Scribbles and Scrawls

by Bethany Votaw

  I wanted to get the cracking paint off my skin and opted to go for a walk on my stretch of the beach. I didn’t wear shoes. I told myself it was on purpose. I walked through the sand and let the water run over my feet and told myself it was because it was what I wanted. I bent down and used the wet sand to scrub the paint from between my fingers and up my arms and to my elbows. I used the coarse sand to scrub my skin raw.

  I walked back to the house but ended up at my bench instead. It still felt warm from the last time I was there. I felt the thing with me. Despite my numb feet, I knew they were cut up. I watched the waves from my new vantage point and let my hands hang. The tips of my fingers brushed the tops of the wildflowers.

  I breathed in the sweet scent of the flowers and salt. The wind rustled the petals and tickled my fingertips. I loved those. I really loved those. I picked a few stalks from the bushes and breathed them in. Lavender. Why didn’t I realize this was lavender earlier?

  These were my favorite, but they just didn’t smell like I remembered. I willed the lavender-scented oxygen to push their memories into my blood. I willed the blood to carry the memories of flowers and happier times to my brain.

  My stomach sank when I walked back into the house to find the sunset paint fading into a much more muted and mellow color. I pried open the can of paint and set to mixing the colors. When that burnt orange bloomed, I coated the walls again. I couldn’t help but stare at my hands as they moved up and down the walls. I thought they had more wrinkles, maybe deeper too. The orange settled into the small canyons. No rivers yet, no scars, but I was only just beginning this house. I shoved globs of the orange paint into the large cracks, gluing the house back together with paint and color.

  I sat back in my chair, inhaling the paint fumes, and watched the walls dry, taking care not to blink. The wet turned to matte and turned into the wall itself. I eyed the shadow within the walls, chasing it from kitchen to living room.

  I grew tired of dancing over the spots of orange paint on the ground, so I swept the floors again and flung open the double doors, setting up my little workstation just beyond the threshold on the porch. A slab of wood across two sawhorses made the perfect table, and I set to work unwrapping the packages of flooring.

  After lining a few rows up, I marked where I wanted the cut and plugged in the little hand saw. It chewed up the first few pieces, and I chucked them into the dumpster. I clenched my jaw. Embarrassment rose within me, and my blood bubbled. I was alone; I shouldn’t care, but I did. After a few more tries, I got it right. I snapped each piece in place, a few fingernails too, but it was worth it. The clean boards looked like they were made for this seaside cottage.

  I had to use a hammer on the edges and ended up splintering a board, and I had to cut the piece all over. I looked at the finished two rows and let a tear spill to the orange, paint-splattered floor. It was crooked, the lines uneven. I shouldn’t have been surprised with how uneven the house was. It would look better when the whole floor was done.

  That ugly chandelier mocked me. I screamed profanities just to walk out the front door and cut another piece. And another. And another. And my hand. I was halfway through snapping in another piece when I spotted the constellation of red droplets on the floor mixing with the orange paint.

  I ran to the kitchen despite my aching knees and wrapped my hand in a towel. I grabbed another and worked to scrub the red from the beautiful orange. I scrubbed the red into the orange, making some sick sunset on my floor. I didn’t think my hand hurt. I didn’t clean it. Instead, I let my blood seep into the pores of the house and prayed it would breathe it to life.

  THE GHOST

  She sat in her chair like she did every morning. I was surprised she managed to find a coffee cup. She stared at the chandelier and orange walls and half-finished floor. The cut on her hand was mostly healed, and I was sure she was eager to get back to the flooring. If anything, just to check something off her list.

  “Get out,” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “You’re not Jerry.” She stared up at the gaudy and dusty chandelier.

  “No.”

  “Leave my house.” She didn’t seem afraid.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  “The dust never settles. This house breathes.”

  “Fair enough.” I sighed, letting my shadow cast long against the wall. She didn’t scream. I didn’t expect her to, but I was still disappointed.

  “You’re not real.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m just so tired.”

  And that was our first conversation. She picked at the skin around her nails, frequently glancing up at the dancing dust, to the chandelier, and back at her nails. When she was tired of peeling her own skin, she went back to the walls and continued peeling away the layers of the house.

  “807 Friends Way, Rockaway City,” she mumbled, over and over.

  We walked across the beach, like we did every morning. I walked next to her instead of behind now. She could feel me by her side. I could see her glance at where my feet would have been. We searched for whole shells; the low tide finally exposed the little treasures, layers of waves peeling back, and unveiling fresh finds.

  She eyed a whole sand dollar. She picked up the circle and stared at it. There was only a small crack down the middle. Then she looked to her bandaged hand and threw the shell back into the ocean.

  “What are you really looking for?” I asked.

  She shrugged and picked up an average rock. She pretended to examine it and chucked it in the water after she was done. We walked to our bench. She pulled the sweater around her, and we watched the tide come back in. She fiddled with the broken shells in her pocket. Her kids called her monthly, each one doing their duty of “checking in.” Five calls just weren’t enough for her, but she didn’t know that.

