A Band-Aid to Cover It

            Glass crunches under your foot as you enter the house. It is a modest single story ranch style home. The side door leads to the kitchen which is where you find yourself now. Your mind swirls as you look around the room. Have you been here before? An air of uncertainty and doubt clouds your memories. The kitchen has an air of familiarity, and yet…

            The stainless steel appliances are polished and clean, however the kitchen table in the corner is cluttered with paper. An electric bill here, a blank pad of paper there, a box of envelopes rests on a chair. You feel your heart beat faster. Your face becomes flush with the increase in blood flow. You move toward the table, but your motion is stilted, restricted, as if you are moving through water.

            You reach the table and gather the papers into a neat pile. You scan the room for a drawer. There, right next to the stainless steel fridge. You pull the drawer, but it moves slowly, as if some unseen force doesn’t want you to open it. Inside the drawer are small mini candles and a mixture of odors flows into your nostrils. Familiar scents: Island Nectar, Cranberry Pear, and Angel Whispers. It is this last aura that sends your mind into a frenzy. You feel light headed. You return to the table and sit down slowly.

            The memory invades your mind almost without consent. It pushes its way deeper until you can almost see the room. You see the candle sitting on the coffee table. You are in a living room. Jake, your husband, sits on an off-white suede couch, his legs tucked underneath him. His dark brown hair is parted to the side, covering his right eye, another inch and he would resemble a pirate.  He is reading a magazine, Cosmopolitan. Wait, can that be right? There is a television across from you, the old tube kind, heavy enough to almost cause the room to tilt.  

            You look down at your hands, turning them back and forth, as if they are someone else’s. No wedding band. This must have been before the wedding. Did we live here before we were married?

            “Babe, this article says we should have some sort of symbol to show each other how much we love each other. Like from across the room.” He says. His voice sounds muffled though, the sound struggling to move through the haze of the memory.

            “Is that right?” you say, but that’s not your voice. Who’s is it then?

            Jake looks at you. He smiles, showing teeth way too big for his mouth. His grin literally reaches his ears, his face contorted into a painting. He looks back at the magazine, his face returning to normal.

            “Yeah, this couple used this.” He places his hand flat on his forehead.

            “They used it once at a party. They say it really helped comfort each other when they were at functions with new people. Should we come up with something?”

            “I think we should.” Whose voice is that?

            “How about this?” he asks. He places his right index finger over his right eye. “This can mean ‘I love you.’” He places his left index finger over his left eye. “This one can mean, ‘I’m just kidding.’ So you can know when I’m bullshitting but no one else will. What do you think?”

            “I think that’s perfect.” Is that your voice after all?

            You are back at the kitchen table, the memory floating away like cigarette smoke. You realize it is dark in the kitchen. Was it night time when you came in? You struggle to stand, as if you are holding a box of weights. Once you are standing you head for the living room. The air seems to be thick and hazy, slowing your movement. You enter the living room. A Panasonic television is mounted on the wall. Is that the same couch? You walk closer, and rub your hand over the tan couch. The fabric feels cold, and wet, like snow.

            The far wall is adorned with mirrors, but you can barely see yourself. You appear as a thin silhouette, shimmering, as if the mirrors were a flag in the wind. There are five mirrors, wavy, with a small gap between each of them. You approach the mirrors, your reflection fading into focus.

            “That can’t be me” you think. “She’s much too thin and pretty to be me.” You see a woman with dark wavy hair, resting just past the shoulder. She has a dark complexion, is she Italian? You can’t be sure. You run your fingers through your hair, and the figure apes your motions. You step closer, staring into your own eyes, but something is missing. The figure staring back is vacant, missing, somewhere else.  You blink slowly. The air around seems to thicken and your slowed movements become laborious, challenging. You try to run your fingers through your hair once again, but the task proves too difficult. Defeated, you turn from the mirror back to the couch.

            You struggle through the thick air, but manage to reach the couch. You sit slowly. The couch still feels cold and wet and almost swallows you. You sink deeper into the couch until you find yourself outdoors.

            Another memory, this house is familiar though. The house is a two story duplex. Fresh snow glistens on the ground. The sky is dark, but there are no stars. A fence on either side traps the image, you can see nothing beyond. You look down and can see a shovel in your gloved hands. The air still seems thick and gooey, but it does not feel cold. A path you must have shoveled rounds the corner of the house.

