The Cubicle Next Door (37 page)

When I saw the stamp, I set the letter aside. Went through the other mail without reading it. Threw away the phone bill and had to retrieve it. I hoped Qwest wouldn’t mind a little olive oil on their bill.

I pawed through the rest of the garbage to make sure I hadn’t thrown anything else away. And when I looked back at the table, the letter was still there.

And it was not from my mother.

At least, it hadn’t been addressed by her. I’d only received one letter from her in my entire life, but I knew her handwriting like I knew my own.

I got up from the table and poured a glass of milk. Turned around and drank it with my back pressed against the counter. I put the glass down, chewed on a fingernail.

The letter was still there.

It’s a lot easier to pretend someone doesn’t exist when they don’t contact you. Not, of course, that the letter was from my mother. I had already determined it wasn’t. But was that a good or a bad sign?

I turned around and rifled through the cupboards. I really wanted something crunchy. Like potato chips. The best I could come up with was rice cakes.

I crunched through half a bag.

And then I was thirsty again.

I poured another glass of milk.

The letter was still there.

And I was still hungry. For something sweet and gooey.

I opened the fridge, drew out a loaf of bread, a brick of sharp cheddar and a jar of apple butter. I popped two slices of bread in the toaster, unwrapped the cheese, set it on a plate, and concentrated on cutting it. There is an art to the perfect toasted cheese sandwich. The bread has to be toasted just to brown, but not dark brown or black. And the cheese has to be sliced thin enough so that it melts on contact with the toast. That’s the tricky part. I cut three slices that were too thick before I cut one thin enough to use. Three more bad ones before another good one. My rhythm was all wrong.

I glanced toward the table and almost sliced my finger off.

The toast jumped.

I tossed it onto the plate. Contemplated cutting another slice of cheese, but decided it would take too long. I laid the cheese slices on top of one piece of bread, slathered apple butter across the other. Waited for the cheese to absorb the last of the warmth of the toast and then pressed the slices together and cut it at a diagonal.

I ate it.

The letter was still there.

I returned the bread, the cheese, and the apple butter to the fridge. Washed and dried the plate. Ran a washcloth across the counter to pick up loose crumbs. Picked up the toaster and shook it out over the sink. Shook it some more. Put it back.

I fiddled with the knobs on the stove. Grimy gook had built up along the dial faces and along their undersides. Why didn’t anyone ever clean under there?

I went to the bathroom and came back armed with a handful of Q-tips. I dug under the sink for the container of Goo-B-Gone.

Half an hour later, the dials were clean. They were so clean they were glinting.

And then I walked over to the table, sat down, and opened the letter.

A bracelet tumbled out. The plastic-coated kind they wrap around your wrist at the hospital.

The letter wasn’t very long.

Two sentences.

Signed by someone whose name I couldn’t read.

It was dated 23 February.

The first sentence said my mother was dead.

The second sentence said the bracelet was the only thing she had in her possession and they had cut it from her arm after she died. I picked it up and looked at it. It was the bracelet she must have worn when she was in the hospital giving birth to me.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in my car on the way to the mountains.

I’ve never understood people who would rather drive through the wilderness than hike it.

Seriously.

Are they scared? Are they lazy? Do they just not know how?

I’ve hiked since I was little. Grandmother would fill a pack and we’d set out on Sundays, after I’d gone to church. Her pack always contained a compass and a handkerchief. A map and a knife. Food, water, and one of those little packs of tissues; they’re easier to carry than a roll of toilet paper. And since we lived and hiked in Colorado, we always, always, carried rain gear.

All it took to spend time in the wilderness was a little common sense.

I ran the car off the highway at Mueller Park. Got out, slammed the door shut, and started hiking. Without a compass. Without a handkerchief. Without a map, a knife, water, or common sense. At least I had some food. A single energy bar.

I walked. Nibbled at the energy bar. Walked some more. But I wasn’t really into it. My feet hurt. My head hurt.

My heart hurt.

I’d just sat down on a rock, taken the energy bar out of my pocket, and decided to finish it off when I heard something. Something that was rustling through the brush. I hoped it wasn’t a bear. But what else could you expect on Black Bear Trail? As many times as I’d hiked in Mueller, as many miles as I’d ranged, I’d never actually seen one, although I’d seen evidence of them.

It rustled again.

If it was a bear, there was nothing I could do to save myself. Except fall on the ground and pretend to be dead. That’s the advice everyone always hands out, but as I thought about it, I couldn’t remember hearing about anyone who had actually done it.

Twigs snapped.

How many wild animals can snap a twig? They’d have to be pretty heavy to be able to do that, right? So…bears? An elk? A cougar?

Maybe not a cougar. They’re supposed to be stealthy stalkers. I can’t imagine they’d walk around snapping twigs. And if it were an elk, I’d just wave my arms around until it went away. Worst case scenario?

Still a bear.

Couldn’t get much worse than that.

I had taken no precautions with my food. I hadn’t buried my energy bar, tied it up in a tree or kept it in an odor-proof container. I could eat it, but then the scent would still be in my pocket. All of a sudden, I didn’t want the scent of food anywhere near me. I threw the bar into the brush.

The sounds stopped. Maybe that was good.

They started again. That was bad.

I closed my eyes. I’m one of those people who never watch the scary parts in movies. But then I lifted an eyelid, just a little. It would be nice to know if the bear really were 20 feet long. What else would make so much noise moving through the forest?

Joe.

He burst into my clearing, cheeks ablaze and eyes aflame. “Just how many kinds of stupid are you?”

I scrambled to my feet as my knees liquefied in sheer relief.

“Out here in the middle of nowhere by yourself? What would have happened if you’d gotten lost? Or broken a leg?”

