Instead, she kept mentally replaying alternate versions of the scene in the bookstore, trying to discover her misstep. The only script that maintained her previous footing was the possibility of never having gone into Kaleidoscope in the first place. Unable to get John’s graceful features out of her mind, though, she shook her head at the thought, and focused on how she would go about restored her equilibrium.
When she settled the lightly worn shoulders of the twill coat over one of her breakfast room chairs, it seemed at home there, so she left it. She walked through her quiet apartment, picking up two stray shoes from under the coffee table, a scrap of paper from under the desk, two socks next to the bed. She put the shoes back in the closet and undressed, dropping her soggy clothes and the socks into the hamper, the paper scrap into a trashcan. After she pulled on an oversized sweatshirt, her stomach reminded her with a noisy growl that it was time to make dinner.
She went about her usual nightly routine with the exception of reading in the tub before going to bed. Instead, she took a quick shower, and fell asleep, still wrapped up in a terry cloth robe, on top of her quilt. She woke around 2:30 a.m. and walked into the living room to check the thermostat. Shivering, she was confused to find it set at 79 degrees. After turning it up a couple of degrees, she turned to go back to bed; and then she noticed the jacket again. In her semi-lucid state, it appeared to have been hanging on her chair for years. It looked like it was waiting to meet an old friend; it implied John would be coming over in a day or two to pick it up. Rebecca shook her head, trying to dislodge the silly thought, and muttered “Friday” to herself as she wandered back to the bedroom.
When she awoke Saturday morning, she was coated in sweat, and wearing a heavy robe underneath her thick comforter gave her the feeling she imagined one would have of wearing a wet suit inside a sauna. She immediately threw back the covers, and fiddled, frustrated, with the knot on the robe until it too fell away, then dragged herself to the bathroom. She did not dare glance in the mirror on her way to the shower, as she already knew she would probably look even worse than she felt.
She swallowed, parched, and the taste in the back of her throat reminded her of something from childhood, but she could not remember what it was. Minutes later, when the thick steam from the shower sent her into a coughing fit, she knew: this was the taste of being sick, the taste of wishing her mother was still alive, the taste of pain. Tears slipped down her face while she leaned up against the tile and let the hot water pound the back of her head and shoulders. She hated being sick, and she hated being sick alone even more. When her feet looked sufficiently crimson, she turned off the water, wrapped up in the towel again, and marched out to the couch. It was time to rest.
Rebecca spent the remainder of the day like a cat: sleeping, rolling over, suspecting the blazer was staring at her, going back to sleep, waking up from a bizarre dream about the blazer growing into a huge monster who nursed her back to health; drifting back to sleep. It took her two hours of hearing her stomach’s strange gurgling noises before she could actually force herself out of bed and into the kitchen for some soup. Sunday passed in a similar way.
On Monday morning, she made a plan. It was time for drugs, good ones; but first, she had to call work. She spoke with Mr. Fennel’s secretary for only a couple of minutes, but it felt like hours. The woman asked too many questions, many of which had little or nothing to do with work:
“Are you drinking plenty of water, now, dear?” asked the secretary.
“Yes. Plenty,” groaned Rebecca, sniffling.
“And you have some hot soup to soothe your throat?”
“Yes.”
“Is there someone you can call to come check on you? A neighbor or relative?”
Rebecca paused. For the first time in her recent memory, Rebecca lied, blatantly: “Yes.”
On the other end of the line, the secretary also paused, scribbling a note. “OK— well, get better soon, dear.”
She hung up the phone and then wrapped herself in a heavy coat and scarf, and pulled on two pairs of socks under boots to go to the store. It wasn’t unusual attire for early February, but it did look a bit out of place for a sunny day that might warm up to the mid-sixties.
