Things Not Seen

Marty grabbed a magazine and began to read about organizing a household, repairing a picnic table, and creating a pond in a suburban backyard. That's where B found her when she arrived home from the Pancake Palace at nine o'clock. "Got any food?" B called from the kitchen.

"Didn't eat there after all, did you?" teased Marty.

The refrigerator door slammed too hard.

"B, I was just kidding. Did something happen?" She got up from the chair and headed to the kitchen.

A muffled sob caused her to quicken her steps.

When Marty entered the kitchen B was doubled over the counter, crying into her arms. Marty rushed to her daughter, reaching for her heaving shoulders, but she refrained, remembering her daughter's irritation. Instead, she put her elbows on the counter and doubled down to B's level.

"B, what happened? Tell me what happened."

The sobs continued for what seemed like a long time, then began to abate.

"B, please? What happened?"

"I hate that place! I hate it."

"Because?"

"Respect. It's all about respect." B stood. Rivers of mascara flowed down her cheeks.

"The kitchen or your tables?"

"Both. I am a person, you know."

Marty smiled sympathetically as B gestured wildly in frustration.

"And I'm so tired of being treated like I'm not."

"Want to quit?"

"Maybe." The word came out defiantly. "Maybe I will." She walked toward the staircase. "Pervs!" She ran up the stairs.

"Hungry?"

"Not now."

Marty mechanically wiped the counter, then shut out the kitchen light and slowly climbed the stairs herself. It felt late, but it wasn't. Some days were like that. One day seemed like two or three. I've been on this roller coaster too much today. I want off!

B was already in the shower. Marty slowly began her bedtime routine, finding the sameness of her habits restorative. She knew better than to plan on a shower; B wouldn't be out for eons. At least she'd calm down, maybe.

Marty glanced around for something to soothe her. Which book would it be? Funny, intriguing, dramatic--no, she was living that. As her eyes browsed titles on a small shelf in her bedroom, she paused at the black, fabric-covered journal. She touched the spine, then pulled it out part way, stopped, and shoved it back on the shelf. That's what she had done over and over. She would never destroy David's journal, but she hadn't been able to read it yet. Odd, some widows would likely have savored each word, reading each paragraph, sentence, phrase, even every word over and over. She couldn't even get the journal all the way off the shelf.

It was almost as though if she didn't read from his entries, he was somehow still with her. Taking up the journal was like admitting that he was really gone. A mind game, she knew, but enough of a habit that this, her mental pathway, was already significantly forged. If I keep thinking this way, I'll never pick it up. David is gone. I can't get him back. Perhaps a word, a phrase. She touched the spine again and this time pulled the journal off the shelf all the way. After she folded down the covers on the bed and placed the journal on the bed, she stared at it. What sadness would she find there? It had diminished, but would it begin all over again? She felt like it was starting up with the events of the afternoon. She needed him. This was the only way she knew how to make that happen.