| Author: |
Melanie jo Watts |
| Dated: |
Friday, September 24 2004 @ 04:13 PM EDT |
| Viewed: |
2993 times |
|
On impulse I drive up the hill, away from the malls, the convenience stores and boutiques.
Beauty salons are in every strip mall. Every urban woman needs to get her hair done, nails painted, feet massaged, skin buffed. Beauty is an obligation.
That was my former life.
My hair has outgrown its perfect coif, unruly strands fall into my eyes every time I lean over. For the first time in my life I have dirt under my nails. They are unpolished, naked. This isn't something I had planned.
The light changes. I guide the SUV up another hill. Gosh the view up here is fabulous. I could get used to this. The houses are all brand new. Thin sticks of young flowering crab apples, may trees and mountain ash stand in the front gardens. Young mothers push strollers, toddlers in tow, out enjoying the sunshine. I gear down as the road gets steeper, make a mental note to sell this old thing. It’s too big anyhow, now that I’m on my own.
Built along the ridge is a series of condominiums and apartments, some are recently inhabited, others are still being built. Feeling excited I find a parking spot.
The office is in a small trailer; several people stand outside drinking coffee and smoking. A map is set up on a stand. Nobody deigns to notice me. I feel myself shrink inside my clothes. Before I can decide to get back into my car, a voice at my shoulder asks, "Can I help?" I turn towards the voice. The speaker is young, male, tall, dark, dressed in oversized running shoes, baggy jeans, white t-shirt, baseball cap worn at an angle. I blink. He could almost be Barry, my youngest,.
“Hi my name is Miles,” he holds out his hand. “What kind of place are you looking for?”
“Something with a view,” I say.
He shows me a three ring binder with sample floor plans. I scrutinize the drawings and remember the other time I had done this. Then, twenty-five years ago, I was pregnant with Linda, the first one. Gosh have we really lived in that house that long? I blink the tears out of my eyes. Back then I had been concerned with bedrooms. The more, the better. I turn my head, pretending interest in the view.
I follow Miles up a staircase, which runs alongside the rock jutting out of the hill. Why can’t I stop feeling like this? “Most of these are taken”, says Miles, “but there are a few you might be interested in.”
The first one we look at is built on three levels, attic bedroom, living space and kitchen. The bottom floor has a laundry and a sort of other space, which could be used as an extra bedroom, den or office. The huge windows, facing south, rise up through the main space creating a wall of light.
“I could stand here forever looking at this view,” I tell Miles and I mean it. Everything is made of wood, stairways, floors, walls, ceiling and window lintels.
The next condo is built into the corner. The view continues almost two hundred and seventy degrees around. “With all this light it would be impossible to feel sad,” I remark. I take my handkerchief out of my pocket and blow my nose loudly.
A short open staircase leads up to the bedroom and bathroom. “No provisions for guests in this suite,” says Miles. We tramp around the entire compound even looking at some suites still in the first stages of construction. “These are being snapped up fast,” says Miles, if you want one with a view you will have to be quick. I nod. After the tour I get his card. “Phone me if you have any questions”. He smiles as I shake his hand. I drive the SUV back down the hill.
When we first moved here the hill had been covered in bushes and trees. Love struck teenagers came for the view, a romantic kiss and grope in the back of their father’s SUV. We bought a house in an upscale neighbourhood near the university. Steve walked to his job and sometimes came home for lunch. We soon had four children. My days were a happy chaos of baking, gardening, diapers, housework, ballet lessons and soccer.
When the kids got older I took up painting, yoga, quilting and other things I could do at home. Someone needed to keep the house clean, cook the meals and drive the children to their various activities.
One by one the children left for university or jobs in different towns. Even though I was needed less I clung to my routines. I repainted the inside of the house room by room, recovered the living room furniture, and made new curtains. I never noticed my relationship with Steve was changing. He didn't care about the renovations. We barely did anything together and our embraces were nothing more than perfunctory. He became chair of the History department. I put down the late evenings and the Saturday mornings he spent at the University to the extra work his new position required. Then one day he didn't come home at all.
For two years I was immobilized by my inadequacies, some mornings I could barely get out of bed. I lost almost forty pounds without even trying. Recently, I began to realize this couldn’t go on. I need to get on with my life, what’s left of it.
I start driving mindlessly around the city at all hours of the day and night. It’s something to do and offers a change of scene from the four walls of my house.
Inside my massive house, I now notice how dark it is. The tall pine trees, I once admired for their screening purposes, block out the sunlight. The many layered extravagant curtains hanging at all the windows contribute to the sense of gloom.
After the sunny spaciousness in the condos my house feels cluttered and messy. Every ornament, every piece of furniture, shelves of books, closets stuffed with clothes are full of history, our history. I know when and how I acquired all of it.
To my surprise the thought of doing without all this stuff no longer bothers me. It's time to start a new life, I tell myself.
I resolve not to cry anymore. Going downstairs to the den I pulled all the albums out of the bottom shelf. Twenty-eight albums chronicle our life in this house. I stack them in a pile by date, oldest on top. I open the cover of the first one. It contains our wedding day pictures. Little pockets attach to the front and back covers hold cards from well meaning relatives and friends. One of the cards is a cartoon of a man and a woman holding hands. Underneath the picture, in flowing script, are the words, “and they lived happily ever after.” I slam the book shut.