Still light-headed, Rebecca went on an all-out shopping spree at the drug store. She selected cough drops, antihistamines, a thermometer, two cartons of orange juice, and several cans of soup with pop-tops. The adrenaline rush of stocking up on ammunition was so invigorating, that she didn’t realize the basket probably not a reasonable weight for her to carry all the way to the car, especially in her weakened state. By the time she had stopped long enough to thumb through her purse, locate her credit card and pay, she barely had the strength to stand, much less carry groceries.
Nevertheless, she took hold of the handles and dragged the bags to the edge of the counter. She dropped the first one right on her foot. Fortunately, the checker hadn’t put both cartons of juice in one bag, but to Rebecca, it felt like it might as well have been a bag of cement. She yelped involuntarily, and feeling a bit defeated, she slowly crouched to collect her purchases. The shaggy-haired teenager behind her hastily paid for his gum and insisted upon helping her even though she tried, half-heartedly, to wave him away.
“Let me help you there… Looks like you got a little ahead of yourself,” he said, swooping down to scoop everything back into the plastic sacks, and helping her up from the floor. She was moving so slowly, and crouching so low, that she imagined she was starting to disappear into the groceries.
“I can do it,” she whimpered.
“Just let me get you back to your feet… there we go,” he said, lifting her by the arm. His other arm braced her back, and she suddenly felt like an old homeless woman. A pang of helplessness struck her at the thought of not being able to stand alone, and she started to cry. His gentle touch reminded her of John.
“I can do it, really,” she sobbed, as she allowed him to walk her out of the store. “I’m just sick, and tired… so tired…” she trailed off, wiping her eyes sloppily with the back of her hand. She tugged at her scarf, still wrapped across her face, to keep the snot from suffocating her. When she pulled the scarf down, the boy smiled. On a mission, he walked the groceries to her car and stood by while she folded herself into the driver’s seat. She thanked him before closing the door, but still couldn’t shake the thought of him having some ulterior motive behind the good deed.
Rebecca arrived back at her apartment complex and stared up at the seemingly endless flight of stairs before her. One of her neighbors was standing out on the landing smoking a cigarette, and seeing her barely moving while carrying one sack, the neighbor jogged down to the car to help. They exchanged greetings at the curb, and then the girl pulled the second bag from the car and ended up carrying them both for Rebecca, setting them on the kitchen counter after Rebecca fumbled at opening her door. The girl just smiled at her and before leaving, told her in a bubbly voice to feel better.
Rebecca knew in her gut that the tan girl had done her no wrong, but she was still relieved to lean against the closed door, and turn the deadbolt. Glancing at John’s blazer, she was startled to hear his voice say, You look like hell. The blazer was not talking to her; John was not talking to her. Rebecca knew this, and promptly marched into the kitchen to retrieve the drugs. She was intent upon stopping the virus before it took possession of her mind—unaware that, in her dehydrated state, she was already losing that battle.
Later that afternoon, Rebecca woke up on the couch, her face in a damp puddle. She moaned and rolled to her other side, with a string of spit tethering her mouth to the upholstery. Irritated, she furrowed her brow and grunted, pushing herself into an upright position as her labored heartbeats echoed in her ears. You should take some medicine, John’s voice announced from the blazer, which was still innocently hung lifelike on a chair’s back. She looked at her wristwatch on the coffee table and silently agreed, then promptly cut off any further mental discussions. She would not concede that she was incapable of managing a little cold on her own. She suddenly resented the blazer’s presence—and especially the good doctor’s voice—invading her formerly well-organized brain.
After washing down some pills with juice, Rebecca resolved to make soft-boiled eggs. She stood up and almost fell back onto the couch—having arisen too quickly—and had to catch herself and wait for the dizziness to pass. After some indeterminable amount of time, she made her way into the kitchen and pulled out the pot, the eggs and her favorite slotted spoon. She filled the pot with water and turned on the stove. While waiting for the boil, she wandered back to the bathroom to wash her face, but didn’t dare look in the mirror. She could tell by the way the inside of her cheeks had glued themselves to her teeth that she would probably look like the monster in Frankenstein.