  “Do you know what day it is?”

  “No.” She looked for her phone, but she didn’t have it and chose not to remember she forgot where it was.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Her summer tan was already faded, and the leaves turned yellow. Her hair was probably longer now, but I hadn’t seen it down in weeks. Maybe months? Did I know what day it was?

  She fumbled with the shells, trying to remember why she picked up the broken pieces. She threw one in the water.

  “Tell me about Jerry,” I tempted her.

  “He lived a good life. A full one. He was happy.”

  “And?”

  “He was everything, my high school sweetheart.” She threw a shell into the ocean. “Married when we were barely twenty.” She threw another. “I was a teacher while we tried for babies. Lord, that took, what? A decade. But they came in their own time.” She threw another shell into the waves. “Then he worked, I mothered, and we never left that little town. And when the kids left, it didn’t feel the same, so we got this place.” She threw another broken shard. “But he left me, and I’m all alone, and I don’t know who I am.” She threw the fistful of bleached shells back where they came from.

  “I understand.”

  She pursed her lips. “What’s your name?”

  “I have no name,” I lied.

  “You do,” she said.

  “I go by many these days,” I confessed. “Maybe I am like you too, forgetting who I am.”

  “You’re a thief.”

  “What does Jerry look like?” I asked.

  “He has a gray beard,” she whispered.

  Had. “What did his laugh sound like? What did he smell like?”

  “You stole that from me.”

  If I had a mouth, I would have smiled.

  We walked through the crunching leaves and dead pine needles. She walked through her front door and was greeted by a crooked floor and sunset walls. She searched her wingback chair. After the floor had been finished, she took great care to place it exactly where she had originally found it, not wanting to change her view of the chandelier.

&
nbsp; She searched the kitchen, then her bedroom, with her worn mattress she had finally pulled from the storage container. It sat on the dusty floor, getting ruined. She didn’t find what she was looking for in the nest of blankets and twisted sheets, so she searched the chair again.

  “You lost it,” I reminded her.

  “I need it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not so sure he has a beard; I need a picture.”

  We searched for the rest of the evening. And when she sat in her chair and stared at the chandelier, I approached with my deal. “I can help you remember,” I lied.

  “How?”

  “An exchange, goods and services for a crisp dollar.”

  “Jerry used to say that.”

  “See? Already remembering.”

  “Did he have a beard?” she asked.

  “Maybe. You need to find out.”

  “Where is my phone?”

  “Why do you need it? To look up pictures and pretend to remember? What happens when you forget who the man in the picture is?”

  She stared at the chandelier. Dust floated down and settled on the floor. There was still blood in the cracks of the new laminate.

  “The dust can look like snowflakes, see?” I said, and her eyes followed a spec down from the ceiling. It landed in her lap. “Winter is coming.”

  She was out of her chair in a flash, and I was on her heels, chasing her down the path, beyond the beach and to our bench. She sat as still as before. Her hand fell to her side, letting the wildflowers and lavender brush up against her fingers. “These aren’t my favorite. I love tulips.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said.

  “I smell tulips in the air,” she said as we walked back to the house.

  I think I smelled them too.

  She had just sat in her wingback chair when the phone in her pocket rang.

  “Hello,” she answered.

  “Hey Mom,” Auggie said.

  “Oh hi! How are things going for you, eating all that chocolate?”

  “I’m not in Germany anymore, remember? Moved bases and I’m in Japan, but June is there, remember? In France? Teaching.”

  “Right, right, I got the chocolates from June, but for some reason, I think they come from you still,” she lied. She looked to the top of the fridge where she hid the half empty box of chocolate truffles.

  “It’s okay, I just wanted to call and check-in. Couldn’t sleep so I figured it was meant to be, time changes and all.”

  The woman walked to the refrigerator and reached her hand up, blindly searching for the box. “Well, that’s mighty thoughtful. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, how’s the house? Haven’t gotten many updates lately.”

  I could see her searching her mind, what was left of it, and coming up with some excuse. Something, anything to say. Her face was pure panic. “Oh, it’s coming along, much slower than I thought it would, but I’m enjoying the process.”

  “Have new friends in that little town of yours?”

  “A few,” she lied again and glanced at the chandelier, pulling her hand from the top of the fridge. She looked around the counters, scanning for the box of chocolates. She wouldn’t find any.

  “I’m sorry we can’t make it this year.” He sighed a long, drawn out breath, like he had been holding it the whole conversation. “I know June is pretty bummed too.”

  “No, no, no,” the woman said, frantically scribbling a note on the wall. “I understand. The house really isn’t fit for guests anyways. The kids would be bored too.”

  “It’s just, we said we could make it last year and couldn’t. This will be the second Christmas alone in that house for you.”

  Second? Had it really been that long?

  The woman bit her lip. It looked like it was news to her too.

  “I have some old friends I spend my time with now, relax. You worry too much. This house—this project, it has been good for me.” She scowled at the walls, trying to find me.

  Auggie laughed. “Call June, I know she’s feeling bad, but they’re working her hard at the university over there.”

