The Forgetting Place - Chapter Fourteen
Novel in Progress
I have slipped into Leo’s morning routine. He steeps my tea while he prepares his coffee. Always the same mugs. His: a pale textured blue. Mine: smooth, the color of overripe pumpkins. He puts a teaspoon of honey into mine. A splash of milk into both. Three stirs clockwise. He uses the same spoon. I can always taste a little Arabica in my Earl Grey.
Depending on when I come out, sometimes I sit and watch the whole process. Other times I arrive just in time for him to hand me my mug, still hot. Today is somewhere in between. I sat reading my notes about Resa in my bed for a little while before getting out of the bed, hoping the words and my proximity to the dream space would trigger something, but they didn’t. I am sitting on the arm of the couch picking the tiny pills of fabric off the upholstery when he places my blue mug on the end table beside me. I say thank you but I don’t pick it up.
“What’s on your mind this morning?”
“Nothing new.” I wish I had stayed in my room. Talking to him makes me feel further from Resa.
He sips his coffee and takes a few steps toward me. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“No.”
He waits to see if I will elaborate. I keep my eyes on my mug and the contents inside it. I pretend not to see him. He shifts from one foot to another. Purses his lips together. Scratches the back of his head. When he’s through being patient, or at least being patient in place, he clears his throat and drops his chin. “I think I’ll go sit outside.”
Was I being rude? Or just honest? The tight sets of my jaw tells me it was both. I feel a little bit guilty, but also annoyed. I fight the urge to go outside. To apologize. For what though? For what I said? For continuing to grasp threads of my past? For not letting go? I look out of the picture windows that are just a little bit too far off to the right for me to see Leo, sitting, as I’m sure he is, in white rocking chair, sipping his coffee.
I want him to want to remember.
I pace the room, retracing the same steps across the living room floor into the kitchen. My bare feet slap against the hardwood setting a rhythm to my frustration. I walk up to the front door, even put my hand on the knob, but I don’t turn it. The company I really want right now is confined to a dream and in the absence of that, only my own will do. I go back to the kitchen, take peanut butter, honey, and bread out of the pantry, make my favorite, and retreat to my room.
The door slams behind me and I am surprised by the sound. I pushed it with the force of the frustration I am feeling, but I hadn’t realized it would be so loud. I move from the window seat to the chest at the end of my bed and back. I gnaw at my cuticles and wonder where that habit comes from. I want to yell but I don’t want Leo to hear me. I rake my fingers through my hair, place a hand on my chest and try to still my heart.
I walk to the end table and retrieve the pen and notebook. The bits of Resa captured on the page create a weight in my chest that rises and collects in my throat. I try to push it down, but it rises higher still until my face is covered in it. I wipe my cheeks, but my hands are not fast enough. The tears are persistent and relentless. My heart throbs, begging me to name its pain, but I can not.
I am mourning without an anchor. In the place of memory I have grief.
*Next chapter, Monday, July 14th. Read all chapters at A Soft Place to Land.*