She came back to the kitchen to find the water in a rage, splashing over the sides of the pot. “Shit,” she muttered, as she turned down the flames. She grabbed the eggs, cracked the shells on the edge of the pot and dropped their contents into the roiling water, before she realized what a mess she had made. “What the—oh my God.” Her hands fell to her sides as she stared at the wisps of egg white and little yellow sacks bobbing around in the foaming pot. They looked like baby jellyfish running a race. You probably shouldn’t be cooking in this state, the jacket’s voice gently reprimanded her.
“Shut up!” she barked, whipping around to face the headless form. There was no reply. Oh my God, I’m talking to a blazer. She wheeled back around to the stove and watched the jellyfish-eggs jostle around a bit more, then removed them with the slotted spoon and dropped them into a cereal bowl. She added a dab of butter, salt and pepper, and angrily mashed everything together. She would show that blazer who could cook.
Having exhausted herself in less than ten minutes, she lay back down on the couch and again drifted into delirium. She had another strange dream about the blazer: This time it grew so large that it filled her whole apartment, like a warped parody of Alice’s eating misadventures. When she awoke, she did her best to ignore the jacket’s looming presence for the rest of the afternoon.
She awoke in the dark, in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, again drenched in perspiration. She turned up the air conditioning and tried to go back to sleep, but the effort was fruitless. She tossed and turned, shivered and heaved. She tried to remember what she had been dreaming about, in an effort to coax herself back to sleep. She finally gave up, and instead got up and walked into the living room. The blazer was still perched beside the breakfast table, provoking a thought that John had left it there, and would be coming back soon.
Lightheaded, she flopped helplessly onto the couch and flicked on the television for the first time in weeks. A stocky man confronted her, yelling that the small box in his hand could change lives, commanding viewers to call in and order it. Rebecca tried to imagine what the people’s lives must be like, whom these salesmen were targeting. It did not take long for her to decide that they were probably lonely and bored, like her. She wondered how it might change her life to be able to have an erection for thirty-six hours. The men vouching for the tiny pills on the television looked young and virile and sociable. Rebecca thought they likely had horny women propositioning them wherever they went. Thirty-six hours, she imagined, was quite a long period of time to be walking around with Pinocchio in your pants. She cringed and then giggled at the mental image. Suddenly very aware that not even the blazer shared in her amusement, she grunted, “People are overrated,” and flipped the channel.
This time, ridiculously dramatic women in a Spanish soap opera alternately schemed, lamented, and raved. Her next click brought up re-runs of a prime-time drama featuring pregnant high schoolers with drug addictions. Finally she settled on a cartoon channel, and laughed out loud at the slapstick follies of the coyote and roadrunner. She caught herself wishing John were there to bring her a bowl of popcorn and a glass of orange juice, and to offer a soothing palm to press against her cheek.
I’ll see you soon, his voice said, and Rebecca believed it. She reflected that she would not be the kind of loud, mini-dressed girlfriend featured on the Spanish channel: she would never be stupid enough to get addicted to drugs (though she did wonder,when she was supposed to take the next cold capsule) or push John off of a cliff and throw dynamite parachutes after him.
Rebecca started to imagine dates with John in the park, reading interesting or amusing passages from books to each other on a picnic blanket. In her mind’s eye, they held hands at the mall while eating ice cream; they tried foreign cuisine at cheesy restaurants, like the one two doors down from the bookstore where they had met. They rented old movies and went window-shopping for a puppy. They embraced; they kissed; they made love.
Rebecca slipped easily back to sleep on the couch, with commercials and cartoons feeding her cavernous mind with the scripts that would drive her dreams of John. She awoke again, with the sun beaming into her eyes through the blinds. She rolled off the couch in search of the phone, as the wristwatch on the coffee table told her it was Tuesday, and she knew she was in no shape to return to work—she didn’t even need the blazer to tell her that.
She was glad she kept a little laminated list by the phone of important phone numbers—(as if anyone might visit her, and she be somehow knocked unconscious, and the visitor need to know who to notify). Regardless, Rebecca snatched up the list from the little table that held the phone, plopped onto her bottom on the floor with the receiver in hand, and found “work” on the third line from the top.
