Sidetracked-Kobo

by Brandilyn Collins

  “This isn’t what Lyme feels like, is it?” Of all people, my husband would know.

  He sifted through more documents, too busy to make eye contact with me. “When would you have been bitten by a deer tick?”

  We hadn’t been hiking or spending time in the woods. And I was mostly a homebody. “I’ve been planting flowers.” Our house boasted a large, beautiful backyard. Behind us lay open space with plenty of trees. Sometimes the deer jumped the fence and wrought havoc with my plants.

  He waved a hand, then snapped his briefcase shut. “Let’s give it a few days. If you’re not better, we can test for it.”

  Quintessential Brock. Whatever the situation, including illness—buck up, raise your chin, and this, too, shall pass. That rock hard core strength is what had first attracted me to him. Goodness knows I’d needed some strength of my own in those days.

  Now I yearned for gentleness.

  We’d met when I was twenty-two, a glued-together version of emotionally broken pieces despite my academic success: a B.A. in marketing, valedictorian of my class. As we dated, Brock wedged bits of his unwavering self-confidence into the gaps I failed to hide. He taught me to believe in myself—because he did. Bathed in love, his shaping of me never felt harsh.

  But in the last year my husband had slipped from attentive to distracted to aloof. Why? I was no less the wife I’d always been. In fact lately I felt like the old Avis rental car commercial—“we try harder.” Brock didn’t seem to notice my extra effort.

  Our conversation yesterday ended as quickly as it started. With a tight smile aimed in my direction, Brock disappeared out the door to the garage.

  I rubbed my neck. Last night I had the nightmare again. This morning I awoke feeling five times worse. No flu had ever hit me like this.

  Not a good time to deal with a phone call from my mother. But then, it never was. She’d called a few minutes ago, and now I wished I hadn’t answered. I moved the receiver to my other ear.

  “You get your housecleaning done today?” Mother’s voice held that barbed edge I knew so well—half accusation, half sarcasm. Why did I even bother to talk to her? The woman never changed. “Thursday is your day to clean.”

  I lay on the TV room couch, looking toward the pass-through window into the kitchen. I’d had to move from the other end of the sofa. Facing toward the bright front window hurt my eyes. “Yes, I did.” Somehow I’d managed to clean, even though I felt so punky. As soon as I was done I collapsed on the couch and had barely moved since.

  “That husband of yours would notice if the house wasn’t spotless.”

  My fingers tightened on the phone—until pain forced them to relax. That husband of mine happened to be successful and stable, a one-eighty from my alcoholic and abusive father. My mother could not forgive me for that.

  “Why don’t you hire a housecleaner, Janessa? You can certainly afford it.”

  “I’d rather do it myself. Then I know it’s done right.”

  “Well, you always were the perfectionist.”

  My heart cramped. A perfectionist should be able to fix her own marriage. “I have to go, Mother.”

  “And do what? You’re sick, remember?”

  “I have to pick up Lauren soon.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  My mother’s tone made the question’s real meaning all too clear: I haven’t seen my granddaughter in years, so how would I know?

  “Fine.”

  “Isn’t she supposed to be out of school for the year soon?”

  “Not until the middle of June.”

  “Then what’s she going to do?”

  “Be a kid. Hang out, have friends over.”

  Like I could never do.

  “We were good parents to you, Janessa.”

  My eyes closed. How did my mother do that?

  I’d managed to move across the country from my parents years ago, before I met Brock. At this moment the connection to my mother amounted to no more than a tenuous link through invisible phone lines. Or so I told myself. I should hang up. Refuse to answer when she called back.

  Truth is, the link between mother and daughter is never so tenuous, even when you want it to be. Even when you know the woman’s poison for you. There is no more sacred bond, and when it’s broken, defiled, it leaves a cleft in your heart never quite filled.

  Although Brock had come closest to filling it as any person could.

  Someday soon my mother might hear the dullness in my voice over the phone and guess the expanding new truth about me and Brock. “This paradise of yours will never last,” she’d sneered the day of my wedding. How self-satisfied she’d be now to hear of the cracks in our Eden.

  “I never said you weren’t good parents, Mother.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Enough was enough. I forced myself to sit up. I felt so tired. “I need to go.”

  I clicked off the line.

  For a long moment I slumped forward, forearms on my legs, still holding the receiver. Its digital read-out told me the time—2:30. I needed to be at Lauren’s private school at 3:00. The drive would take fifteen minutes. I would not be late, not even by sixty seconds. In my own childhood I’d spent far too many hours waiting on my mother—who may or may not show up, depending on my father’s level of drunkenness. I had grown up dreaming of my own happy marriage someday, of secure children. Lauren would never be treated as I had been.

  I replaced the phone in its holder and pushed to my feet. For a moment I swayed. Man. What was this? I arched my shoulders and moved my achy neck from side to side. Maybe two more extra-strength pain relievers would help.

  I stepped away from the couch and headed for the kitchen, chiding myself for resting too long. Now I’d be pressed to make dinner on time. The roast needed to slow cook in the oven, and I hadn’t cut the potatoes, onions, and carrots. Brock expected his dinner at six thirty. Or whenever after that he happened to come through the door.

  My legs felt wobbly as I walked to the stainless steel sink. I gazed down at the defrosted roast. Okay. First a large pan . . .

  My eyes fixed on the piece of meat. I stared at the red hunk until I looked through it. My thoughts splayed out . . .

  Flattened.

  Melted away.

  I hung there. Hands on the sink.

  I blinked.

  What was I . . . ?

  The pan.

  I crossed the kitchen to a lower cabinet, where I’d have to reach far into the back. Started to bend down.

  Don’t do it.

  I stopped. Made a face at myself. What was that voice in my brain?

  My hand reached out again. A knowledge deep inside protested that my legs wouldn’t hold me.

  Air puffed from my mouth. How silly. My legs were a little weak, that’s all. Besides, I had no choice. Dinner required this particular pan, and that was that.

  I bent over, opened the cabinet and crouched down.

  My legs gave out. Down I went—hard—on my rear end. Pain ricocheted through my shoulders and neck.

  Stunned, I sat on the floor, palms flat against the hardwood. After a minute I shook my head. Okay, so I’d fallen. While I was on the floor, I’d at least get the pan. I scooted close to the cabinet, leaned in and withdrew it from the top shelf. I lifted the pan and slid it onto the counter. Closed the cabinet door.

  Now to get up.

  Twisting to one side, I placed both hands close to each other. Pushed against the floor. My legs wouldn’t cooperate. I tried again, managing to work my way onto my knees. My leg muscles felt squishy.

  Well now really. This was dumb.

  I lifted one knee, positioning a foot beneath my body. Pushed off from the floor—and tumbled over. My head bounced against the cabinet.

  “Ungh.” I lay on my side, mouth open, my annoyance turning to fear. What was happening? I had to get up.

  I tried again. And again. Didn’t work. Sweat popped out
on my body. I couldn’t believe this. My arms felt strong enough, though the joints hurt. But my legs just wouldn’t . . .

  Once more I tried to rise. And failed.

  ________________

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