Living With Strangers

We share space. I don’t really consider it living together; I don’t really consider this living at all. We are often in the same set of rooms at the same time, passing each other in the hallway and eating off of the same dishes, but I’m here and you’re there and that’s that.

At one time there was no strangeness between us, quite the opposite in fact. We shared many things, spent hours together, exalted in the pleasure that can only surface when two people join together in order to be together. For years we would plan, dream, and hope together. We merged everything we had into one place and gave of each other all of our worldly possessions including ourselves.

That was a long, long time ago. Now is not then.

Now you claim your end of the couch and I claim mine, and there is a vast wasteland of space between us. The bed is wide enough that we never have to touch, so we never do. I’m not complaining – you are a stranger to me. I have no inclination to touch you.


Who are you?

You are the one who returns to port when the weather kicks up, while I fiercely maneuver sails and face into the wind to brave the storm.

You are the one with expensive vices that must be indulged while I ride on threadbare tires, clutching the steering wheel in my stressful state.

You are the one who complains of broken things while staring blankly at me and wondering why I am not on the phone with the landlord yet.

You are the one who won’t deal with me when my ache and anger are too much for me to bear alone.


Who am I?

I am the one who can’t live with strangers anymore.

I am the one who can’t carry motherly responsibilities for 30-something year old people anymore.

I am the one who doesn't want to look at your strange face anymore.

I am the one who refuses to live as an unhappy person anymore.


The time is upon us to end this strangership we have formed and go our separate ways. If I am going to have to live alone, I prefer to live alone.

Grandma Memories

I’m in a bland car, riding with a bland woman who is listening to bland music, and I am thinking of grandma. The woman in the backseat isn’t bland at all, she is very aware, and she is the reason for my current train of thought. She looks nothing like my grandma but that doesn’t matter because she gave me the same look grandma used to give me when I came to visit, and that was enough. You are up to no good. I know this because I was up to no good when I was your age, and I can recognize the other outlaws. She’s right, of course. I am up to no good.

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At the rest stop, when the bland woman had asked me where I was headed it startled me because the old folks don’t pick up hitchhikers. “Eugene,” I had replied in a shocked voice. “I can get you to Salem, will that help?” she said. “Thank you,” I murmured in relief as I gathered my bag. Salem would be a big help.

Now, my visor is down because it is daytime and I am cursed with silver eyes that hate the sun. I glance briefly in the vanity mirror and catch her looking at me. “What are you going to Eugene for?” she queries in an ancient, gravelly voice.

“Mother!” says the bland woman. “That is impolite! It’s none of our business.”

“I’m going to visit my sister,” I respond weakly, because it is a half-lie, and I cannot lie to this woman any better then I could lie to grandma. She arches her eyebrows at me but says nothing. I flush because the lie is so obvious. She is letting me stew in it; I remember this trick. I struggle not to spill everything.

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I am going to see my sister, but she doesn’t know I am coming. She wouldn’t welcome me if she did know because the only reason I would visit her is to spirit her away from Adam, her heroin addicted boyfriend. I am plotting a kidnapping, masquerading as a rescue mission, and she would know this. She may be a junkie now, but she is a smart junkie.

The woman in the back begins humming along to the radio. It sounds like a song by the Carpenters. Grandma used to hum in the car to Captain and Tenille I think. She would have found this bunch very boring.

I am not boring though; I have a borrowed pistol in my bag, and that makes me a girl on the edge. My sister is smart, she can be reasoned with, but she is also helplessly ensnared in Adam’s trap. I am horrified at myself for having a gun. I am terrified about bringing it because I know I’m going to use it if the need arises. I’m going to do anything I have to in order to get my sister back home, and this old outlaw woman can see it all over my face.

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We are at another rest stop, just north of Portland. Apparently it wasn’t fate that brought the old woman to me, just a weak bladder. Either way, I am grateful for the ride. I bend over to scratch a bite on my ankle, and when I stand back up she is there next to me. I feel my insides turn to jello. I know she is about to say something that will change my life, and I am afraid to hear it. She let’s out an impatient sigh.

