Page 4 of Alarm Fatigue

Usually returning home feels like a warm embrace. I can let down all of my pretenses and walls and just be myself—more so than in any other place in my life. Tonight, however, I arrive home a changed woman, still seething from my encounter with that man. This is an anger I am not ready to leave at the front door. It feels like a power surge, electrifying me from my toes to the ends of my hair.

Walking into my den I find my youngest daughter, Hannah, is waiting for me, as expected. Tossing my coat and handbag onto one of my overstuffed chairs, I throw myself into the other. The feeling of the soft velvet fabric begins the process of soothing my nerves. Hannah takes one look at the state of her mother and pours me a glass of wine.

“Tough evening?”

“You have no idea. You will never guess who my date was.” I gulp the wine—there is no other word for what I am doing with it and Hannah raises her brows. “It was none other than Dr. PITA.” I announce and her eyes grow wide.

In the last few years, my family and I have developed this nickname for Mark Levy, meaning pain-in-the-ass. This grew out of the necessity of my need to use strong language in talking about my interactions with him while protecting the innocent ears of my grandchildren.

“Wow! How in the world did that happen?”

“I thought about that on the way home and I cannot remember the last time I called him by his given name in front of Amalie. I mean she would not set me up with Dr. PITA on purpose, but a doctor named Mark Levy?” I lean back in the chair as the wine starts to do its work.

“Hannah, he was so discourteous—first he arrives late, then he was smugly bickering about everything I said. I was trying to make light of it, be polite,” I take a moment for more wine. “Then after sitting for less than five minutes, he proceeded to say he wanted to leave early to catch the end of a game. And that is not the worst part of the entire evening. I mean I produced a power exit, of course,” Hannah grins at me with admiration. “But I realized on my way home that there are no games on tonight. Not any national or local teams. So either he left me to watch an overseas cricket match or he just lied to get out of there. To. My. Face.”

Smiling then, I happily tell her how I nailed my exit. “My exit was perfect. I did not even trip or anything. That part was savage, if I do say so myself.”

Hannah is just looking at me, thoughtfully, so I take another, smaller gulp of wine. Time to deflect.

“Hannah, I am telling you right now, I cannot handle any more surprises.”

While I know this is not her fault—it not anyone’s fault—I need some command over this situation. This feels too out of control, like I am a top that has been spun and is taking too long to be still again. I close my eyes and I can feel the wine, but I am still thrumming with the energy from telling Mark off.

Opening my eyes again, I look over at Hannah. She has made herself comfortable in my den, curled up under a throw blanket on my overstuffed sofa. My two cats are lying on top of each other in her lap, like they had been in a competition for her personal space and both decided to surrender at the same time. She is dressed all in black, as she usually does, in a square-neck black t-shirt and a black jersey maxi skirt, her signature combat boots kicked off and left on the floor. Her hair is a dark reddish-brown, naturally wavy and styled in an adorable chin-length bob. She has deep-set brown eyes, fair skin, and she dresses in her own edgy but modest style. She has my face, more so than my other daughters, and sometimes I feel as though I am seeing a hologram of my younger self. If there was an alternate universe with a more secure and contented version of younger me.

“Mama, that must have been so awkward….” She shrinks back in to the sofa, clearly uncomfortable with my mood. If it was up to her, everyone would be cheerful and get along, all of the time.

I sigh. “It’s okay, baby, but I think that maybe I should take this as a sign? This could be the universe demonstrating that your mother is better off being at home with Sirius and Minerva and watching our shows.” I attempt a weak smile.

That livens Hannah up and she scowls at me, “Eema, cats are great but they are not real friends. Two more dates, that is all. Do not forget that you promised.” She changes gears. “Besides this has the potential to be super fun…this is just a little but unfortunate hiccup.”

