Blue
It is dark, and my neck is angled awkwardly on my pillow. A digital tune plays, pauses and repeats. My eyes blink at the screen, which has tipped over in the plastic stand on the lap desk beside me. The phone is sideways, and the screen is locked in portrait mode. My head, too, is sideways. We are both off-kilter but functioning.
I’d plucked the lap desk from the discount bin at Aldi. It has a marbled laminate surface and pink beanbag bottom. In theory, it would keep my laptop from overheating as I record my midnight inspirations. In practice, I use the bed tray as a platform for my phone.
I watch a camper van maneuver a serpentine mountain road. The scene cuts to a woman with a wild halo of hair, who bursts from the side door. Her gleaming-toothed man swings her around in circles. The ad repeats. I shut off the phone and place it amongst the scattered collection of Covid tests on the nightstand. It is 1:37 AM. Odd.
My head is full of Polyfill. Not cotton. Cotton is comforting. Natural. Cotton is what Grandmas use for quilts. Polyfill is scratchy. Artificial. Manufactured. My thoughts are tangled in the synthetic fibers. I can’t think. I can’t write. My sentences are three words long.
I imagine myself in a camper van with my Labrador riding shotgun, and I eventually fall asleep.
I wake at 5:19. I put my hand to my heart. My shirt is saturated. My torso sticks to the sheets. My arms, neck and head feel grimy, as excess moisture from my pores has dried, leaving a fine residue over my exposed parts. I’ve had the Scarlett O’Hara nightmare, where I run through the mist looking for something. Frankly, my dear, I am the only one in this bed to give a damn.
Once when I was twenty, I wore Mike’s favorite hat on a cruise. He didn’t want to let me borrow it, but he couldn’t say no to his new bride. The cap was deep blue and the name of his unit was stitched on the front, along with an embroidered snowy owl, the squadron’s mascot. He and his crew had them custom-made while TDY in Korea. It had his name sewn on the side. I stepped onto the ship’s deck and the wind caught it instantly. I watched as the hat flew high above the rail and toppled into the ocean. He had a new one made the next time he went to Korea, but the cap was different. Boxy. Wonky. Inferior. It now sits on a shelf in the glass-front cabinet with his mementos: a faded picture of him in the cockpit; his medals and ribbons; the flag they presented to me, folded into a thick triangle.
I can still envision the original hat, tumbling down the side of the ship, while a lump moved from my throat to the pit of my stomach. I had lost something irreplaceable.
It is a similar feeling with which I awake.
I take deep breaths until my hands stop trembling. I kick off the drenched covers and peel off my shirt. I should soak the sheets, so they don’t stain. It is an optimistic thought, to be the kind of person who presoaks the wash, but I know I won’t.
My eyes adjust too slowly to the light in the bathroom, and my eyelashes clump together as I squint. My neck and face are coated in blue grime. My hands and arms are sticky. I scrub them under the faucet until the water runs clear. I wash my face until it is pink again. There are dark traces under my eyes that don’t seem to go away.
I put on my robe with the waffle fabric. It is navy blue and a size small. I am not a small anymore. The robe flops open at my thighs, as I descend the stairs in the dark. The hall light has been broken for months. Even if I overcame my fear of perching on wobbly aluminum rungs, there would be wires to touch. I shudder at the thought. The dog grunts and rushes past like a freight train. I cling to the rail and imagine my broken body on the landing.
I follow him down the spiral stairs, feeling cool air through the gap in my robe. If the dog runs out of the garden, I will have to chase him, barefoot and robe flapping, across the neighbor’s lawn. The dog has never done this, but I think about it every time I let him out.
Usually, I walk him. Down the gravel drive to the place with the knee-high weeds behind the tram station. Beyond the chain link fence, most of the trams are still silent and sleeping. The first tram of the day shines like an alien spacecraft in the silent darkness, ready to explore the city. This is what I would see.
Today I stand in the foyer and make the dog sit, as I open the door. It will heat up later, but in this early hour, I inhale Autumn, which stalks us at night. I lower my hand, and the dog rushes out. He is deep brown, and I lose sight of him near the bushes. Panic flares in my chest. I wait a beat then rattle the bag of treats. I hear his breath chugging before I see him. He bounds up the stairs. My racing heart quiets. We are both safe now.
Upstairs, I open the windows to release the smell of yesterday’s dishes. The kettle boils while I grind coffee beans. It is the morning ritual. Boil, grind, pour. Slowly. If I’m not patient, the grounds will flow over the top of the mesh basket. It is one mess I can avoid.
The fresh air brings memories of camping: those early mornings where I am too uncomfortable to sleep but too cozy to rise. Eventually, coffee calls me, so I unzip the tent and stretch my legs into the wet grass. I inhale last night’s fire, as I light the propane burner. My coffee addiction overrides my fear of the flame as it pops to life. In the mountains, I do things that are uncomfortable.
I rouse the dog from the chair in my bedroom and sip coffee while looking at videos of camper vans.