“Then I would have been finished off by a bear and haunted Mueller Park forever.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I. I thought you were a bear.”

“Is that why you threw this at me?” He walked toward me, holding out my half-eaten energy bar.

I glared at him. “Why are you here?”

“Because your grandmother called me.”

“And?”

“And we were both worried about you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Obviously you’re not, or you wouldn’t be wandering around the wilderness throwing food at people.”

“You’ve found me. Congratulations. Now you can tell Grandmother I’m fine.”

“But you’re not.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Then why are you crying?”

“I wasn’t. Not until you showed up. Everything would have been just f-fine if it hadn’t been for you.”

Joe stalked over and grabbed me by the shoulders. Then he sighed and enveloped me in his arms, tucking my head underneath his chin.

“More than anything else, I didn’t want to be like her.”

“I know.”

“And now I’ll never know what she was like.”

“I know. Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

“I have my car.”

“We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell Joe on the drive home. I wanted to tell him everything. About the blog. About myself. But I fell asleep before I could say anything at all.

The next day, I vacillated between anger and grief.

My mother was dead.

How could I even begin to understand her? How could I forgive her? I’d never be able to talk to her. I’d never be able to ask her why. Ask her if she’d ever regretted it. Ask her if she’d ever thought of me at all.

But I kept coming back to that bracelet. She’d never taken it off.

But then she’d never come home, either.

Why not?

If she wore me next to her skin, then why hadn’t she just come home?

Unworthy. Could that have been how she’d felt?

Because I felt the same way.

In trying to be the exact opposite of my mother, had I spun so far around the circle that I’d come to the place she’d vacated? Was I so certain I didn’t deserve love that I did everything I could to stay away from it? I was living my life in self-imposed isolation. Just like she had. Only not in India. But was that really truly what I wanted? Regardless, I was trying hard to make sure it stayed that way.

Poor Joe.

Poor me.

I’d broadcast loud and clear I didn’t deserve him. I’d given him a hundred reasons why. But he hadn’t cared, had he?

Why should I have been surprised? He’d never listened to me anyway.

But that wasn’t true, was it?

He’d always been listening. Since the very beginning. To the other hundred things I was too afraid to say.

Grandmother and I sat in the living room the entire morning before we said one word to each other. I was the one who began the conversation.

“Does it change anything?”

“Her being dead? No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

“But it feels different.”

“Because there’s no hope. Not anymore.”

“I didn’t ever really think I
would
see her.”

“I know. I didn’t either. But now the opportunity has been taken away.”

“So am I mourning her or am I mourning the loss of an opportunity?”

Grandmother looked at me then, a sad smile on her face. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

Grandmother shuddered. Put her hands to her face and began to weep. “I’m so, so sorry.”

I got up from the chair and sat beside her on the couch. Put an arm around her and rested my head on her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. None of it is okay.”

“She made her choices.”

“The same way I made mine. I spoiled her. Indulged her. Your grandfather and I both. We gave her everything she ever wanted. She had you. And then she ran away. I was determined you wouldn’t turn out like her. I told myself I wouldn’t let you. I’d been given a second chance and I was going to do it right. I was going to be the perfect mother.”

“I would have settled for any kind of mother.”

“I didn’t want to drive you away too. I tried not to get too close. Tried to compensate for my weaknesses. I did the opposite with you. Because I wanted you to stay.”

“And I did.”

“But what kind of life have you had? Every time I wanted to reach out and touch your hand, kiss your cheek, I stopped myself. Because I didn’t want to ruin you.”

“I knew you loved me.”

“You did?”

“Of course I did.”

“But did I ever tell you? I never told you, did I? I’ve been foolish twice over. But I love you so very much. I love you, Jackie.” She raised her head and kissed me on the cheek. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and held on while she cried.

That afternoon, I drove out to the Academy. Went to the cemetery. Went to tell my father about my mother. I suppose it was foolish, because he probably already knew. Had already known for several months. But I needed to tell him myself. To feel as though I had finished something they’d started.

I wonder if they would have done anything differently had they known the day they met that there would be a moment like that one. A moment where I would stumble to the ground, lay my head on a cool stone, and water their memory with my tears. A moment where I would be unable to say “I love you” to a man I had never met and unwilling to say it to the woman who gave me birth.

But I cried.

For the third time I could remember, I cried.

I didn’t know what was happening. Somewhere, deep inside, a floodgate had released an onslaught of emotions. I was swimming with them, struggling against them, trying to find a foothold in a self I hardly knew.

They could be a riptide from which I might never recover.

But my hope was that they would soon recede. Wash me up and then retreat with an ebbing tide. Leaving me high and dry, the emotions trickling away beneath me.

Leaving me stranded, but setting me free.

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG

Someone

Has there ever been someone in your life who has impacted you dramatically even though you’ve never really met them before?

There has been in my life. Up until now. The thing is, I never really liked or understood this person, but they were always in my thoughts. And now that they’re gone, I’m not quite sure what to feel about them. Am I supposed to mourn this loss? Can you mourn a person you’ve never had charitable thoughts toward?

I don’t know what to think. Or feel.

Posted on April 25 in
The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink

Comments

To mourn is to express grief or sorrow. I suppose you could feel sorrow because the other person has died, for the expiration of their life, even though you might never have loved or might never miss them in your life.

Posted by:
NozAll | April 25 at 08:09 PM

They had their chance at life. Let it go.

Posted by:
survivor | April 25 at 08:31 PM

You’re not responsible for other people’s choices.

Posted by:
theshrink | April 25 at 09:17 PM

It’s like buyer’s remorse. Right now, you’re thinking of all the things you might have said or done while they were alive, right? But now you can’t change anything you did or didn’t do. It’s a phase. Don’t worry. You’ll be liking life again soon.