the dead.  I didn’t know what anyone I was related to looked like, except for her. 

We cooked all morning, with her ordering me around the kitchen and me bustling about to meet her demands. 
“Stir this,” she said, and “Don’t burn that!” 

By late afternoon we sat down to feast on the big turkey along with stuffing, yams, mashed potatoes and gravy.  I could hear the grandfather clock in the corner ticking as we bowed our heads, and she prayed our thankfulness. 

I avoided her questions about my personal life by making as much conversation about her as possible.  I found she joined a new quilting club, and she’d been spending time with friends she’d made.  Strange, it seemed after all those years she was getting a life of her own. 

“Emily, I know what you’re doing.” she said.  “Tell me, what have you been up to?  In love with anyone yet?”

She made her face concerned at first, but then a wicked grin erupted across her face.

“No
mother
.” I said.  “I haven’t even been dating.  I’ve just been working.” 

I slouched into my chair. 

She leaned forward, a concerned look on her face.  “When was the last time you saw a man?”

I wanted to think of something funny to say to her about the last time I saw a man, but the only thing I was coming up with was Rick.  He was a man I saw practically every day, but I didn’t want her to think there was something between us.  Tapping my index finger on the table,  I searched my mind. 

“I saw a guy in the coffee shop the other day, and it was weird, because I was looking right at him and had a hard time seeing him.” I said.

She dropped her fork into her potatoes, with a vacant look in her eyes and said, “Do you remember anything about him?”

That wasn’t the reaction I expected. 

“Well,” I said. “He had dark hair, almost black.  He was pale, probably paler than me.” 

She just sat there without moving for some time. 

“Oh jeez mom.” I said. “It was nothing.  It was probably the lighting in the room.  I was just trying to be funny.  Please don’t get out the holy water.”

She shook her head at me. 

“Oh Emily,” she said. “Don’t even go back to that place.  You have to stay here…”  She trailed off whispering prayers under her breath with her eyes closed.

“Mom.” I said in a gentle voice.  “I think you’re losing it.” 

She lifted up her chin, fire in her eyes.  “You have to stay away from him.  You see him, you run.  Understand?”

“You know this man?” I said.

I felt like was floating.  That was about as strange as it got, right there at Thanksgiving dinner with my mom. 

“He is an abomination.” she said, with venom in her voice.  She slammed her fist down on the table.  “He is the devil himself.”

It was my turn to sit there unmoving and silent.

To my relief, she picked up her fork and knife and ate again.  I poked at my turkey with my fork for a few minutes and broke the silence with an “I love you, mom.”

“I love you too, sweetie.” she said.

The tension in the air died down.  I was used to conversations with my mom taking bizarre and dramatic twists, but this one was a intriguing. 

I diverted the subject to less dramatic things, like day-after-Thanksgiving shopping.  She had grand plans for shopping all day at the mall, but I talked her into going to Powell’s Books. 

Powell’s was my most favorite bookstore on earth.  It was an entire city block; an absolute paradise of books.  If they allowed it, I would spend an entire weekend there and camp out in a sleeping bag in their aisles.  I knew I would be dragged into hobby shops and clothing stores with Mom, but the bookstore would make it all worthwhile.

We spent the rest of the day cleaning up the feast and placing leftovers in plastic containers.  We didn’t have to worry about meals for the rest of the weekend.

She fell asleep in her recliner, holding on to the neon purple scarf she was knitting for me.  I smiled, trying to picture myself wearing the scarf. After setting her knitting work aside, I covered her up with a soft, pink throw blanket. 

Tip-toeing around, I shut off all the downstairs lights.  I crept up the stairs and crawled into bed with one thing on my mind.  I would not be satisfied until I found “the devil” from the coffee shop.

My Mom spent the entire weekend trying to convince me to move in with her.  I kept telling her I had a great job I couldn’t leave, I was a grown woman, and the boogie man wouldn’t get me.  She made me promise to never speak to the strange man, and to at least
try
to date again.  I had intended to break those promises, but she was a feisty woman and I didn’t think she would let me out of the front door. 

I popped my trunk and loaded in my suitcase.  As I was about to close it, the front door of the house flew open.  I startled and backed up right into a deep puddle.  Great, wet socks. 

“Wait!” She came rushing down the stairs with an armful of what looked like white sheets.  She gave me a somber look as she pulled back the sheet and revealed the giant bronze Jesus cross from the guest room.  “Take this.”