Regeneration X (2 page)

“I’m not surprised. I think I’d feel the same if I’d been doing what you do for so long,” he sympathized.

“How do you manage to tune out the crazy world out there?” I said, pointing at the looming sky. The tree swayed; it was going to rain.
 

He replied with a perspective that offered more comfort than her childish mechanizations did, certainly. “You’re taking on too much—thinking of the world. I know the opposite is easier said than done, but try not to worry so much. Instead, try to remember nature for what it is. Let all the other nonsense go. Pretend it has nothing to do with you, because it doesn’t. And keep it simple.”

“Give me an example. What do you do?”

“Well. I don’t think about human robots or nanotechnology, but when I need to detach I try to pick out the stars I can see through the leaves. Or I listen for the sound the night breeze might make as it rustles our leafy roof.
 

“Personally, I also take comfort in Old Man Poplar’s watchful presence … Can’t say I’ve ever thought of him as creepy myself, but you could try to imagine he protects us and this house as we sleep.”

He kissed the top of her head and nodded a gesture toward the sky, “figuratively speaking, if he doesn’t shelter us from some oncoming storm, Fergus will warn us if anything is amiss. Just know, you are well looked after,” patting their watchdog on his reposed rump. Fergus had become alert and watchful, adding proof to Michael’s words. Then again, the beast didn’t care for storms.

・ ・ ・

Although Charley still had the same difficulties, she was now able to fall asleep more regularly by concentrating on their sentinels or focusing on a found star, but it was the brightness of the morning which truly restored her sense of security—and another reason why she lingered in bed. Laying there, she took her time memorizing the poplar’s unimposing daytime personality. One by one, the moths of the night took their release. And she watched them float off like butterflies, silhouetted in the glow of morning.

She had taken some other measures to discourage the vagueness of the night as well. Except for the centerpiece on the ceiling, the bedroom was refashioned to be plain and spare. It was now mostly arranged in near-white tones, with the contents of the large room effectually engulfed by empty space. She dubbed these aesthetic stylings
supplemented minimalism
. The contents included the current decadent bedding—a white eiderdown duvet, soft linen sheets and four down-filled pillows—on a simple cast iron, king-size bed. Floor-length velvet curtains also in white, but thick enough to block out the sun if desired, framed the hotel-style French doors leading to a long, narrow balcony. A couple of natural Flokati rugs on either side of the bed; a massive vintage, caramel-colored, glove-leather club chair and ottoman set in the corner; two matching, unobtrusive, wrought-iron bedside tables; and a few interesting but functional bits and bobs on tabletops completed the room.
 

It wasn’t so much she didn’t fancy
things
; she just enjoyed the feeling of waking afresh each morning, unaccosted by stuff (and falling asleep free of a few more shadows). For those first moments in the hazy blankness of the morn, as her thoughts drifted up toward the sky, she began the day with hopes of the possible and a chance for something extraordinary to occur. She waited patiently for this to happen, too.

Aside from removing the large floor-to-ceiling mirror in its gilded frame (the passageway to another realm or the underworld according to Chinese folklore), there was a moment of incompleteness in her makeover plan.
 

It was Charley who did the decorating—and un-decorating as it were—and she wanted the walls bared as well, but Michael was an art history professor, so color and scenes, or other imagery, were innate and essential to his idea of pleasing space, especially at home. He agreed the actual usefulness of objects should be a priority in their design decisions, insomuch as he considered interior design; however, when it came to art, for a while they were at an impasse. In his mind, art was useful; it set and changed moods.
 

But what purpose does art serve in a bedroom, a room he is hardly ever in except when the lights are out?
—was what she thought. “When was the last time your mood was changed by a piece of artwork—in your sleep?” she asked rhetorically. Still, he wouldn’t actually agree and this dilemma would be solved, since to her it was a problem. Aside from wrangling her peace of mind for the nights, these
projects
were how she whiled away the hours in the day when she wasn’t working.