            A figure rounds that corner. She is wearing only a thin red robe. Her feet are bare. Her hair is long and black, with streaks of silver. She is impossibly thin, as if she has not eaten in weeks. She shuffles along the sidewalk, the same vacant look in her eyes.

            You hear a voice from behind you, “Mom?” You turn to find the origin of the voice, but there is no one behind you. Was that you? The voice sounds familiar, like you’ve heard it before.

            “Mom, what are you doing outside?” The voice seems to echo inside your head, it must be your own. The woman shuffles toward you. You drop the shovel and take a step closer to her. She looks at you. You return the gaze, but she is elsewhere.

            “Let’s get you inside.” Clearer this time, you are certain it is your own voice. You remove your jacket and place it around the woman. You shuffle her to the back porch and slowly climb the stairs. There are only four, but each one seems taller than the last. Eventually you reach the top. You pull the door open with little effort, a surprise considering the struggle with mundane movements. The woman steps inside. She turns, looks at you, and pulls the door shut behind her.

            You are back in the living room. The sofa no longer feels cold and the air seems to have lost some of its thickness. A slight haze lingers, shimmering in a swirling pattern. You stand, easier this time, but still a struggle. You turn from the mirrors and exit the living room. You find yourself in a room much too large to fit inside the ranch home. In the center of the room sits a huge grand piano. It is a glossy black. Light shimmers off the surface, but you see no light source in the room. You waltz over to the piano, moving faster than before, almost too fast.

            You sit at the piano.

            “Do I know how to play the piano?” you think. You place your hands on the keys and they start to move, almost as if they have a mind of their own. You immediately recognize the tune. Sleigh Ride. A Christmas Carol? You play a few bars, but then the sound slows and warps, like an old record playing at the wrong speed. You close your eyes. The music speeds back up and resumes its normal speed.

            You open your eyes. You find yourself in a different living room, surrounded by people. There is a Christmas tree in the corner, decorated silver and red. The lights seem to jut out two or three feet from the tree like lasers. There is a fireplace, but inside of it is a blue flame swaying back and forth with the music.

            Are these your friends? You turn to your right, a petite blond sits next to you, but she her face is split down the middle creating a complete face on either side of her head. She sings along with the song.

            “There’s a happy feeling, nothing in this world can buy,”

            You can see Jake standing near the tree. His hair is cut short. He has his left index finger covering his right eye. He sings along.

            “When they pass around the coffee and the pumpkin pie, it’ll nearly be like a picture print by Currier and Iives.”

            You see the old woman wearing her red robe, she is still bare foot. She holds her hands in front of her as if they are powering her singing. She sings along.

            “These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives.”

            Standing next to the old woman in the robe is another woman, dressed in all black. Her hair is dark, long, and straight. They could be sisters. No, not sisters, the older woman is her mother.

            “Is that me?” you wonder.

            They sing along, in unison, “These wonderful things are the things we remember all through our lives.”

            You look back at Jake, now both of his fingers are covering his eyes, crisscrossed, the right index on the left eye, the left index on the right.

            They all increase in volume. The sound almost hurts your ears. You try to stop playing but can’t. Your fingers are betraying you. The tune continues. The rest of the people begin moving closer and surrounding you. But they are all just shimmers, faceless, in red and green.

            “Sleigh bells jing-a-ling ring ting ting-a-ting too. C’mon it’s lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you. Outside the snow is falling and friends are calling yoo-hoo.”

            They get stuck on the yoo-hoo, like a broken record. Your hands continue playing, the words no longer matching the tune. They gather in closer and closer, surrounding you. You can feel a tear roll down your face.

            “Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!” Your hands finish the song, as you close your eyes. When you open them the Christmas memory has faded. You find yourself in a small study. This was a bedroom once, a small, third bedroom, usually for guests. But now it has a computer desk on one wall and two tall bookcases opposite the desk. The window is opposite the door, the drapes are open and you can see into the backyard. It is grey and dreary outside, a slight rain falling.

            You walk toward the back window, each step more laborious than the last. The beige carpet begins growing around your feet like a weed. It twists and turns, wrapping around your feet and legs. You begin making tall steps, pulling your knees high. You reach the window and the carpet recedes to normal levels.

            In the back yard there is an underground pool, empty of water, weathered and unused for some time. There is a diving board on the far end. The diving board begins to bounce on its own, as if someone were about to dive off of it. There is a brilliant flash of light, another memory burning its way into your mind, or is it burning its way out?