When she settled the lightly worn shoulders of the twill coat over one of her breakfast room chairs, it seemed at home there, so she left it. She walked through her quiet apartment, picking up two stray shoes from under the coffee table, a scrap of paper from under the desk, two socks next to the bed. She put the shoes back in the closet and undressed, dropping her soggy clothes and the socks into the hamper, the paper scrap into a trashcan. After she pulled on an oversized sweatshirt, her stomach reminded her with a noisy growl that it was time to make dinner.
She went about her usual nightly routine with the exception of reading in the tub before going to bed. Instead, she took a quick shower, and fell asleep, still wrapped up in a terry cloth robe, on top of her quilt. She woke around 2:30 a.m. and walked into the living room to check the thermostat. Shivering, she was confused to find it set at 79 degrees. After turning it up a couple of degrees, she turned to go back to bed; and then she noticed the jacket again. In her semi-lucid state, it appeared to have been hanging on her chair for years. It looked like it was waiting to meet an old friend; it implied John would be coming over in a day or two to pick it up. Rebecca shook her head, trying to dislodge the silly thought, and muttered “Friday” to herself as she wandered back to the bedroom.
When she awoke Saturday morning, she was coated in sweat, and wearing a heavy robe underneath her thick comforter gave her the feeling she imagined one would have of wearing a wet suit inside a sauna. She immediately threw back the covers, and fiddled, frustrated, with the knot on the robe until it too fell away, then dragged herself to the bathroom. She did not dare glance in the mirror on her way to the shower, as she already knew she would probably look even worse than she felt.
She swallowed, parched, and the taste in the back of her throat reminded her of something from childhood, but she could not remember what it was. Minutes later, when the thick steam from the shower sent her into a coughing fit, she knew: this was the taste of being sick, the taste of wishing her mother was still alive, the taste of pain. Tears slipped down her face while she leaned up against the tile and let the hot water pound the back of her head and shoulders. She hated being sick, and she hated being sick alone even more. When her feet looked sufficiently crimson, she turned off the water, wrapped up in the towel again, and marched out to the couch. It was time to rest.
Rebecca spent the remainder of the day like a cat: sleeping, rolling over, suspecting the blazer was staring at her, going back to sleep, waking up from a bizarre dream about the blazer growing into a huge monster who nursed her back to health; drifting back to sleep. It took her two hours of hearing her stomach’s strange gurgling noises before she could actually force herself out of bed and into the kitchen for some soup. Sunday passed in a similar way.
On Monday morning, she made a plan. It was time for drugs, good ones; but first, she had to call work. She spoke with Mr. Fennel’s secretary for only a couple of minutes, but it felt like hours. The woman asked too many questions, many of which had little or nothing to do with work:
“Are you drinking plenty of water, now, dear?” asked the secretary.
“Yes. Plenty,” groaned Rebecca, sniffling.
“And you have some hot soup to soothe your throat?”
“Yes.”
“Is there someone you can call to come check on you? A neighbor or relative?”
Rebecca paused. For the first time in her recent memory, Rebecca lied, blatantly: “Yes.”
On the other end of the line, the secretary also paused, scribbling a note. “OK— well, get better soon, dear.”
She hung up the phone and then wrapped herself in a heavy coat and scarf, and pulled on two pairs of socks under boots to go to the store. It wasn’t unusual attire for early February, but it did look a bit out of place for a sunny day that might warm up to the mid-sixties.
Still light-headed, Rebecca went on an all-out shopping spree at the drug store. She selected cough drops, antihistamines, a thermometer, two cartons of orange juice, and several cans of soup with pop-tops. The adrenaline rush of stocking up on ammunition was so invigorating, that she didn’t realize the basket probably not a reasonable weight for her to carry all the way to the car, especially in her weakened state. By the time she had stopped long enough to thumb through her purse, locate her credit card and pay, she barely had the strength to stand, much less carry groceries.
