"Still Life” by Brenda Suhan
“For she was the maker of the song she sang.”
– “The Idea of Order at Key West” by Wallace Stevens
You traveled to that moment every morning before you opened your eyes: the sterile white room, your own animalistic sobs, and the way his grey eyes drooped beneath the weight of his brows.
“Dammit, Faith, come on!” Chelsea said, shaking your shoulder. “We’re late for Psych again!”
You rolled over, accustomed to – sometimes even endeared by – Chelsea’s brazenness after living with her the last couple of years. You rubbed your shoulders as you pulled yourself up from the bed, slid into your loosest pair of skinny jeans, and threw on a baggy grey sweater.
As you lagged behind Chelsea on the way to Jones Lecture Hall, you shifted your eyes to the dilapidated church down the street. It had always reminded you of your childhood home, with its crumbling dull brown stone, uneven roof, and cobblestone walkway shadowed by weeds competing for space out of every crack. Your mother had thought the little cottage on Lake Michigan had “character,” but your father had always hated it. Your mother had kept the cottage after the divorce, probably out of spite more than anything, and she had sold it only after you left for college. You missed the way things used to be when you had all lived in that cottage together. You had always thought that someday you would raise a family in that house, too. One time last September, you had snuck into that abandoned church, in a futile attempt to regain that youthful hope.
Your eyes blinked in confusion as they caught sight of the tattered black and red Trailblazers sweatshirt you had worn to bed for nearly three years in your left peripheral view. Your heart sank into that hole deep in your ribs that you had longed to forget. You felt the tremor starting from your ears and tumbling down to your toes. Chelsea had always described him as “a horse with blinders on,” and sure enough, he was staring intently at his phone.
“What the hell is Grayson doing here? The point of graduating is that you leave,” Chelsea said, pulling me closer as we neared him. “Get a job, loser,” she muttered once he had passed us.
“I don’t know,” you mused. You allowed yourself one swift backward glance, but besides the sweatshirt, nothing there was recognizable.
You went through the ritual of your day: Psych, Poetry, a turkey sandwich with an organic apple at the Feng Shui Café, British Lit, Art History, nap, feed the ducks at Kayak Park, a burger and fries at Mary’s Pub, study, shower, write, bed. This is how you had spent your days since August 13th of last year – 1 year, 2 months, and 10 days ago. Occasionally you would agree to have some wine and watch an Indie film with Chelsea and her friends, or browse the galleries of Alberta, but mostly, you preferred to stick to your schedule.
That night after Mary’s, you accompanied Chelsea to the art museum for one of her projects. You brought your poetry along, hoping to get some inspiration for your next assignment: “Emotion through Imagery.” Chelsea sat down in front of a nude Roman sculpture and started scribbling away, while you wandered around, trying to find a good spot to concentrate.
As you browsed the walls of mythological and religious and political art, a pointillism painting caught your eye. Le Bec du Hoc, Grandcamp, read the plaque to the right. You looked at the vast expanse of languid blues and greens. The isolated cliff emerged out of the water with a strength that seemed capable of enduring even the most violent of storms. You sat down on the leather bench ten feet away and jotted a few lines. Then you stood up and leaned in as close to the painting as you could without setting off a security alarm, squinting your eyes in concentration to see every tiny dot of blue.
“You can kinda lose yourself in this one right here, can’t you?”
Your pen flipped out of your hand and echoed against the marble floor. You turned to see your Art History professor, a man with white, wispy hair dressed in overly ironed tan trousers and a muddy green polo shuffle up beside you. You smiled politely in his direction and bent down to pick up your pen.
“Sure would be nice to be able to sit up on that rock, just looking out at everything. Not a care in the world. No one to worry about but yourself.” Professor McKinley sighed and plunged his wrinkled hands into his pockets.
“I worry about my kids all the time. Oh, they’re grown now,” he said, pulling his right hand out of his pocket and waving it in the air as if to dismiss any confusion about his age. “But they’re still making mistakes. My girl’s in a rehab facility. Can’t seem to protect her anymore.”
