The bedroom was where she kept her memories, all the little items that served no other purpose but to remind her of a feeling that once was, or that she once was, or that once was her.
She looked around the bedroom and saw familiar items caught in a peculiar kind of brown sunlight that filtered through the old drapes like tea spilled on paper. It made the room appear like an old photograph which she liked.
The bedroom was where she kept her memories, all the little items that served no other purpose but to remind her of a feeling that once was, or that she once was, or that once was her. These items appeared timeless to her. She looked at them and saw a great river that flowed back through the ages. An endless, murky stream connecting here and there with the roots of single, monumental moments that stood tall on the banks. Tying all those days, hours and minutes together that had somehow flowed by her, or that she had flown by. How similar and yet unforgivingly exceptional it had all been.
She yawned and stretched. There was no need for an alarm clock in the bed room. In bed by eleven, up at seven. That had always been her, today or any other day. That’s what she had started to tell herself sometimes: today or any other day. She wasn’t exactly sure what it meant but she liked saying it. She liked thinking it.
From the bed, her eyes traveled across the framed photographs at her bedside table. Frank, young Frank, strong Frank. As he would always be to her. On the picture he was looking up from working on their old car just in front of the summer house. He was always up to something, that’s one of the things she came to cherish over the years. Even if she found herself standing still, all she ever had to do was go and see what Frank did and it was always something. She wondered what he was doing right now. She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. Frank loved his garden.
Then there was the multitude of pictures of her kids through the ages. Helen, the always fashionable, Anne the clever and sensitive one. And then Pete, the strong one. She had kept one picture of each of her kids from each decade to remind herself that time had indeed passed. That it wasn’t just two weeks ago they were playing and fighting in the hall and the garden. A sigh escaped her and her eyes wandered to the worn, old chair in the corner. It was so old now; the once bright red color was a dubious brown. Upholstery was coming out of tears on the side. Frank always wondered why she insisted on keeping it around. Men forget these things.
It was on that very chair that she was sitting when Frank suddenly dropped to his knees with stars and fire, promise, fear, the sun and the ocean in his eyes and asked her to be his. Such a breath-taking moment. Even with the birth of her children and grandchildren behind her, this moment was still the one to bring tears to her eyes. It was from that wellspring that the river had flown. And now those waters were running quietly, no longer with fury and bravado, but nicely, comfortably, wide. It could bear more, so much more, than ever before but it was no longer strong and wild. It was no longer going anywhere in particular.
There was the pain. A stabbing, throbbing. It was new, she was sure of it. Like a strong headache but with a kind of promise. She should tell Frank. But where was he? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. Well, since she was going out anyway, she should get properly dressed. That was one of the good things she had held on to in her marriage – the routine of getting properly dressed, like a lady. Stockings, skirts, the hair up showing the right part of the neck. Those little things that men can’t resist for long and that kept a bit of mystery, a bit of illusion. She got up and went to the closet. The mark from where Pete had run his head against the closet when he was six years old caught her eye. It was still there, as if he were still right there. It could be fifty years ago or it could have happened just now. She could be wearing her fine, red dress and have curls in her dark hair thinking about dinner for a family and guests on Saturday. Or she could be old, grey and thinking about nothing and everything. Each thought now so uncontrollable, with a reach so far that focusing it was like directing the course of a river. Not impossible perhaps, but imperceptibly close to it. Another sigh escaped her, more and more did as she grew older. There was no way around it. Today or any other day.
She really should get new clothes. No one wore these things anymore. Old skirts, older dresses, the newest thing was a woman’s blazer with shoulder pads. Oh dear, oh dear. Well, Frank didn’t keep up with fashion anyway so who’d she be buying it for? Who had she ever been buying it for? Where was Frank anyway? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. Frank loved his garden. She decided to call out to him. Three times she called him, turning away from the closet but there was no answer. So he was in the garden then. Fine. There was the pain. Was it getting worse? She put her hand to her temples and stood there a few seconds while it receded. When it was better, she opened her eyes and noticed her bed, unmade. Dear Lord! What old age wouldn’t do to a person! She never forgot to make her bed, not since she was a little girl and her mom made her do every bed in the house for a week if she forgot to do her own. Oh what fights she had back then, she really wasn’t an easy daughter, she knew that. She missed her mom. Even after all those years, all those fights and words, she missed her. Closing her eyes, she found her mom’s grey hair in her memory, her steel blue eyes, strong features. Her rare smile, her unfailing strength. It was one of her secrets. She knew Frank would never understand. Where was Frank? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. She caught the image of her mom’s grey hair as it was slipping away and smiled. No man can understand how hate, regret and blame can also contain a boundless love. A deep, profound sense of belonging now replaced with a constant sorrow, a fear that could not be explained or relieved – as if a life raft had gone forever. He would never understand, and so she kept that to herself, this loss was hers. She opened her eyes and saw her bed. Oh dear, oh dear. Not since she was a little girl and her mom made her do every bed in the house for a week if she forgot to do her own had she neglected to make her bed. It just wouldn’t do.