Nevertheless, she took hold of the handles and dragged the bags to the edge of the counter. She dropped the first one right on her foot. Fortunately, the checker hadn’t put both cartons of juice in one bag, but to Rebecca, it felt like it might as well have been a bag of cement. She yelped involuntarily, and feeling a bit defeated, she slowly crouched to collect her purchases. The shaggy-haired teenager behind her hastily paid for his gum and insisted upon helping her even though she tried, half-heartedly, to wave him away.
“Let me help you there… Looks like you got a little ahead of yourself,” he said, swooping down to scoop everything back into the plastic sacks, and helping her up from the floor. She was moving so slowly, and crouching so low, that she imagined she was starting to disappear into the groceries.
“I can do it,” she whimpered.
“Just let me get you back to your feet… there we go,” he said, lifting her by the arm. His other arm braced her back, and she suddenly felt like an old homeless woman. A pang of helplessness struck her at the thought of not being able to stand alone, and she started to cry. His gentle touch reminded her of John.
“I can do it, really,” she sobbed, as she allowed him to walk her out of the store. “I’m just sick, and tired… so tired…” she trailed off, wiping her eyes sloppily with the back of her hand. She tugged at her scarf, still wrapped across her face, to keep the snot from suffocating her. When she pulled the scarf down, the boy smiled. On a mission, he walked the groceries to her car and stood by while she folded herself into the driver’s seat. She thanked him before closing the door, but still couldn’t shake the thought of him having some ulterior motive behind the good deed.
Rebecca arrived back at her apartment complex and stared up at the seemingly endless flight of stairs before her. One of her neighbors was standing out on the landing smoking a cigarette, and seeing her barely moving while carrying one sack, the neighbor jogged down to the car to help. They exchanged greetings at the curb, and then the girl pulled the second bag from the car and ended up carrying them both for Rebecca, setting them on the kitchen counter after Rebecca fumbled at opening her door. The girl just smiled at her and before leaving, told her in a bubbly voice to feel better.
Rebecca knew in her gut that the tan girl had done her no wrong, but she was still relieved to lean against the closed door, and turn the deadbolt. Glancing at John’s blazer, she was startled to hear his voice say, You look like hell. The blazer was not talking to her; John was not talking to her. Rebecca knew this, and promptly marched into the kitchen to retrieve the drugs. She was intent upon stopping the virus before it took possession of her mind—unaware that, in her dehydrated state, she was already losing that battle.
Later that afternoon, Rebecca woke up on the couch, her face in a damp puddle. She moaned and rolled to her other side, with a string of spit tethering her mouth to the upholstery. Irritated, she furrowed her brow and grunted, pushing herself into an upright position as her labored heartbeats echoed in her ears. You should take some medicine, John’s voice announced from the blazer, which was still innocently hung lifelike on a chair’s back. She looked at her wristwatch on the coffee table and silently agreed, then promptly cut off any further mental discussions. She would not concede that she was incapable of managing a little cold on her own. She suddenly resented the blazer’s presence—and especially the good doctor’s voice—invading her formerly well-organized brain.
After washing down some pills with juice, Rebecca resolved to make soft-boiled eggs. She stood up and almost fell back onto the couch—having arisen too quickly—and had to catch herself and wait for the dizziness to pass. After some indeterminable amount of time, she made her way into the kitchen and pulled out the pot, the eggs and her favorite slotted spoon. She filled the pot with water and turned on the stove. While waiting for the boil, she wandered back to the bathroom to wash her face, but didn’t dare look in the mirror. She could tell by the way the inside of her cheeks had glued themselves to her teeth that she would probably look like the monster in Frankenstein.