She reconsidered her argument and again more carefully broached, “In every other house we’ve lived in, our art collection has been scattered throughout. I think it defeats the purpose entirely, don’t you? It’s taken a long time to gather everything we have now and rather than filling a blank wall or empty nook, this time it should be displayed meaningfully, all together.
 

“I’m not saying we should rid of anything.” Besides, Charley felt her office and the bedroom were mainly her domains—she spent most of her time in these rooms.
I feel I have 51 percent of the vote
, but she didn’t voice this as part of her tact. Being married for almost 16 years they managed compromises here and there—mostly learned through trial and error. They learned
how
to talk and gauge each other’s reactions. Perhaps because of this training, either her logic was accepted or she had worn him down in this instance.

“I still think the rooms would look empty without the visual interest. But then again, it might be nice to have a proper gallery for once and, as you said, nothing to lose.

“We should organize it in a place and way that makes some kind of sense.” Michael replied. As finally the consensus was reached, the wide hallways of the house were transformed into a gallery, where sculptures, paintings, and drawings could be appreciated without just being put anywhere, especially not in the bedroom, which was in fact, her ulterior motive.

Afterward, the cogs in her mind turned over the inadvertent effects.
It’s true, I’d never taken the opportunity to stop and enjoy the pictures and objects before
. Now, not only could she appreciate the art, she was thrown into moments where she could observe Michael too. And strange as it may seem, to realize, it was probably completely normal. Much like art, Michael was valuable to her and vice versa, but often they overlooked one another’s presence. They were fortunate to be together still, but each was rather like a piece in the collection, propped up and barely recognized; and they passed each other by, daily.

Although Michael had not remarked on the new gallery, he seemed to enjoy the results. She knew if he hadn’t approved he would have surely said, especially in this case. Generally, Michael’s opinion could be judged by his actions anyway. Now he would quite often lean on an opposite wall, arms folded, deep in contemplation over one of the pieces they had collected; where before, he’d valued each piece in passing.

Seeing all the artwork together was gratifying in itself, they had quite a montage. Still, Michael was usually engaged by one or two pieces in particular: a photo-realistic, pen and ink drawing of a young boy sitting on a stoop in solemnity. The boy’s faithful dog sat next to him, with his head sympathetically resting in the boy’s lap. The drawing was detailed and fine; sad and mysterious, but charming. The other piece was a small, roughly welded and mildly rusty rebar and scrap metal sculpture of Jesus’ crucifixion. Michael wasn’t devout per se; however, this particular sculpture was provocative. The depiction was self-explanatory, but the composition lent much to its interpretation. Charley could understand why he was repeatedly drawn to both pieces. The drawing of the boy and the dog were personal for Michael, but she felt it was universally heartwarming, as well. The sculpture with its rough-material simplicity was more complex. It was as if the metal, too, had lived a former life and fulfilled its purpose, and now it was laid out beaten and unrecognizable, nailed up for the world to reject or receive.

When Charley happened upon him thus, she crept to an open doorway or back to the top of the stairs, out of sight—not covertly, just quietly enough not to disturb his reveries. For her, his pensive manner inspired bittersweet thoughts of solitude, lost love, and longing. These ideas confused her. They were the best of friends; she didn’t think she wanted anything to change between them.
Life was predictable … comfortable. Besides, they had earned it, hadn’t they?
But every time, it was the same. And strangely, rather than actually feeling those would-be emotions, they were just disconnected words which popped to mind as she stood there—except solitude, she felt alone often. She wondered if he spied on her in the same way, but doubted it.

Why lost love? We are together. And why longing?
We have everything we need; we have each other. She trusted no one else in the world more. What perplexed her was that Michael was perfect: intelligent, driven, and hardworking; attractive, kind, and even-tempered; and his sense of humor was just her type, dry and spontaneous. If this wasn’t enough, he was the better cook. If there were a balance comparing the two of them, the scale would have tipped decidedly in his favor, every time.

