The Day That I Died
The lights blurred overhead as time seemed to slow. Alcohol mingling with antiseptic vaguely registered somewhere in my sense of smell. Glimpses of concerned faces spun above me, speaking in hushed and hurried tones. The severity of the accident was clearly evident in the team that was now poking and prodding me in a thousand places at once. Slowly, one by one, they began to fade into a thick gray fog where sight and sound ceased.
My name is Margaret Eloise Duncan, and this is the account of the day that I died.
***
Perhaps a bit of back story is in order. It seems somewhat odd to jump into a story at the ending. For me, this story started twelve months ago when I decided to take a loft in the Graystone Apartment complex. I took unit 105, bottom floor on the corner. It was a one room apartment, 100 square feet with the only division in the room being the spiral iron staircase leading to the landing where my full sized mattress was squeezed snugly against the wall. Space was limited, to say the least, but this never bothered me because there was no one else I needed to account for. It was just me and my potato plant, which I had affectionately named Hubert. In lieu of actual furniture, easels and canvasses were propped up in all the available space.
I couldn't consider myself a starving artist, per say, seeing as to how I always managed to rummage up some form of food daily. At times I could concede that I was starving for company, but you would never know it. It was here, in this very loft, that I first caught sight of the young blonde woman in the pristine blue gingham dress pushing a stroller, while pulling along a little cherub with blonde pigtails. I marveled that at noon everyday the three of them would breeze by my window as they made their way to the post office on the corner. You could set your watch by this woman, daily without fail, weekday or weekend.
They happened by me once as I sat under the shade of a white umbrella at the little Italian cafe down the street. They were on their way to the market and the cherub grew louder as they approached. She reached a decibel that made my hearing go temporarily fuzzy. I think the gist of the ruckus was her wanting something and being denied. Some parents just have no control over their children. You would think it wouldn't be that difficult to quickly quiet them when needed. If people are going to have children, they should at least know how to get them to behave.
There I sat, watching a horrible scene unfold before me. The cherub proceeded to lie face down on the sidewalk while the infant in the stroller woke with a vengeance. The noise level completely disrupted the companionable silence of the lunch crowed. No amount of hushing from the frazzled mother seemed to be of any use. Why couldn't she just remove them from the scene so that the rest of us could finish our lunch in peace? Some people are so inconsiderate.
***
One afternoon, I sat at my window painting the thriving routine before me while my friend Alex perused the contents of my refrigerator. It contained a cup of Marion berry yogurt, two half empty take out containers, and a block of extraordinarily moldy cheddar.
"Sheesh Mags, isn't there a market just down the street?" He rummaged through the cabinet, finally deciding on a small bag of pretzels.
"There is, and they have the most wonderful people there that actually prepare meals for you, provided you reimburse them for their service."
He shrugged, deciding that so long as I appeared to be somewhat nourished he was in no position to judge. It was at that moment that the woman and her brood passed in front of my window with severe faces and pristine creases. I checked my watch. Once again, she was right on time.
That very night in the laundry room, everything changed. I have always been told that I possess the gift of invisibility, so I really can't fault her for not knowing I sat in the corner painting a pair of sneakers as her fit began.
"It's ruined," she sobbed as she furiously flung a small white dress back into her hamper. At first, I hadn't even realized it was the same woman. The one that stood before me wore jeans and a t-shirt. Had I not spotted the strand of pearls tucked under the collar I might not have known her at all.
"I'm sure it's not that bad." I offered.
She took a startled step backwards. "I didn't realize anyone was in here."
I walked over, properly announcing my presence and glanced at the supposedly ruined garment. "It looks like flowers to me."
"It's grape popsicle." She frowned. "What was I thinking giving that to her in this dress?"
I laid it out on the table. The spots looked like pansies just waiting to bloom. I grabbed my paint set, hesitating briefly, brush poised. "May I?"
She shrugged her shoulders in defeat. "Oh, why not? It's ruined anyway."
And so I painted, brushing strokes of color onto the empty canvass. Occasionally, a small gasp would escape from her mouth, which she quickly stifled with well manicured fingers. I held up the finished bouquet.
"Oh," she whispered. "It's just beautiful."
"Thank you."
"I'm Susan," she offered her hand with the most exhausted smile I had ever seen.
"I'm Mags." I began to gather my painting supplies and laundry basket containing one blanket, a towel, and a weeks worth of hand painted t-shirts. I think it was something in the way she eyed my brushes, with an expression somewhere between awe and longing, that made me wonder what exactly lay beneath her exterior of motherhood. "Would you like to grab a coffee sometime, Susan?"
"I think I would like that very much, Mags."
And that was how it all began and why, even as I lie here, caught in this place between two worlds, I would gladly meet her all over again for that cup of coffee.
No comments:
Post a Comment