“She’s still around, though, isn’t she?” you said, staring blankly at the canvas.
“Very true.” He nodded his head and then gestured toward the canvas with an arthritic finger. “You know, you have to step back if you really want to see the full picture in all its beauty.”
“I know that.”
“I’m just saying, one point doesn’t really add up to much on its own.
“I know.”
“You’d just appreciate it more if you stepped back a bit. You’d see it so much more clearly.” He took a step backward and nodded at the painting, the same nod he reserved for the most insightful answers in lecture.
You pinched your lips together and closed your eyes for just a moment, then turned and strode out of the room.
Chelsea appeared from the archway to the left.
“Hey! I got all the notes I needed,” she said, disrupting the still air with a wave of her notebook. “You wanna stay and work some more?”
“No, that’s okay. I think I’ll focus better back in the room.”
Early the next morning after making the final tweaks to your poem, you nudged the door shut so as not to wake Chelsea and slid underneath the sheets, your nightmares tucking you in for bed – bloody hospital beds, tear-soaked pillows, and sweat-soaked gowns. You couldn’t decide if they were torture or therapy, these images that swam through your mind every night. Only five hours until your 9 a.m. You’d be okay.
“BRING HER BACK!” you heard your mouth say, but you opened your eyes to find yourself lying on top of a bare white mattress, the navy sheets rippling over the edge of the bed.
“Jesus, Faith! What the hell!” Chelsea’s head jolted up from her pillow.
“Sorry, bad dream I guess.”
“Again? This talking in your sleep shit is getting ridiculous. We both need sleep,” Chelsea said. Her green eyes softened in the streams of city light piercing through the blinds.
“Sorry.”
You saw her eyebrows furrow. Her face was etched in thought, as if she was about to say something particularly insightful. And then her face relaxed.
“It’s fine, I just have an exam tomorrow.” She rolled over toward the wall. “Night.”
“Night, Chelsea.”
You awoke at 8:40 and went through the ritual of your day: Psych, Poetry, a turkey sandwich with an organic apple at the Feng Shui Café, British Lit, Art History, nap, feed the ducks at Kayak Park, a burger and fries at Mary’s Pub, study, shower, write, bed. You awaited your nocturnal haunting; only sleep didn’t come. The hours passed, and you stared out the window, watching the sun creep over the geometric Portland skyline. You imagined taking a pair of scissors, cutting out the entire city, and then gluing it back in its place against the sky again. Your alarm chimed on schedule at 8:40, but you hit snooze. You could watch the sun curve from east to west all day. And that’s what you did, admiring the way the sun grazed the tops of the buildings in its predictable arc. You didn’t care that you were missing the lecture on Freud or the works of Sylvia Plath, or the bland turkey sandwich, or the biography of Jane Austen, or the brushstrokes of Monet. You didn’t care that the ducks would waddle around the shore missing your predictable breadcrumbs. You just didn’t care. You could watch the sun curve from east to west till you died. When Chelsea returned from class, you told her it was just a bad cold. She raised an eyebrow. She knew.
You managed to get out of bed and go to class the next day, though still in an oneiric haze. It was Friday, and by the time you walked into your Art History class that afternoon, you could hear exchanged whispers throughout campus of the parties happening that night. But you – you were satisfied just sitting in your usual spot in the second row by the window where the beams of sunlight half blinded you as you listened to Professor McKinley’s soft voice drown out your thoughts.
You watched as Professor McKinley drew and labeled two intersecting circles on the chalkboard.
“Art,” he said, pointing with the chalk to the word he wrote above the first circle, “and mental illness.” The chalk echoed against the board as he tapped the spot between the words and the second circle.
“Van Gogh created some grand masterpieces, even through his struggle with depression. Some pretty remarkable stuff,” Professor McKinley said. “My question for you all is, what purpose might his art have served, if any? Was it just for him? For politics? Or for others, as well?”
Not one person in the room of fifty spoke. You looked around the room and then tilted your arm upward. Professor McKinley smiled widely and nodded in your direction.