“This piece of the boy and dog, it’s hard to believe we found it at a garage sale. What did we pay, near ten dollars? You couldn’t appreciate it in the hideous frame and it was worth it to get it restored,” Michael’s voice said tunneling down the hallway one evening.
 

He continued as he came down the stairs, “it’s one of my favorite pieces now, it reminds me of my dog Sailor growing up, when his buddy
and mine
, Luca, crossed the bridge.”

“I agree it was a find.” She already knew why he liked it and now that the bedroom was organized, she needed another distraction. “The hall gets good light during the day, but the overhead light isn’t great otherwise. I was thinking of supplementing them with spot fixtures.”

“Yes, consistent lighting would help.”

Chapter Two

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day.

—William Shakespeare,
Sonnet 73

・
・
・

THE INITIAL CONCEPT HAD SNOWBALLED. IT STARTED with the bedroom and the need to defragment her mind. Then, after a long reprieve, the idea was eventually translated throughout the house to most other rooms and spaces. This time it wasn’t a childish motive—it was a live more efficiently initiative, an excuse which she viewed as another of her duties. Realistically, her notions were fueled by boredom, although it was also possible she wasn’t aware of it. Charley seemed to have been going through a mid-life crisis, for over ten years. She was consumed by the need for distraction—usually from the activities, she wished she didn’t have to partake in—so she wouldn’t have connected the projects with boredom on her part.

A thorough cleansing scheme was one of those and it had all started with a simple dawning thought, propelled by the previous success with the bedroom and gallery reorganization. One Saturday she went looking through the cubbies, drawers, and storage places around the house in order to find something to put inside a decorative bowl she had just purchased. She had settled on some balls of twine or carved wooden ornaments—she’d seen something similar in a home décor magazine on the web. Her vision was stalled by the fact they didn’t own those items in particular and nothing else would quite do. She began to think she needed to go shopping again and just as she was about to text Becks and Inez,—her best friends, who also conveniently owned a home décor shop—it struck her as a cuff to the head might.
Buying ornamental items, to put inside a decorative item, to embellish a tabletop is outright ludicrous
. And this was exactly what she’d been doing with every vacant plot of counter- or table-top throughout the house.

・ ・ ・

It took them over a year to clear the clutter, but it was worth it.
When I think of the amount of stuff we accumulated over our combined lives
… Charley over-analyzed everything—it was a consequence of habit and her long-time career as an editor of a sort-of analytical magazine. It was as if she were being paid to consider all the angles, even outside of work. In this case, she concluded a lot about why people consume so much nonsense—
as if stuff was food
—was either to gain approval from peers, a means of casting the perception of success or fullness of life. It reminded her of the show,
Keeping Up Appearances
.
 

Now their home was exactly how they both enjoyed it and not because of how it and they would appear to others. Michael had mirthfully expressed, “I’m glad we’re not sheeple. That would be baaah duh.”

But soon after, whenever anyone visited their place, annoyingly, their primary reaction was a euphemistic, “Your place is so organized and tidy,” or “Did you just move in?” generally followed by, “Oh right, you don’t have kids.”
I wonder if people realize they acquire many of their belongings before having children
. Charley would have said as much, but it would probably have come off as snarky and to no purpose.
 

Regardless, as a result, they rarely invited guests over, but they’d also become more introverted and reserved over the years—for other reasons. For one, Charley didn’t want to feel defensive for the choices they made, there was no purpose in that either, but also she felt the world was moving frighteningly in the direction of the
Matrix
and she refused to adopt fully this unreal—becoming too real—society as her own.

She had always been an opinionated person and was still, but in a more private way—markedly different from her outgoing, vocal, social self at a much younger age. Now, instead of stepping up to some social media soapbox she tried to remain mindful of her role as wife, daughter, sister, professional, etc., in the real world. Therefore, apart from Michael, her family, Inez and Rebecca “Becks,” her two closest friends, were her sounding boards now and the only ones who heard her grievances.