Steve used to manage all the financial aspects of our marriage. Together, we worked out an allowance for housekeeping, clothes, entertainment and gifts. I accepted his leadership, involving him in all my decisions.
We met at university. After I graduated we got married. I worked for a while in a government office until he completed his PhD. Then we started our family. It was all I ever wanted. It was all he ever wanted, or so I thought. When he said he couldn't live with me anymore I didn't believe him, even after he moved out.
The next album had photos of me pregnant, Steve and I in front of our new house, our first car, our new baby and the family under the Christmas tree. Each scene told the story of our life, but it wasn't complete. The new stage of my life hadn't been recorded.
I rummage through the cupboards looking for the digital camera Steve bought three years ago. At the time I had no interest in it. I was happy with my old Pentax, a graduation present from my father. Experimentally, I now take a picture of the kitchen. Fiddling with the buttons and reading the helpful instructions on its tiny screen, I see the picture I have just taken. Then, I start taking pictures of everything: my collection of pottery on the shelf above the counter, the framed picture Linda painted when she was six, the bed with its hand quilted duvet cover which took me almost two years to finish. I snap a photo of the house and the sandbox at the bottom of the garden beneath the shade of the ancient Pines. I never had the heart to get rid of the sandbox. I think I was waiting for the day when grandchildren would reclaim it.
Eventually I have taken all the photos the camera will hold. I know I can put them on the computer and start all over again, but I don't know how to do that. I put the camera next to the computer. Later.
The house is a big family style rancher, six bedrooms if you count the two downstairs. There are three bathrooms, a large eat in kitchen, large living room, laundry room, TV room, deck and a very nice private fenced back yard. Surely, I think, some other family will love it as much as we have. If I sell it, then what’ll I do with all this furniture?
Two days later I drive back up the hill. The headiness I feel lasts until I park the car. I almost leave again, but Miles comes towards me his infectious smile stretching out his face. I tell him I want the apartment with the huge south windows.
His enthusiasm gives me confidence. I put the house up for sale.
In the new place I put the mattress and sleeping bag in the center of the bedroom. Put the kettle and tiny toaster oven on the counter in the kitchen. All the sunlight makes me feel light hearted, happy. I twirl around on the wood floor and think, “this is my place.”
I bring over the food from the other house and some of my clothes. I leave behind the polyester pants, faded t-shirts, stretched out sweaters, scuffed slippers and running shoes, vestiges of the old life. I take Linda’s painting, the computer and all the manuals. I resolve to learn how to use it.
Every time I go back I feel less attached to the place and the stuff in it. I’m able to go through everything objectively, and make a decision about its fate.
Miles drops by the apartment with a welcome gift basket another fellow, Jack, comes by to welcome me to the community, he invites me to the strata meeting. I take the card on which is written the time and date "Thank you," I smile. Inwardly, I tell myself I won't go; Steve always did things like this.
On one of my mad rushes back to the house I meet up with Betty and Miranda. They are out walking their dogs. The old life comes crashing back to me. Their children grew up with mine. We used to carpool for hockey practice, dancing lessons and Brownies. Before Steve left we often got together for dinner, drinks out on the terrace and backyard barbecues.
“Stacey you look really good,” says Betty. I’m much more conscious of her bulk now that I’ve lost mine. She’s a short woman, dyed mousy blond hair and quick blue eyes which don’t miss a thing. Her dog, a Terrier, barks constantly. “Your house is for sale. Where are you going?” she asks.
Miranda is slightly taller, but just as chunky. Her dog, a black lab, is placid and calm just like she is. Sometimes I have the feeling it would take a bomb to rouse her.
It’s been over two years since I’ve seen them. I’m surprised to find myself wishing they would go away. “I’m leaving town,” I tell them. Suddenly I don’t want them in my life anymore.
“We’re going to the mall. Do you want to come?” I shake my head.
“I’ve got a lot to do,” I say not untruthfully, “a lot of unpacking.” As I watch them continue down the street I feel a stab of regret, I decide to go to the strata council meeting.
The house sells for an unimaginable price, twice what we originally paid. That night, after signing the final papers, I cry for a long time. I've erased my life and all I have left are a few photo albums, pictures drawn by the children, some pieces of pottery and a computer I don't even know how to use. For the first time since starting this enterprise, I begin to have doubts. I spend a sleepless night with the blinds open, city lights spread out below.
The next day Linda phones. “Mum where are you?” She sounds anxious. I realized I’ve forgotten to tell the children where I am, what I’m doing and whom I’m doing it with. One by one they come up the hill to see my new place. They all approve; they seem relieved.
One day I get a phone call from Steve’s lawyer. I fill him in on what I have been doing. He seems a little surprised by my initiative. I agree to a meeting with Steve, in his office.
I buy a new outfit for the meeting. I spend all day in the stores trying things on, discarding and trying on more things, jeans, stretch pants and nice cotton blouses made with a bit of spandex so that they cling in all the right places. Now that I’m slimmer I no longer have to hide beneath bulky layers of elastic waist pants, long shirts and big sweaters. The sales girls are very helpful and I enjoy myself. I don’t worry about the bill. I deserve this, I tell myself.
As I drive up the hill away from the mall, on impulse I turn into a beauty salon within walking distance of my new home. I think I’ll have my nails done.
|
|
 |
|
realistic and well written.