“Yes, Ms. Alexander, what do you think?”
“Well, doesn’t it make sense? I mean, obviously he’s searching for some meaning. His work gives him a way to escape reality, or maybe even to dwell on it sometimes. It’s a kind of coping mechanism.”
“Very good.” He plunged his left hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “That could very well be a possibility. And what might this say about van Gogh as an artist?”
“I mean, some of the best poets, authors, and painters struggled with illness and addiction. They were outcasts of their time, and their art was where they belonged. For them, it was a way of keeping order and exerting control over their lives.”
“Exactly. Wonderful insight, Ms. Alexander. Thank you,” he said, nodded and flashing a crooked smile your way. He pulled out a pair of bifocals from his chest pocket and looked down at his watch. “Well on that note, we will continue with van Gogh on Monday. Don’t forget – your synthesis papers are due promptly at the beginning of class on Monday. Have a great weekend everyone.” You could’ve sworn he looked in your direction, his face etched with the same lines as Chelsea’s when you awoke from your nightmare earlier that week.
You slung your leather bag over one shoulder before the rest of class had packed away their notebooks and pens, and headed west away from campus. You approached the corner of 5th and Jackson and pushed open the rotting, creaky door of Mullin’s Café, where you and Chelsea met weekly for coffee.
“The usual, Faith?”
“Yeah, thanks,” you said to the barista as you walked toward the fireplace where Chelsea was sitting, already sipping her latte.
“Feeling better?” she asked as you sat down.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said with a half-hearted smile.
“Made it before you even walked in. White caramel mocha with soy, extra foam. Or maybe I should rename it the ‘Faith Special,’” said the barista. She winked and slid the mug between you and Chelsea, her pale tattooed arm creating a barricade between Chelsea’s eyes and yours.
You took a sip from the nearly overflowing mug, concentrating on the white foam inching toward the tip of your nose. You felt the intensity of Chelsea’s green-eyed gaze. You made that sip last as long as possible.
“I’ve seen you like this before,” Chelsea said as you looked up from the mug. “I’m sure you remember that time. Honestly, Faith, I’m worried.”
“You don’t have to worry, I’m doing fine. Really.” You slowly took a gulp.
“Dammit, Faith – you’re not doing fine!” Chelsea said, slamming her mug down so that drops flew out onto the table. Her voice dropped as she said, “You weren’t the only one who lost something that day, you know.”
You stared past Chelsea’s shoulder toward the door. The sun made a halo just above the trees now.
Chelsea leaned in closer toward you across the table, her split ends absorbing the drops of coffee on the table. “I think you need to go back to Dr. Morris. You were doing so much better and then after Grayson and you . . . well, you just stopped going.” She reached across the table and squeezed your hand. You’d be okay.
“Can we talk about this later? I completely forgot I have an online assignment for lit due at 7.” You retracted your hand from beneath hers, stood up, swung your bag over your shoulder, and pushed through the door before she could answer, leaving your half empty mug on the table still exhaling wisps of steam.
You wandered around the side streets of campus, hands tucked into your sweatshirt pouch, protected from the autumn breeze. You decided to visit the ducks before the sun’s final light was lost. All of them were huddled against the wind in pairs. You would see them floating down the river together, side by side, every time you came to the park. This time you noticed one duck, a female, nestled near the bridge. Beside her were five ducklings no more than the size of a man’s palm. Your thoughts ebbed and flowed with the river as you watched the baby ducks bob up and down.
“What about . . . Frida!” Chelsea’s eyes had glowed in the way they always did when she got excited.
“Frida? If we’re going for painters, at least go with Georgia,” you had said, laughing.
“Frida was such a badass! A little crazy, but a badass,” said Chelsea, swiveling back and forth in the 1950s-style red barstool next to you.
“I like Silvia,” you had said.
“Pshh! Speaking of crazy!”
You had rolled your eyes. “Ok, then. How about Virginia? That’s one of my favorites.”
“I like Maya better.”