It’s a compulsion. Van refurbs. Van life. School bus to camper renovations. I can barely assemble an IKEA bureau, and the flash of spark from an electrical outlet stops my heart; yet I am mesmerized. The videographers say they’ve never renovated a bus. They’ve learned everything from YouTube. But they must be carpenters by trade. Mechanics. Plumbers. Electricians. Not writers. My hands changed the headlight bulb of a car once. I wrote about it.
I drink two cups of coffee and pour a third into an insulated mug. I put on a fresh shirt and shorts from the day before, grab my bag and step into the brisk air. As I drive, I fantasize about missing my turn and hitting the autobahn instead. Mountains are two hours away. But I am wearing sport shoes, not hiking boots. A staff tee shirt. A thin jacket. I don’t have my tent or sleeping bag. Hell, I’m not even wearing socks. I turn down the street where the quiet gym waits for me.
I punch the code in the door and the lock whirs open. In its previous life, the sports hall was a garage. These are the gyms I like, with a lingering smell of steel and oil. No matter how much scrubbing or renovation, they will never be shiny. Work has always been done in these places. You come away with dirty hands and pride you’ve rebuilt something.
I reach for the light switch, and the bare bulbs blind me. Bikes and rowers stand in the corner. The bars are chalky and the weights scuffed. I put in my earbuds, and I clock in with Tupac. I grab the cart from the back room, put on my rubber gloves and fill buckets with water from a hose. I start with the toilets, wipe down the sinks, restock paper towels and check all the garbages. Finally, I mop. It is easy work. No preparation required. No thought necessary. I am done and can slip away before the coach arrives. I am too tired to lift weights today. I drive home, take off my clothes and slip back into bed.
My eyes refuse to close, so I watch more videos. I am in awe of a double-decker bus transformed into a tiny home. The entire second level is a bedroom suite. The owner has installed a skylight. She can lay in bed and watch the stars.
Eventually, I get up and stand in front of my closet. I prefer my linen dress. It is dark blue and fits like a pillowcase. But today, I put on a dangerously white tee shirt and too-tight jeans. I sit on the edge of the bed and pet the dog. He puts his head on my lap. I talk to him without singsong tones. Though the conversation is one-sided, I feel as if he talks back to me.
Just a few weeks ago, I would’ve been in the car already, with my youngest child playing music and talking about politics or relationships or grades. I would come back from drop-off, have more coffee, and write. But today there is none of that. My child’s ticket to adulthood was handed over at the graduation ceremony. There were flowers and photos and speeches. Soon after, as if with a magical snap of fingers, there were moving boxes and power tools and empty spaces. I talk to the dog again. He is happy. Grateful. He likes the attention.
My phone chirps, and my heart flutters. It’s not a message. Just a reminder. I stand up, and as I gather my purse, I see the first splotch on my shirt. It is a deep blue-black right over my heart. Just a drop. Like a drip from a fountain pen. It doesn’t show much when I wear blue, but it seeps through the white tee shirt. I am too tired to change.
I stir the foam in my cappuccino and glance around the shop. Every woman in the place looks casual-chic. The men effortlessly stylish. They are all a size small. The spot on my shirt has grown larger. The drop is now the size of a quarter, and the edges are feathery, spreading.
“I’m worried about you,” says my friend across the table.
I briefly regret my clothing choice. There’s really no point in hiding though. Best friends see through camouflage.
I take a sip.
“It will pass,” I say.
“How long does it last?” she asks.
It usually doesn’t last long. Only a few days or a week. But now, sitting here at the cafe, I realize it has been months. This inky shadow seeping from my heart.
I was in middle school when it first happened. I woke one night in a pool of ink. It stained everything. My white sheets. My fluffy white comforter. My clothes. My skin. Kids avoided me at my new school. My mother frequently called me in sick. We went shopping. Ate fast food. She took me to a doctor. “Hormones,” he said. He patted me on the head and sent me away. Problem solved.
The ink didn’t come back again until the birth of my third child. After my masters degree. I wore the same black tracksuit for a week, and my second child dipped her tiny finger into the ink and said, “What’s that mommy?” Then came more pills. They curled around the ink like shrink wrap. Problem contained.
“I’ll see a doctor,” I promise.
“When?” she asks.
Damn her questions. I look away and take another sip. “Soon.”
I go home and set an alarm. I have two hours before my second job. I sleep this time for 40 minutes. Then I lay in bed and watch videos on my phone. A military vehicle is transformed into a camper. It has enormous tires, and the couple needs a ladder to climb into it. They install a full-sized shower and solar panels. They build a custom table from reclaimed wood. The inside becomes a showroom with glossy woodwork and houseplants secured to sunny shelves. A year of work is condensed into a 20 minute video.
I have two shirts for my other job. One is black and one is sky blue. The black one is good for hot days because I can sweat, and it doesn’t show. It is a woman’s cut tee shirt, so the neck scoops down. The fabric is light and breathable. It is perfect for days when the sun streams in, turning our sports hall into an oven. The blue shirt is cut for a man, and the neck chokes me. The short sleeves are too long. It is bulky and a heavy cotton. I wear it on cool days. Today I choose black.
