Page 5 of The Significance of Moving On

Everyone is gone except me. I’m still here, standing on the front lawn, not sure what my next move is supposed to be. The grass in the front doesn’t beg to be squished between my toes any longer. The green’s not as vibrant, the feel not as lush. But I sit because I can’t go back in.

Ican’t.

My feet won’t move. Won’t allow me to be consumed by the ugly, snarling beast of a house.

Oh, and if that’s not enough, it starts to sprinkle. A sprinkle I could handle, but then, it never staysjusta sprinkle. If it did, we wouldn’t have sayings like,when it rains, it pours. And that’s exactly what it does, turning swiftly to a full-on summer downpour.

No amount of water could wash away the stains of this place, though. So I sit under the canopy of darkness cast over the city from cloud cover. But just as suddenly as the rain starts, the clouds move on, probably proud of the job they’ve done, transforming me from a girl to a soggy lawn ornament. The shower eases up until dissipating all together. My rain-soaked blouse clings to my body for a warmth that neither of us will find.

Unblinking, unmoving save for the shivering, I feel something come down to touch my shoulder and I startle. I see a form through my waterlogged eyes and I hear sound, but it’s as if the sound is trying to reach me while swimming underwater. Only now do I blink and shake my head.

“…okay?” There’s a soft, masculine voice in my ear pushing through the stifling water. “Come on. Come with me.” For a second, I think it’s Tom, but that can’t be. “Come on,” he says again while wrapping a dark knitted blanket around my shoulders. Beautiful, pained, blue eyes search my face pleadingly for something that once again there is no answer for. The eyes don’t know me, not really, and I don’t know them. Seen them around a few times over the past couple of years, but not much more than in passing.

It’s cold. It’s the middle of the night. Yet somehow this man lifts me. “Lean into me,” he says. “For support.” He leads us across the street.

We walk up the stoop, inside the house, over to an old sofa. The room is dark enough to conceal the details, but the faint aroma of mothballs lingers making me think it had been purchased second hand. He lays me down on the cushions, pulls off my shoes and tucks a pillow under my head.

•••

Frying bacon and strong coffee pulls me from the blackness of sleep my subconscious or soul or whatever you want to call it desperately wants to cling to. But that’s not reality, this is reality: Tom loved bacon. Tom loved coffee. If I smell waffles cooking for even a second—shit—I don’t even know.

I open my eyes to a room decorated with Bud cans and pizza boxes, but not like there’d been a party recently, more like whomever lives here just doesn’t clean regularly. But I can’t complain, not when there’s a warm blanket around my shoulders and a soft couch under my bottom.

The almost-stranger walks into the living room. He stares but doesn’t speak, setting a plate of food and cup of hot coffee on the table next to the couch then heads back into the kitchen only to reappear moments later with a plate and cup of his own. He uses his foot to kick a couple of boxes off a ratty brown recliner across from me. After a few prolonged moments of silence, he plucks the remote from one of those pleather recliner pockets that are made to hold remotes and magazines, to switch on the TV. Though, he keeps the volume respectably low.

Actually, the television provides enough background noise to distract me from falling too deeply inside my own head, switching attention from him to my plate, back to him, then finally resting on my plate again. I don’t know how food will sit today, I don’t actually feel hungry, but it’d be rude not to eat it, so there’s that.

His bacon cooking skills are spot on even though every bite scrapes against the rawness of my throat. After consuming maybe half my breakfast, the covers are over my head again, blocking out the light.

“Come on.” It’s like déjà vu as that soft masculine voice rattles me out of this self-imposed coma. He helps me stand. “Lean into me,” he says for the second time in I don’t know how many days. “For support.”

As houses go, this isn’t very big, not like the one Tom had across the street, the one he’d ended up buying from his mother before she retired to Florida. That was a few years before she passed away. And with the depth of hatred that woman held for me, she almost refused to sell to him because I’d be spending time there. In the end, she sold it to my brother but hedidnotget the family discount.

From the living room, this man and I walk or float; I’m not sure which anymore, over the threshold into the kitchen. The walls are painted a handicap blue color with the cabinets being all white and actually cleaner than the room we’d just left. Off the kitchen, he leads us into the bathroom where he sits me on the closed toilet seat and turns on the shower.

Surreal is the only word that comes to mind right now. It’s like I’m here, in the room, but not in my body. It feels more like I’m watching as a spectator up in the bleachers might watch the big game.

This man, he’s as gentle as a surgeon peeling away my blouse—and I let him. Then my pants—and I don’t try to stop it. What gets me most is he doesn’t even attempt to remove my bra or panties, instead helping me to my feet again and into the warm cascade falling from the shower head.

When he lets go, I sink to my knees. He squeezes shampoo that smells of spice and sea breezes, a real man scent, into my upturned palm then helps me work it into my scalp. After the shower has rinsed the last residue away, he places a fresh bar of soap—green and white, so Zest or Irish Spring or something like it—along with a washcloth into my hand.

Then I’m alone. The man doesn’t stay for the show. In that moment I finally have the sense to rid myself of my undergarments. Dropping them into a sloppy pile on the tiled floor, pulling the shower curtain shut. Here’s where I sit, on my knees, under the spray until the water runs cold.

He’s left two beach towels for me to dry off with. One has the Budweiser logo printed on the front and the other is a Hawaiian print—two-toned blue. Bud gets wrapped around my head as I dry myself with the blue Hawaii. He’s taken my drippy undergarments and left a pair of track pants and a T-shirt folded on the sink.

I stand in front of the mirror, trying to convince myself to keep breathing. If I keep breathing, things will get better, right? They have to get better. The condensation from my shower sits heavy on the glass, distorting my image. I swipe my hand across the wet and the girl I see isn’t me. The me I used to be had hair the color of soft hazelnut with an abundance of waves. Not this mousy brown, limp mess. And my eyes used to be bright cocoa with flecks of green and yellow. A point of pride as much as admiration. They’re nothing to be proud of now—ugly, muddy hazel. I used to shine. Now I match the clothing he’s left for me.

The track pants are basic, nothing special black with a white stripe running down the length of each leg. But they have a pull tie, which I’m sure is why he picked them. And the T-shirt is your run of the mill classic V-neck.

With the cotton being thin, my skin shows through and my nipples protrude without a bra to conceal them. I’m not embarrassed though, that would’ve been the old me. Embarrassment takes energy, caring—neither of which is in this new girl since Tom sucker punched my life.

Chapter Three

Two more sun ups and two more sun downs go by without him saying more than “come on” when he wants me to follow, or “here” when he hands me food. This guy just gets it somehow. That next morning, I hear fumbling—utensils against pans and glass bowls—coming from the kitchen.

“Can I help?” My voice comes out timid and broken, but at least it’s found its way out of my mouth.

He scoots over a spot at the counter, handing me off a mixing spoon for me to take over pancake duty. The tension feels thicker than this batter between us.

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