“Silly girl, you are carrying a wrecking ball in a bowling ball bag. You should set that puppy down before you break your back." She looks at me piercingly and continues. "Remember, once you've done it, you've really gone and done it.” She nods, satisfied. She has imparted her wisdom and is done. She moves away from me.

I stand there gaping as she makes her way slowly back to the car. I feel tears starting to fill my awful, photophobic eyes. I can hardly breathe.

Two hours later

I look longingly at the northbound rest stop vending machines, and stare sadly at the two quarters in my wallet. It’s not enough. I feel slight regret about turning down the bland woman’s offer of five dollars for lunch, but I can’t see my way to taking money from old women on pensions.

I have stopped thinking of her as the bland woman and started thinking of her as the motherly woman. She was very concerned when I thanked her for the ride and told her I had decided not to go to Eugene after all. I wished her and her mother well and watched them drive away, the wise old woman smiling and waving at me from the back seat. She must like it back there where she can see everything in front of her I think warmly.

The gun is buried in a garbage bin at the southbound rest stop, across the freeway from me. As punishment for loaning it to a fool like me in the first place, the person I borrowed it from will now have to learn to live without it. My sister is smart, eventually she will get herself away from Adam. My becoming a felon is not going to help her learn to help herself. I have a life that needs living - I can’t afford to take these chances, even for her.

I am somebody too. A somebody who needs lunch and a ride home.

Boy Scout

Softly, softly....

I can hear singing in the cherry tree outside as I reluctantly I open my eyes to the sounds and smells of six a.m. With resignation I shake the dreams from my head. There is so much to do today.

With a sigh I sit up and reach blindly for the slippers under the bed. I can only find one; the cat has stolen the other slipper, and no doubt it is lying somewhere in the hallway where I will be sure to trip over it. I’m not ready yet. I’m not prepared for a day of searching for footwear.

Coffee.

I trek sluggishly down the hall and find my slipper, balanced precariously at the head of the stairs. I retrieve it and insert my foot. To my joy, I find cat saliva waiting to embrace my ankle. A recent theft then.

I am not yet lucid enough to wage war against the cat slobber on my foot, but I quickly wake up at the sight of the large cream-colored envelope waiting on the floor in front of my door. “How did that get in here?” I mutter to myself as I bend over to pick it up. There is no name on the front, nothing to tell me where it came from. Distracted, I walk the rest of the way into the kitchen to get the coffee started. Nothing is happening in my house, at six a.m., without caffeine fortification.

I sit at the kitchen table, envelope lying there nearly forgotten, and stare out the garden window at nothing. The comforting smell of brewing coffee fills the house. I let my mind wander back to the night my life ended.


Alex never told me anything.

All those years of visits on Mothers Day and my birthday, and all he could talk about was, “Bob cracked us all up during the staff meeting” and, “I think Kevin and Darcy have a thing going on.” Investment banking was a safe choice. What do I know about investment banking?

He was always good at math; it made perfect sense to me. I could even picture him sitting behind his desk, tie over one shoulder, watching his computer monitor while speaking rapidly on the phone. I imagined he would have a picture of me somewhere in the clutter of folders and printouts. He had a messy room his whole life, why would his desk be any different? When they found his Kevlar vest in the bushes on the bank of the Columbia River I remember asking myself, what would an investment banker need with one of those? Between the words “line of duty” and “award for bravery,” I gradually began to understand. Alex had been lying all along. He knew as much about investment banking as I did.


The bubbling sound of the coffee maker brings me back to the present, where I have neither investment banker, nor special agent for a son. Where I have no son. I absently stir coffee and cream together as I release the final images of bullets flying around my beautiful boy from my mind. I don’t have time for this today. There is so much to do.

Glancing back towards the table I remember the letter. I set my cup down and pick up the envelope. I look it over again curiously and then open it. I read it.


Dimly, I hear a clatter and a crash. I feel wetness against my left leg. That’s not right, I think. The cat stole my right slipper.

It doesn’t matter anyway, nothing matters. The only thing left in the world is the carefully printed card I am holding on to for dear life right now.

“Mom, I am so sorry. Please forgive me.”