I smile and speak with parents and kids when they enter. I have minimal problems with ink when I work here, with all the juvenile energy bouncing around. I take the kids through their warm up. We play games. We run. We jump. We are superheroes. I assist the coach, as he shows them how to kick and punch and get away if a stranger grabs them. Three classes pass, and I forget about the ink for a while. The coach asks me to his office. He glances at my shirt and says, “How do you think it’s going?”
“Great!” I say. Then I feel it starting. The pang in the heart. A precursor to the ink. My voice trembles.
“Are you okay?” He asks.
Very few people in the world are so attentive. It is uncomfortable to be with them, yet at the same time, they are the ones who matter most. It is this paradox of wanting to be both alone and attached.
I put my hand to my heart. The ink seeps through the shirt. I apply enough pressure to the wound, so I can speak.
“I’ve had some problems lately,” I say. The splotch trickles through my fingers. Beads of it gather in the corners of my eyes. The ink bubbles up in my throat. It is difficult to get words out. I wash down the ink with a sip of water.
“It’s not a problem if you need time off,” he says, “We’ll tell the kids you’ve gone on vacation.”
I thank him and leave the office. I clutch my chest as I dash from the building. Ink runs in rivulets down my arms. In the safety of my car, I start my rap playlist. I try to keep up with the explicit lyrics. I just want to make it home.
I pat my dog on the head then go back to bed. I pull a pillow to my chest and let the ink gush. I try to convince myself I should allow it to happen. It’s okay for the ink to go everywhere. But once it is uncapped, I fear it won’t stop. It will flood the entire house. I will drown in it. I turn on a video.
This time, it is an ambulance that receives a makeover. It retires from long years of service to go adventuring. It is a 4x4. It can go off-road. Over mountains and to secluded lakes. A burnt-out city couple now travels places where they can breathe. It is an evolution of the vehicle’s original mission: to save lives.
My eyes eventually close.
I am startled awake by a familiar ping. There is a message. I wash my face and fix my hair. The phone rings again. I push the camera button.
He is smiling. I smile back. I’m happy to see him. He talks about his day. A podcast he heard. A movie he watched. He asks if I will see him on the weekend.
“Yes!” I say. His cheerfulness is a welcome distraction. Then he asks how I am. The ink becomes a spiderweb. It weaves across my chest.
“I’m a little sad,” I say. There is a gush, and I try to keep it back. But it is seeping again. It stains my fingernails blue. He sees this and answers, “Let’s talk about it when we see each other.”
“Okay,” I say. The dark liquid bubbles from the corners of my mouth. I can’t breathe. My voice is garbled.
“Don’t be sad,” he tells me. But I’ve lost control of the muscles in my face. My mouth refuses to raise to a smile. The ink trickles from my eyes.
I want to let the ink spill down and pool around my ankles. I’m curious to see if anything will come crawling out. But the flood keeps rising, and nothing emerges from its depths.
I’ve been looking at new apartments. Smaller apartments. One bedroom. Two, if they’re affordable. The thought of boxing up my belongings, downsizing again, spurs another little spout of ink. As does the idea of selling my SUV. The family car. Seats five with good legroom in the back.
The first SUV I had was in Alaska. I remember looking in the rearview mirror one day, two kids in boosters in the very back, the baby in the middle, and I thought something was missing. Rather, someone was missing. There was still another seat to fill. And we did. A year later, four seats were taken. Four kids. Two parents. An even number. The perfect balance. Then the progenitorial counterbalance of two was cut to a lopsided one. Equilibrium lost.
Slowly, yet all too rapidly, as is the great paradox of parenthood, the reflection in the rearview, once so cluttered by boosters and blankets and stuffed animals and sippy cups, burst in a slow-motion explosion; and now there is nothing left but a sack of dog food and a gym bag.
I can get a sports car. I tell myself. A convertible. The dog can sit in the passenger seat. I’ll put a cute bandana on him.
The blotch spreads.
My grandmother is 96. If I am so genetically inclined, a second lifetime stretches before me. It is difficult to wrap my Pollyfill brain around it. This life has been so long already, and I’m exhausted. The hopes and dreams I’ve failed to achieve are mired in ink.
When I was married and raising kids, it was easy to keep the ink from spilling. I put it into a capsule, like a plastic easter egg glued at the seam. Plastic smile. Plastic blog. Plastic pictures. Even when life blindsided me, the ink managed to stay contained. But time has corroded the plastic. The capsule seeps into my system.
The effort it takes, the strength to keep the ink contained isn’t there. I look everywhere, but I can’t seem to find it. I search naked in the fog.
I have run marathons and hiked mountains to prove I have strength. Endurance. In reality, it was adrenaline-induced optimism to hide the sticky mess inside.
I dream of buying a camper van. Of selling everything. Of putting the dog in the passenger seat and just driving. I, with my wild halo of hair, can fling open the door, and the dog will run in circles around me with his gleaming-toothed smile. I can find respite in the mountains. Shock my system in a clear, alpine lake. Face the things I fear: fires and heights and solitude.
For now, I do the only thing I can with this weepy heart.
I dip a quill in its ink and write.
