Chapter 3 #4
None of it had felt like a compromise. At least, not at the time.
Still, I couldn’t ignore how much my life had narrowed with each decision, taking all my possible futures with it.
The magic behind every one of my dreams felt dimmed, like it had only existed because my grandmother took the time to stoke it.
Then, when she died, it was gone completely.
I push back the thought before any tears reemerge, and begin to explore the living room.
The low bookcase opposite the sofa is filled to the brim with titles I recognize, including my well-loved hardcover of Jane Eyre that I found on Zuma Beach when I was twelve.
There’s one of my grandmother’s crystals, too, a jagged chunk of rose quartz she used to keep by the front door.
And there’s the 35 mm camera she gave me on my thirteenth birthday.
It still has the green-and-white floral strap she embroidered to go with it.
Next to it is a framed picture of the woman herself: my grandmother, Cynthia Aldridge.
Wisps of her long white hair falling along her cheeks, the corners of her blue eyes creased, thanks to a small, warm smile.
It’s one of the last photos I took of her, from when I visited her at her assisted-living facility after work one day.
I didn’t normally stop by during the week, but I’d had my first date with Matt the night before and wanted to talk to her about it.
I needed to. Back in high school, I told her about all my first dates.
My crushes, my heartbreaks, everything. She had been my grandmother, my parent, and my best friend, all wrapped up in a five-foot-two, caftan-wearing ball of light.
But when I walked into her room that day, she didn’t even know who I was.
I still stayed for a while. I told her about the date, about work, about a thousand other insignificant things. And just before I left, she smiled. So familiar and so beautiful, I had to take a picture.
Looking at it, such a comforting reminder of home, is when it truly hits me: This is my apartment. A strange place in a strange city, and I’m here all on my own.
Tears prick my eyes, and this time I’m tempted to just give myself over to it. Collapse into a puddle here in the middle of this unfamiliar but still very pretty rug, and fully embrace my wallowing. Or I could do what I usually do when I’m feeling sorry for myself: make a cup of tea.
The red Crocs scrape across the hardwood as I shuffle to the kitchen.
There’s a half-eaten piece of toast still sitting on a plate by the sink and a corkboard hanging next to the fridge, crowded with notes and pictures.
A grocery list in my handwriting. An envelope with PHOTO-RAMA printed across it and a roll of 35 mm film stuffed inside.
A receipt from a bookstore I’ve never heard of.
A piece of red-and-white string that I don’t remember at all.
Is this what it’s like for people with split personalities? Does one go about their daily life, keeping notes and mementos along the way, only to have another personality emerge who has to start at square one, piecing together their past with what’s been left behind?
A kettle sits on the narrow stovetop, and the cabinet above it is full of an eclectic mix of mugs.
But when I reach for the box of tea bags beside them, it’s empty.
In fact, there’s not much food on the shelves at all.
It’s the same in the refrigerator. All that I can find are two tubs of yogurt and some milk, and it’s all expired.
I’m so frustrated, I almost miss the blur of motion in my periphery.
Almost.
I turn just enough to look back out to the center of the living room.
The faint sound of a car horn echoes from outside, but here in the apartment, everything is quiet and still.
I let out a deep breath, and after another minute, I almost convince myself that I’ve imagined it, that it was another lingering effect of the brain injury.
But then I hear a faint noise, see another faint twitch of movement.
A small, round furry thing on my Persian rug.
A mouse.
As soon as I make eye contact with him, he runs.
To where, I have no idea. All I can do is scream as I stumble backward, fling open the front door, and throw myself into the hallway.
It’s only after I slam it shut behind me that I notice the man already standing out there.
He has a worn leather bag over one shoulder, with a set of keys in one hand and a phone in the other, as if he’s just left the apartment across from mine and is about to lock the dead bolt.
Except he’s paused mid-motion, his attention on me.
I pause, too, suddenly distracted by his dark hair that’s a bit too long. The stubble that hides the clean line of his jaw. And that look, the serious line of his brow as he stares at me like he’s annoyed. Or maybe that’s concern?
I know you, I want to say. But how? Then some rusty gear in my brain lurches into place.
Doctor Sweater.