“Chelsea, this is important. I only have a few weeks left, and I’m not even close to making a decision.”
“I know! That’s why we need to think of some powerful, influential women here! Now come on, think.”
“Alright, how about Chelsea then?”
Chelsea collapsed onto the bar cackling as you struggled to swallow your chocolate milkshake between bursts of laughter.
You wiped your hand under your eye to catch a tear, but it slipped from your eyelash and plopped into the black water below. You’d be okay. You dropped a few pieces of stale bread over the bridge near the mother duck and then turned back toward campus. You returned to your room only when you were certain Chelsea was already in bed and slipped into a restless sleep.
When you awoke at noon the next day, Chelsea was nowhere to be found. You noticed a pink Post-It on your desk:
Faith –
At lunch and a movie with my mom. Keep your head up & call me if you need to talk. Bought you this yesterday at a bookstore downtown.
Love,
C
You stuck the note on the edge of the bookshelf above your desk and picked up the book: The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. You opened the scuffed cover gingerly and scanned the index, smiling as your finger reached the words you were searching for. There it was, your favorite: “The Idea of Order at Key West.” Sitting down at your desk, you flipped through the yellowing pages.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
You dog eared the page, slid the book onto your top shelf between Sexton and Wheeler Wilcox, and turned toward the window, peering between the blinds. The sun seemed unreachable today, wrapped up in wisps of fog like the bandaged arm you had “accidentally” sliced with the slip of a paring knife several months earlier. You opened your closet door to pick out something to wear, weighing the chances of being caught in the rain on your way to get lunch. Looking for your green rain jacket, you rifled through your hangers one by one. You dragged out your dad’s old beat-up footlocker from the back of the closet and started digging through scarves and old sweatshirts – and then you froze. Beneath the jacket folded neatly in quarters rested the tiny pink blanket Grayson’s mom had knitted.
You felt the tremor starting from your ears and tumbling down to your toes. You snatched the blanket, heavy in your hands. Stared at it. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. You forced the jammed window open. Punched out the bottom of the screen. Flung the blanket out the hole. Tumbling down into the parking lot. Down. Down. Down. The fog concealed it now. But you knew it was still there, below your window. Your chest heaved. The room faded around you. As if the fog had seeped through the window, invading. You allowed your body to be dragged down on the bed. Down. You sheltered yourself from the world. A cocoon of Egyptian cotton. You’d be okay.
The shallow light soon dimmed to blackness. You heard the clink of the lock opening outside the cocoon. You pretended you were sleeping. You heard the puckering of Chelsea’s lips as she put on her signature red lipstick. Heard the zip of her signature leather boots. Heard her keys scrape across the surface of the dresser as she swiped her wallet. Click. The door closed. You emerged and watched the moon cast a spotlight on the train of giggling girls from your window. They hung onto the arm of some guy they had just met. Stumbled from party to party. An empty feeling flooded your chest. You crawled down off your bed. Down. Down. Down. You walked toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. One two three four five six seven. Next flight of stairs. Up. Up. Up. You walked up to the 9th floor. Turned left. You knew you’d find the emergency stairs. You wouldn’t set off an alarm as you opened the door. You walked up the stairs and out a second door. The chilly wind blew your hair behind you. The tremor started from your ears and tumbled down to your toes. A gust of wind pushed you backward. It said, “Stop!” But you couldn’t. Chelsea wasn’t here to hold you back this time. You paused at the west edge of the building and gazed down at the parking lot. A pink square wrestled with the wind. It snagged on the branch of a young ash. Beneath the glow of the orange streetlight. These were the only things you saw.
