Recovery
Well, I 100% chickened out. I memorized my monologue and recorded myself performing it, and it wasn’t even bad. I mean, not TOO bad. But the thought of having to go in front of people to perform it was paralyzing. I made it about halfway to Royal Oak and just kept driving north instead.
I’m at the bar, after a strong pep talk about how if I want to be a writer instead I need to buckle down and actually write regularly. So here I am. Writing. Drinking light beer. Thinking about how I have been unraveling.
I’m exhausted all the time, seeing everything through a fog, changing my clothes five times a day but not washing my hair. I compulsively clean the house, like inner peace is right under that layer of smashed crackers. I barely see my friends or anyone else. I can feel my furrow lines cementing between my brows. Clay skin hardening.
Instead of visiting potential daycares for Ari, I went to IKEA to buy silverware for Stephanie today. Steve is moving out and apparently he’s taking the flatware with him. I also picked up candles and plastic dishes for the kids, and some cable you stretch across the wall to hang pictures on. You know how that place is. It took up most of the usable day, until I had to do school pick ups.
But I’ve been putting off setting up daycare for a couple of weeks. Probably longer, actually. I don’t mean to. I just can’t focus. So everything is weirdly stagnant.
I feel haunted. Jordan is everywhere. He comments on everything I do, mopes around the house when we should be sleeping, laughs when the kids laugh. Teases Rosie when she acts silly. Maybe my grip on reality was never great and this assault on it is too jarring right now. I feel like I need help but I don’t know how to ask for it, or what it would be. The only thing that sounds comforting is quiet, time to reflect and focus. Consider things. Realign. My circumstances do not, unfortunately, allow for peace and quiet. Ha! Not right now. JD used to blend right into our hyperactive household so seamlessly. I miss my brother, man.
But I’m fairly certain I won’t see him again. I mean, I saw him there, contorted, so uncomfortable looking, I couldn’t wait for the ME’s to get there and just MOVE him already, lay the poor kid flat. How many hours was he stuck there like that? In that stink? Was he hoping someone would show up and help him at the end? Why didn’t he call me? Could he call? Did he realize this time was different?
It’s a loop, starting with that sleepless night. Hearing noises on the baby monitor, hearing a little boy talking down the hall. Rolling around in bed with stomach cramping like something was eating me from the inside. Right up to laying my hand on his stomach and feeling a room temperature body through that thin white t-shirt. I might forget everything else, but I will never forget how he felt under my hand.
How long is it before that loop quits? Or if it won’t, when will I be able to pull it together and focus regardless? Functioning at 60% will only keep life support going; this ship will never reach its destination point unless we repair the broken machinery.
CAPTAIN! FIGURE THIS SHIT OUT! WE ARE AIMLESSLY STAGGERING INTO THE NETHER REGIONS OF AN UNCHARTED UNIVERSE AND THE CREW IS TERRIFIED.
Charlie – The Start
The heat enhanced every feeling, but reduced clarity. And it was hot. The bare mattress, a surprising and wonderful find, was damp with sweat. At 15 floors up, a sympathetic breeze from the windows brushed her cheek now and then, but it was more of a tease than anything. She slowed her breathing and tried to focus.
Every other quarter inch of fabric in the mattress was silky. She ran her fingers back and forth over it, rough to silk, rough to silk, and repeated her name like a mantra in her head: Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
– and then a break to listen. After floor 10 the building was empty, from what she could tell. There were rats or something around that size on 11 or 12. Their primal, hungry urges were tickles at the edge of her mind. If she listened hard enough, she could hear even insects. But that took unnecessary effort.
A person was a substantial feeling. Especially Henry. He was 6’2” and meaty, and more importantly, almost always on the verge of rage. When Henry got close, it was like a fist gripping her whole body. He could be in the next room and her jaw would clench in anticipation of his arrival. But he didn’t feel things like she did, and so she had to antennae out her name so he could find her. Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
– and listen. The distant itching of the rats. The swaying and creaking of the building itself. Old (maybe 100 years?) Brick, cement, soaked full of the vitriol and heartache of hundreds of people. Also their happiness, and passion, but people were mostly shit. Take away those social mores and plastic smiles, and you’re left with raw human. Pretty much different colors of raw shit.
They had met in this same building before. It was cooler, and more full of people. Up the stairs she’d gone, floor after floor, each heavy brown door with its heavy steel handle at each landing an invitation to another set of misery. She’d gone up to 17. The swaying of the building was unmistakable. Through their entire conversation she was distracted, trying to figure out how the building would fall. Would it crumble beneath them in a heap so that they were only halfway buried? Would it topple sideways like dominoes?
– and then Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
And listen. Under her fingers, rough to silk, rough to silk, resist the urge to pinch them together, rough to silk. What a good find, this mattress. It wasn’t too gross. The nibbling & itching of the rats below. The maudlin, bitter feeling of the mattress and the walls around her if she listened too hard. This time would be the last time. She shifted to be more comfortable but only moved into a slightly cooler pools of sweat, which made it worse.
– Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie Charlie
And there he was. Right into the front door, far below. She felt his hand grip the door frame, his foot stamp into dust and dirt on the first step of the stairway. For a moment she just listened and felt. He wasn’t alone, but that was ok. He had another man with him, about his size, but walking behind him. She could feel their silence. They walked quietly one floor up and she felt Henry’s hesitation as he listened for her.
– CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE 15
It felt like screaming at a child, but they started walking up again. She kept it up (CHARLIE 15 CHARLIE 15 CHARLIE 15) and waited, sprawled out on the mattress. It would take them a minute to get to her. She didn’t want Henry to doubt where to go, so best be loud. His buddy didn’t have any touch at all and didn’t hear a thing. Wasn’t there a way to improve your skills? There had to be a way to become more sensitive, exorcises for your brain to get at least a bit better at listening. What kind of person were you to not hear a thing when someone so close was screaming inside their head? Or was he blocking like a champ?
As they rounded the last corner on her floor she felt a bump, a jarring, brilliant bit of life, maybe two floors down. But right beneath her! Immediately beneath her!
She jumped from the mattress and took a squatting stance, one knee toward the pebbly floor. What was that?
And the door opened – that heavy brown door. Henry was 15 feet away from her, near what must have been the kitchenette when running water was still a thing, but she sank like he was pushing her down at her shoulders. For someone with such dark hair he had such light eyes, she thought, just like every time she saw him. She could see the silhouette of his friend in the hall behind him.
Charlie Charlie Charlie
Was he listening?
CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE CHARLIE
What was downstairs? Who was that?
She sank until her haunches were flat on the cheap linoleum and grit.
And Henry spoke.
