Published in 21D Shorts June 2014 (available on smashwords.com)
Sometimes, when it's quiet, I can remember what our life was like before moving to Yarragon.
It’s not easy, but if I sit still I can summon a picture of the smog, the noise, the crush of the city that treads on your foot, but lets you know that you’re conscious. I see a place where the spots of green were mostly traffic islands; a place where we fought through peak hour traffic every morning and lines at 24-hour supermarkets at night; a place where steps behind me immediately made me nervous; where anonymity was the preferred option; the place of my former self; a place where we were happy, more or less, until near the end.
Other times I can barely remember, no matter how hard I try, and can only glimpse it in my peripheral vision.
We’re not fighting much anymore, which of course is good. It’s good not to keep having a go at each other and allow a scab to grow over the sore. You leave every morning in your comfortable pants and button-down shirt, no longer constrained by a suit and strangling tie; neat, not corporate. I clean up the real country breakfast I’ve become good at preparing: eggs, bacon, and even homemade bread. It’s amazing when you think my big treat used to be rushing down the street for an Egg McMuffin. Everything now is fresh, nothing frozen. I go to the nearby farmers’ market every weekend. You wolf it all down, nod your head and say ‘it’s delicious,’ every time, like clockwork. Not much else is said. I sometimes have a fantasy of feeding you rancid bacon or something, to see if I will get the same ‘it’s delicious’ from you before you leave. I haven’t done it of course, yet.
After you leave I have all day to work on my manuscript if I want to, as we agreed before we came, but I find with a house there is lot to do. I go and work on the garden first. I’m growing my own fruit, herbs and carrots. Me, who never used to get a speck on my hands, unless it was toner from changing a printer cartridge. Today, in my soil-encrusted overalls, free of makeup and acrylic nails, I’m preparing planting holes for the spring, and I start by adding compost and manure to the soil. I concentrate on getting this done, before the baking and the sewing. I perform one thing at a time to fully occupy myself. It’s taking a break that’s dangerous.
My well-kept garden has had all its fruit and vegetables harvested. It is surrounded by a wall of large stones that are cool to touch, cut with sharp edges pointing to the sky. You dragged them all there without a word of complaint, when I first had the idea of developing a garden. It was summer then; you sweated and panted, but said nothing while you were working other than seeking confirmation, ‘Here?’ as you embraced a boulder. Was it a hopeful look you gave me then, as though you expected some reward, some acknowledgement that you were a good guy after all? That look has not been around for a while.
Here we can finally start the family that was so impractical in the bedroom apartment. It may be premature but I make preparations. I paint the spare room, the first time I’ve ever had one. I start to sew a bassinet quilt. It takes time and patience. Was it curtains I couldn’t manage to finish in the city? They were for the tiny kitchenette window weren’t they? You laughed when I tried to hang them up. They were lop-sided, with one end dipping in the water of the kitchen sink when it got too full. I never did get around to fixing them. The end’s must be rotten now. Here we have a dishwasher, another first, and Roman blinds made from tastefully coloured fabric. By the end of the morning the sink is clear.
Here, I have the whole table to lay out my work, a pattern to follow and material I bought at the craft store instead of the internet. The woman there has begun to recognise me and say hello, although I haven’t told her my name. I’m not ready. Today my rotary cutter glides through the smooth cotton and I cut a perfect straight line. I’m making progress, and have almost finished the whole top half. It’s a beautiful combination of florals and block colours. There are no interruptions. No one drops by and you don’t call.
This morning I handed you a bag with some orange and poppy seed muffins. I’d got the recipe from the weekend supplement in your paper. I’d just pulled them out fresh from the oven. There was a look on your face, you grimaced and your eyes hardened, but for just a second. You appeared to be about to say something, but all that came out was ‘Thanks,’ and you put the bag in your brief case.
Later in the day, when I was throwing out some garden off-cuts, I found the muffins in the rubbish bin. I gasped and felt stupid again. I forgot you’re allergic to poppy seeds. I seem to have erased the image of you bloated and nauseous. My mind is on other scene .
My manuscript remains still. I sit and sip my tea and look out the kitchen window. I picture myself running to you, as you type away stories about the mayoral elections on the local paper’s computer. I allow myself to be folded up in your arms as I used to do before our ‘fresh start’, on those nights when the heater broke and we buried ourselves under mounds of blankets and my quilting experiments. I have seen my future-self saying many times soothingly, ‘it’s alright, I forgive you, she’s out of our lives.’ The picture fades and I stand completely still at the kitchen window, spoon in hand.
I have a jar of poppy seeds under the sink. The pudding mixture sits in front of me in the bowl. Just a light sprinkle will give it some kick, or not, maybe. What will I do today? I find it a struggle to do anything. I push myself up an endless hill. I tell myself if I get to the top, I may be able to salvage my old life before Yarragon, all except for the last part, and I will finally be able to leave everything else on the other side, and glide down.
I am proud of my garden. At the end when you’d finished the job, the garden wall stones resembled battlement fortifications, the look I was going for. You stood there, sweating and bewildered and asked me why I wanted it like this.
‘To set a clear hard line that people won’t cross, at least not after the first time,’ I reply. You never mention them again.
Today, as I’m digging the soil in my fortress, I try to recall the past once more, but this morning it is gone maybe tomorrow. There is enough to keep us both occupied for a while.
I need to hurry and get to work. The winter is still not over.