As she bats her eyelashes at me, I know she is the one of my three daughters who actually still believes in magic. I am just as certain that I cannot have a part in squashing that side of her. Most likely, she believes that once I go out three times I will fall in love or at least morph into someone that dates for a hobby. I cannot help but grin back at her, knowing her optimism is never quite based in reality but that it is sourced from pure love and enthusiasm. Her infectious smile widens as she senses a victory.

“Listen, Hannah love, you may have won this battle, but do not assume anything about the war.” I give her a lengthy pause for dramatic effect. “My darling, I hope you are not too disappointed when I go on two more dates and then return to living my best life in my pajamas and streaming my shows.”

She just looks at me with all the confidence of youth.

“Eema, I am headed home. I love you.”

“I love you too, honey.” With that, she pushes the cats to the side, stretches and walks over, planting a kiss on my cheek before locking up behind herself.

Once she has gone, I head into the bathroom in my room and search for the makeup remover I usually do not need to use. I wash my face, which does help to settle me a little more.

Recalling my mother, I remember she used to say that. “Wash your face, dear Rachel. You will feel a little better.” One of the few bits of maternal wisdom she had time to pass down to me. For me it has always held true.

Undressing, I survey myself in the full length mirror that is next to my closet door. Shoulder-length hair that used to be straight and a golden brown, but is wavier these days, due to the streaks of silver that seem to be spreading rapidly across the top of my head. Interestingly, before my husband died, this was the part of my head I kept covered. I have marveled more than once at how this small part of me has changed so much with the loss of Eli. It is as if my hair has been sending me a message—but wait, I was not done with being covered.

As I apply night moisturizer to my face my green eyes reflect back at me. Those are from my mother, who was a freckled and green-eyed Irish red-head, while my small but Roman-shaped nose is my father’s, as are my prominent cheek bones. My skin is fair, more evidence of my mother’s ancestry, and now has a galaxy’s worth of freckles and age spots. I am lucky with her skin, however, in my lack of wrinkles. Honestly, my mother died far too young for me to know how she would have aged. Because of the way her life had played out, I never met anyone else from her family either.

In the last few years, I have become curvier than I used to be and thicker in the middle than maybe I would like. Overall I believe I look healthier than when I was very young. I was so scrawny and gawky. Working at night for so many years, I have experienced an ongoing struggle with maintaining a waistline of one sort or another. My backside seems to have grown most of all, but as long as I can still run a mile I seem to manage to keep it from falling flat and simply widening. I sigh. I know I can be my own worst critic, and I cannot help but wonder what other people see when they look at me. Not that I would ever ask.

Putting on my coziest lounge-wear I reflect on the ways my own children look like me and the ways they do not. I love how much love there is between my daughters and me. If nothing else in my life feels like a blessing, even on my worst days, this certainly does. The way my childhood had turned out, it could have been so different. I say a prayer of thanks to God for my Beloved Eli, and the family that we built together.

I go about getting into my usual routine as my fur babies, Sirius and Minerva, make their way to the couch in anticipation. Spoiled brats. They mew at me to hurry up and turn on the heating pad that they love to snuggle next to. When the three of us found each other, they were just a couple of tabby cats at the animal shelter. I didn't know I needed them, until I spotted their little faces, peering at me from a glass window.

It was a few months after Eli had died and Amalie had suggested that I go and visit the local animal shelter, just to hold a few animals for a while. When I saw their little faces, I already knew their names, and that they needed to come home with me. It was a bit eerie, to be honest. For their part, they have brought me so much love, I cannot help but spoil them. A human being is, of course, taking a big chance with choosing a cat, not to mention choosing two cats. They could have been possessed with demons or simply hate the entire human race. In this case, it was if they knew my heart was broken into a thousand pieces and they were sent to snuggle those pieces back together.

I make myself a mug of herbal tea and a little plate of cookies. Carrying these to the den, I get cozy on the large heating pad, with a fleece blanket on my legs and a cat flanking each shoulder. After I settle in, and turn my phone to silent, I start my bizarre process of watching television.

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