            After the light fades, the sun is out, the pool is filled with crystal clear water. A figure bounces on the diving board, tall in stature, wearing an entire suit of medieval knight’s armor. With each bounce a piece of the armor falls off.

            First drops the feet. Bounce, the left foot, bounce, the right foot.  As each piece falls into the pool the water hisses and boils like acid. Next the legs. Hiss. The legs underneath appear to be that of woman, they are powerful and well sculpted. The cod piece falls revealing a red bikini underneath. The chest piece falls into the hissing water, sinking out of sight into the depths. Underneath is a matching bikini top, holding large breasts back, but they do not bounce with the figure, they remain stationary as if the figure is immobile. The gauntlets drop in unison, leaving only the helmet. The figure bounces a few times with just the helmet on, reaching higher and higher with each jump. The helmet flies into the air at the apex of one of the bounces and floats down slowly like a feather till it reaches the pool water. It rests on top of the water, a boat gliding lazily along the surface.

            The figure is in full view now, still bouncing. She has bright red hair matching her bikini, flames licking the bright sky. The figure stops suddenly at the bottom of a bounce, the diving board almost touching the water. She looks directly at you.

            “Run, jump, twist” she says, eyes piercing through the glass of the window. The diving board launches her into the air and she flies impossibly high twisting ferociously until she lands in the water, feet first. She disappears.

            The same blond woman with two faces is now on the diving board. She bounces in the same fashion. She wears a dark black one piece bikini clashing with her almost porcelain skin.  Her hair flows as if it is already under water. She stops at the bottom of a bounce as well. Both her faces merge together into one and look directly at you.

            “Run, jump, twist.” The faces diverge into two once more and she flies high into the air. She twists several times before she slides into the water making no splash. She sinks into the depths.

            Jake appears on the diving board. He wears a pair of bright yellow shorts with black stripes, wearable caution tape. He bounces as well, but not very high, more like a slight dip, the diving board barely moving. He looks at you. No, he looks past you, at something behind you maybe. You turn and look at the bookshelves. When you turn back Jake is facing forward. He bounces higher and higher.

            “Run, jump, twist.” He jumps in the air and twists like a tornado. He splashes into the water and disappears as the pool water flies into the air and empties the pool. The sun fades and the sky once again becomes gloomy and overcast. You turn and head for the bookcase.

            The books on the shelf all appear to be blank. There is no righting on any of the edges, save for one,  Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence. You remove the book and sit down at the desk. Is this your copy? You open the book, but inside all of the pages are blank. You look up from the book to find you are in a large busy restaurant. Servers and busboys buzz around the hive silently. The silence almost hurts. Across from you is a man, he is dressed in a grey three piece suit with a dark red tie. A dark red tie, from The Charvet? Yes, that’s it, you bought that tie. The man has short brown hair, and piercing hazel eyes. He stares at you, his lips moving, but no sound emits from them. You glance around the room. All of the workers and other patrons have stopped moving and are staring at you.

            “You could be mine” the man says, bringing your attention back to him. The tie is now standing straight out, straining to reach you. An olive branch displayed for you to grasp. It wriggles and snaps as it tries to break free from the man. He gently pushes it down, straightening it a moment.

            “Why don’t you give it a rest” he says, to the tie, or to you? The tie snaps back up and continues its struggle for freedom.

            “It’s more than I can stand,” he looks around the room and you follow suit. The other patrons and workers are all now pointing at you with one hand while their free hand covers all of their mouths. The tie snaps back and forth, an unfelt wind powering its movement. The man pushes the tie down once more. He stands, straightens his suit jacket and walks away.

            You stand up yourself and turn to see where the man went, but you are back in the study, Lady Chatterley’s Lover in hand. You return the book to the shelf. The other books now have writing on them. You turn and exit the study. You walk slowly down a long hallway, the air once again shimmering, like a hot highway in the desert. There are two doors at the end of the hall, one on each wall. They are both open. You reach the end of the hallway, both rooms are bedrooms. The one on the right has a giant king size bed with a green and white floral pattern for bedding. The room on the left has a smaller full size bed, the bedding Disney princesses. You turn and enter the master bedroom.