She came back to the kitchen to find the water in a rage, splashing over the sides of the pot. “Shit,” she muttered, as she turned down the flames. She grabbed the eggs, cracked the shells on the edge of the pot and dropped their contents into the roiling water, before she realized what a mess she had made. “What the—oh my God.” Her hands fell to her sides as she stared at the wisps of egg white and little yellow sacks bobbing around in the foaming pot. They looked like baby jellyfish running a race. You probably shouldn’t be cooking in this state, the jacket’s voice gently reprimanded her.
“Shut up!” she barked, whipping around to face the headless form. There was no reply. Oh my God, I’m talking to a blazer. She wheeled back around to the stove and watched the jellyfish-eggs jostle around a bit more, then removed them with the slotted spoon and dropped them into a cereal bowl. She added a dab of butter, salt and pepper, and angrily mashed everything together. She would show that blazer who could cook.
Having exhausted herself in less than ten minutes, she lay back down on the couch and again drifted into delirium. She had another strange dream about the blazer: This time it grew so large that it filled her whole apartment, like a warped parody of Alice’s eating misadventures. When she awoke, she did her best to ignore the jacket’s looming presence for the rest of the afternoon.
She awoke in the dark, in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, again drenched in perspiration. She turned up the air conditioning and tried to go back to sleep, but the effort was fruitless. She tossed and turned, shivered and heaved. She tried to remember what she had been dreaming about, in an effort to coax herself back to sleep. She finally gave up, and instead got up and walked into the living room. The blazer was still perched beside the breakfast table, provoking a thought that John had left it there, and would be coming back soon.
Lightheaded, she flopped helplessly onto the couch and flicked on the television for the first time in weeks. A stocky man confronted her, yelling that the small box in his hand could change lives, commanding viewers to call in and order it. Rebecca tried to imagine what the people’s lives must be like, whom these salesmen were targeting. It did not take long for her to decide that they were probably lonely and bored, like her. She wondered how it might change her life to be able to have an erection for thirty-six hours. The men vouching for the tiny pills on the television looked young and virile and sociable. Rebecca thought they likely had horny women propositioning them wherever they went. Thirty-six hours, she imagined, was quite a long period of time to be walking around with Pinocchio in your pants. She cringed and then giggled at the mental image. Suddenly very aware that not even the blazer shared in her amusement, she grunted, “People are overrated,” and flipped the channel.
This time, ridiculously dramatic women in a Spanish soap opera alternately schemed, lamented, and raved. Her next click brought up re-runs of a prime-time drama featuring pregnant high schoolers with drug addictions. Finally she settled on a cartoon channel, and laughed out loud at the slapstick follies of the coyote and roadrunner. She caught herself wishing John were there to bring her a bowl of popcorn and a glass of orange juice, and to offer a soothing palm to press against her cheek.
I’ll see you soon, his voice said, and Rebecca believed it. She reflected that she would not be the kind of loud, mini-dressed girlfriend featured on the Spanish channel: she would never be stupid enough to get addicted to drugs (though she did wonder,when she was supposed to take the next cold capsule) or push John off of a cliff and throw dynamite parachutes after him.
Rebecca started to imagine dates with John in the park, reading interesting or amusing passages from books to each other on a picnic blanket. In her mind’s eye, they held hands at the mall while eating ice cream; they tried foreign cuisine at cheesy restaurants, like the one two doors down from the bookstore where they had met. They rented old movies and went window-shopping for a puppy. They embraced; they kissed; they made love.
Rebecca slipped easily back to sleep on the couch, with commercials and cartoons feeding her cavernous mind with the scripts that would drive her dreams of John. She awoke again, with the sun beaming into her eyes through the blinds. She rolled off the couch in search of the phone, as the wristwatch on the coffee table told her it was Tuesday, and she knew she was in no shape to return to work—she didn’t even need the blazer to tell her that.
She was glad she kept a little laminated list by the phone of important phone numbers—(as if anyone might visit her, and she be somehow knocked unconscious, and the visitor need to know who to notify). Regardless, Rebecca snatched up the list from the little table that held the phone, plopped onto her bottom on the floor with the receiver in hand, and found “work” on the third line from the top.
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