She couldn’t find Frank in the kitchen or see him from the kitchen window. Where was he? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. She walked to the hall and looked out the window. The car wasn’t in the garage so maybe he really was in town. But then she remembered that they didn’t have a car anymore, hadn’t had one for years. How mannerisms linger! The thought of them not having a car had been one of the hardest to get used to. She didn’t find Frank in the kitchen and decided that he had to be in the garden. Frank loved his garden. She considered going out there to look for him or wait for him to come back in around lunch. She checked her watch and saw that it was half past twelve already. But that couldn’t be. She hadn’t been up for that long, how long had she slept? Ever since she was ten, she had been punctual as a clock. In bed by eleven, up at seven. The watch was surely broken or old age was playing another trick on her. There was the pain. Strong now. She had to lean against the refrigerator to keep from falling over. Maybe she even cried out, she couldn’t be sure. With shaking arms, she pushed off the refrigerator and was vertical again. That was an expression of her father’s, being vertical. It meant being ok, as if horizontality was somehow an ailment. As long as you were in a ninety degree angle from the ground up, nothing could truly be wrong. He had been another type of comfort, a reminder that in every situation, no matter how threatening or serious, there was humor. That had made her life bearable. It had calmed the river, allowed it to flow and not fight. The pain receded. She should tell Frank. Where was he? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. Frank loved his garden. She couldn’t see him from the windows of the living room. She was about to open the garden door and shout for him when the wall clock caught her eye. Twelve thirty-four it read, but that couldn’t be, she never slept in. In bed by eleven, up at seven, that had always been her. She checked her wristwatch, it said exactly the same. They couldn’t both be wrong. Oh, poor man. She had slept past lunch! The poor man! He couldn’t boil an egg if his life depended on it much less make a whole lunch. Was he angry with her? Was that why he wasn’t here? She wanted to go find out but she had to go change her clothes; she was still in her nightgown for Christ’s sake! It wasn’t fit for walking in the garden. In the bedroom she found the closet door open to her surprise. She looked around the room and saw the old red chair. The poor, worn old thing. It was so old now, the once bright red color was a dubious brown. Upholstery was coming out of tears on the side. Frank always wanted to throw it out but not while she lived. It was on that chair that he had released the spring within her and turned her into a woman – a true woman. A center of life, a spring of strength around which life flourishes and grows unaware of what keeps it alive or gives it sustenance. As it should be. Had anyone asked her before that moment, before she had answered his question not with words but with physicality, such physical acts as she had never thought was in her, she would have said that womanhood like that was not hers. But his desire had released it, his unreasonable need to call her his somehow changed everything. She still didn’t understand exactly how and much less why, but she had chosen to flow with it rather than fight it. Now it was absurd to wonder if it could have been done differently. Then she saw the bed. It was unmade but surely that was impossible. She never forgot to make her bed, not since she was a little girl and her mom made her do every bed in the house for a week every if she forgot to do her own. Such cold strength in her mom. Unforgiving at times. She hoped to God she had shown her children a different way. Yet, it was a loss that Frank would never truly comprehend, one that was only hers. Where was Frank anyway? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. There was the pain. Frank loved his garden. She should go out and look for him but not in this. This wasn’t fit for walking in the garden. She went to the closet to change her dress. There was that mark Peter had made when he was only six years old. As clear as if it happened yesterday. Today or any other day. She opened the closet and put on her long coat. There was the pain. She probably should tell Frank. Where was Frank anyway? She couldn’t hear him anywhere around the house so perhaps he was in the garden. In the garden, she couldn’t find Frank. She recognized the bushes, the trees, the flower beds, his hand prints everywhere. Stone upon stone, roots deep in the ground, all his careful, tender craft. Done with the same gentle strength that she had discovered in him herself. That had given her so much joy, so many moments stored away in the most intimate chambers of her memory. And her family. Helen, the always fashionable, Anne the clever and sensitive one. And then Pete, the strong one. There was the pain. Strong, hard like a rock. She looked around, tried to brace herself against the bushes but they wouldn’t hold her. She sat down on the grass and looked up. There was a drizzle, tiny little drops of water forming in the air, embracing her face. The feeling stretched back so far, so far it was a constant. She had felt it on the railing of a ship off the coast of Norway, she had felt it coming out of a taxi the morning she became a mother, on the steps of her school the day she graduated, when she was a little girl falling down on the grass in her father’s garden feeling like everything would go on forever, looking down at the casket at Frank’s funeral. Her father had loved his garden. And here she was again. The garden was empty but she was there. There was the pain. She should tell Frank. Where was he? She couldn’t hear him anywhere in the garden so perhaps he was in the house. She would search for him in a minute, when the pain was gone. The rain landed on her face, the water came to a calm. A lake of the drops on her face, a surface as deep as anything anywhere. Today or any other day. There was the pain. Where was Frank? Where was Helen, Anne, Pete? There was the pain. Mom? There was the pain.
By Jeppe Grünberger