            You walk slowly over to the far side of the bed. You sit down on the edge of the bed near a dark cherry wood nightstand. On the nightstand is a framed photo, but there is no picture inside, merely the “4 x 6” cardboard backing. An old antique lamp rests on the nightstand. You open the nightstand drawer. Inside is a small Smith and Wesson silver pistol. You pick up the gun and rest it in your lap.

            The room starts to spin, leaving the bed the only stationary object in the room. The room warps into a small four lane gun range. You’ve been here before, you are sure of it. The place feels familiar. You stand, the bed begins to spin behind you and disappears. You walk slowly to one of the range lanes. You can hear the “pop, pop” of gunfire, but it is muffled, as if you were wearing earplugs. The stinging smell of gunpowder wafts in the air as you round lane four. A man stands there, a large silver revolver in both of his hands. He is wearing a tan “Member’s Only” jacket and soft blue jeans. He wears large ear muffs, protecting him from the noise of the weapon.  He sets his hand cannon on the rest and turns to face you, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

            “That weapon is supposed to be in a case young lady!” he barks at you. The sound comes through clear, as if you have taken out your ear protection.

            You look down at the small pistol in your hand, then back at the man. He shuffles slowly over to you.

            “And it better not be loaded. Have I not taught you anything about safety? What is the number one rule?”

            The words escape your lips without hesitation, as if you have recited them a million times, “Never point the weapon at anything you are not prepared to destroy.”

            “That’s right. That’s my girl.” He flicks the cigarette onto the ground and moves off to the side. “What are you wasting your time with that peashooter for anyway? Here try a real weapon.” He waves toward the stall where his large revolver rests on the shelf. You hesitate, putting the small pistol in your pocket.

            “No Dad, I don’t want to shoot that thing.” The voice sounds foreign again, who does it belong to? You turn away and walk slowly toward the exit door. You open the door and stop through. You stop and turn around looking back at the man.

            “It’s ok sweetheart. I understand. I don’t blame you. I’ll see you soon” he says as you slowly close the door.

            You turn from the door and you are back in the hallway, across from the Princess’s room. The long haired woman from before closes the opposite door in unison with you, mirroring your every move. Her hair is still long and black. She is again dressed in all black, a bright orange watch the only color to her outfit. The air seems to have cleared, it is almost normal. Your movements seem free, as they should be.

            “What are you doing here?” the woman asks.

            “What are you doing here?” you reply, this time it your voice for certain, unmistakable.

            “And what are you doing with that?” she asks pointing at your left hand. You look down and see the pistol in your hand once again. You push the gun into your pocket, leaving your hand inside.

            “Nothing. I’m going to clean it.”

            “You don’t live here anymore. This isn’t your house. You should leave.”

            “Yeah, well, as of today you’ve been dead for seven months.” You begin walking down the long hallway away from the woman. She follows.

            “That has nothing to do with this. You don’t belong here. This isn’t your house!” she shouts the last part.

            “You don’t think I know that?” you turn to face her once more.

            “You’ve been divorced for over two years now. Move on. The train leaves today, no conversation. Conversations kill.”

            “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted my whole family to leave me in a matter of fourteen months? Mom, Dad, You? You guys left me with nothing! Nothing.” The last bit a whisper. You turn away and begin walking back down the hallway, but the air is once again thick and restrictive. You pull the pistol from your pocket.

            “You ain’t the first. Others have faced it. I’ll just see you along. I’ve read your last page.”

            Your fists clench, the left tightly around the pistol. You can feel the tears streaming down your face; taste the brininess as they roll over your lips. You breathe heavy, your face almost red with fury.  You turn to face the woman, but she is gone. Your breathing slows, almost to a stop. You unclench your fists and wipe the tears from your face. You stare blankly at the gun in your left hand.

            You turn back and walk down the hallway, reaching the bathroom. You look around the room, all of the items located within unrecognizable, belonging to someone else. You step close to the mirror, your breath fogging it. You look deep inside your own eyes, but there is nothing there. They are vacant. Lost. Somewhere else. You turn and walk over to the bathtub. You slowly climb inside and sit down. You rest the pistol in your lap and stare off into the distance, breathing so slowly and shallowly your chest barely moves. You look down at the pistol resting in your lap.

***

            The blonde, the redhead, and Jake all stand in the bathroom. They are each dressed entirely in black, red flowers pinned to their lapels. Each one also wears an orange rubber bracelet around their wrist. They are speaking, but there is no sound. A Band-Aid covers the small hole in the bathtub.