  “Will do,” the woman said, scribbling another note in pencil across the wall.

  He said some other things, but she missed it, trying to get all her notes down before he hung up. When he did, she stared at her ledger.

  No Christmas last year, call June. Chocolates? No Christmas this year.

  She pulled out her phone, stared at the screen, and set it back down. She looked at the other notes, scribbled on the walls in pencil. “Chocolates? Who stole my chocolate?”

  She continued searching for the missing package. She had a television and a stand for it now, which she searched top to bottom. Nothing. She searched her bedroom, mattress on the floor, only to give up when she forgot what she was looking for.

  I followed her throughout the house, enjoying her nerves, and enjoying it even more when she forgot why she was nervous.

  “I know you’re the one stealing my chocolates,” she said.

  “How can you know that?” I asked.

  “Who else is here?”

  “Just us, I suppose,” I whispered.

  She stared at the scar on her hand. “You know, I don’t really remember what they look like?” She almost laughed. I could tell when a laugh got stuck in her throat.

  “What would you like to remember?”

  “That is like asking a child where they lost their favorite toy.”

  “And yet, they always have an answer.”

  “I want to remember what he looks like,” she said.

  “Done.”

  “I still don’t remember. Did he have a beard?” She picked at the scabs on her hands, making little red rivers over them. The blood trickled down her fingers, then she wiped them on her pants. She created sunsets wherever she went.

  “You will see,” I lied. “Just go about your day. It will all come to you.”

  Her eyes darted from shadow to shadow. She saw me in some; she saw Jerry in some. She trudged the steps upstairs, not bothering to give a glance at the chandelier. She washed the grime from her cuts and shed her clothes on the bathroom floor. She filled the tub with water and dipped her tired bones in. She sat in the warmth until it sapped the cold from her. She heard the voices downstairs, and she had finally decided to muster the strength to stand.

  Her eyes lit up; she stole a glance of herself in the mirror from the tub. She wetted her hair with the soapy water and frowned. She ran her fingers through the thin strands and frowned again.

  “Just a minute,” she yelled, and her excitement grew. I could see it in her quick breathing. She wrapped the towel around herself and frantically searched the sparse drawers, slicing her palm open on a sharp nail in the closet. She dabbed on some amber liquid and ran her fingers through her hair again, fresh streaks of blood coated some of the white strands. She cursed and wiped a towel over the open cuts. They refused to close.

  “I’ll be right down,” she called again.

  The voice grew louder, deep and rumbling. Others joined in. He used to have guests over quite often and unexpectedly. I suppose she assumed it was the same situation. She trotted to her room and searched the small closet. She wrote a note on the wall with the pencil she kept on the only little table in the room.

  Fix closet door hinge.

  She scribbled it under the other running list of to-dos and to remember. She searched the few clothes hanging and opted for the only dress hanging, black, with worn spots on the knees. She checked her list. No notes about the dress, so she stepped into it and did her best to zip it herself. She sat on the end of the bed, listening to the voices below her.

  I waited for her to descend the steps, but she didn’t. Instead, she stayed still, like a statue and listened. She fell back, and her eyes fluttered closed, falling asleep to voices echoing below her.

  The memories flooded her brain through the night, and I didn’t feel bad about giving her ones she never asked fo
r.

  THE WOMAN

  I was lying on the old mattress and a mass of blankets on the floor. I stretched my arms out, looking for the body that should have been next to me. Even after these months, I expected him to be here. Or was it years? The edges of the bed were cold and, once again, I was thrust into a sea of isolation. He should have been there. But he wasn’t. They should be here, but they can’t.

  My right hand still had a towel over it, stuck to the top with dried blood. Glue. I peeled away the dirty towel and stared at the lines. Splinters jutted out. I rubbed my head, a constant hangover without the pleasure of the journey. I rubbed my eyes and stood. I found myself in my funeral dress. It was supposed to be rags by now. I tore it off and threw it against the wall. I stood in the cold room with just my socks on, and I felt a new shame wash over me.

  But I didn’t know why.

  I dressed in my jeans and sweater and made my way to the bathroom, where I went through my own little routine of brushing my teeth and washing my face. I tried not to worry about the state of my mangy hair.

  “You never had to worry about it,” it told me.

  “Shut up.” It did. After a moment I said, “You lie.”

  “Did I? Or did you forget again?” it asked.

  I hated that shadow.

  “Then why do you talk to me?”

  It mocked me. “Shut up,” I said. It listened to me.

  “No, I didn’t,” it said.

  “SHUT UP!”

  The phone rang. I searched for it, eventually finding it under the clawfoot bathtub, still full of soap and grime. I reached my hand in the cold water and watched it drain. Flecks of dried blood being sucked away.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey!” I said. “June?” I just to make sure.

  “Yeah,” she laughed, and it made my heart jump into my throat.

  “I miss you,” I blurted out. I tried not to sound too needy, but it was hard.

  “Miss you too. Look, it’s pretty late over here, but I just found out and wanted to let you know. I can call back, and we can go talk about it more later.”