You traveled to that moment once again. The sterile white room. Your own animalistic sobs. The way his grey eyes drooped beneath the weight of his brows. 1 year. 2 months. 14 days. You were there again. Pushing through tears as you clenched Grayson’s shaking hand. Watching as the doctor held the small, fragile body. Blue fingers and toes hanging limply over his arms. He carried it out of sight. Seeing Grayson turn away so you wouldn’t see his face. Seeing your sweat soaked hand let go of his. Clutching your chest as you attempted to breathe. Seeing Chelsea’s panicked expression as the door swung open. And now. Now directly below the toes of your slippers you saw the pink blanket. You saw the dog-eared corner of “The Idea of Order at Key West.” The torn, yellowing page crumpled in your right fist. You saw your feet leave the brick. You saw a beam of moonlight reach down. Tried and failed to lift you back up as your eyes shut. Up. No, down. Down. Down. You saw a stillbirth. And then a still life. And now, a still death.
“For she was the maker of the song she sang.”
– “The Idea of Order at Key West” by Wallace Stevens
You traveled to that moment every morning before you opened your eyes: the sterile white room, your own animalistic sobs, and the way his grey eyes drooped beneath the weight of his brows.
“Dammit, Faith, come on!” Chelsea said, shaking your shoulder. “We’re late for Psych again!”
You rolled over, accustomed to – sometimes even endeared by – Chelsea’s brazenness after living with her the last couple of years. You rubbed your shoulders as you pulled yourself up from the bed, slid into your loosest pair of skinny jeans, and threw on a baggy grey sweater.
As you lagged behind Chelsea on the way to Jones Lecture Hall, you shifted your eyes to the dilapidated church down the street. It had always reminded you of your childhood home, with its crumbling dull brown stone, uneven roof, and cobblestone walkway shadowed by weeds competing for space out of every crack. Your mother had thought the little cottage on Lake Michigan had “character,” but your father had always hated it. Your mother had kept the cottage after the divorce, probably out of spite more than anything, and she had sold it only after you left for college. You missed the way things used to be when you had all lived in that cottage together. You had always thought that someday you would raise a family in that house, too. One time last September, you had snuck into that abandoned church, in a futile attempt to regain that youthful hope.
Your eyes blinked in confusion as they caught sight of the tattered black and red Trailblazers sweatshirt you had worn to bed for nearly three years in your left peripheral view. Your heart sank into that hole deep in your ribs that you had longed to forget. You felt the tremor starting from your ears and tumbling down to your toes. Chelsea had always described him as “a horse with blinders on,” and sure enough, he was staring intently at his phone.
“What the hell is Grayson doing here? The point of graduating is that you leave,” Chelsea said, pulling me closer as we neared him. “Get a job, loser,” she muttered once he had passed us.
“I don’t know,” you mused. You allowed yourself one swift backward glance, but besides the sweatshirt, nothing there was recognizable.
You went through the ritual of your day: Psych, Poetry, a turkey sandwich with an organic apple at the Feng Shui Café, British Lit, Art History, nap, feed the ducks at Kayak Park, a burger and fries at Mary’s Pub, study, shower, write, bed. This is how you had spent your days since August 13th of last year – 1 year, 2 months, and 10 days ago. Occasionally you would agree to have some wine and watch an Indie film with Chelsea and her friends, or browse the galleries of Alberta, but mostly, you preferred to stick to your schedule.
That night after Mary’s, you accompanied Chelsea to the art museum for one of her projects. You brought your poetry along, hoping to get some inspiration for your next assignment: “Emotion through Imagery.” Chelsea sat down in front of a nude Roman sculpture and started scribbling away, while you wandered around, trying to find a good spot to concentrate.
As you browsed the walls of mythological and religious and political art, a pointillism painting caught your eye. Le Bec du Hoc, Grandcamp, read the plaque to the right. You looked at the vast expanse of languid blues and greens. The isolated cliff emerged out of the water with a strength that seemed capable of enduring even the most violent of storms. You sat down on the leather bench ten feet away and jotted a few lines. Then you stood up and leaned in as close to the painting as you could without setting off a security alarm, squinting your eyes in concentration to see every tiny dot of blue.
“You can kinda lose yourself in this one right here, can’t you?”
Your pen flipped out of your hand and echoed against the marble floor. You turned to see your Art History professor, a man with white, wispy hair dressed in overly ironed tan trousers and a muddy green polo shuffle up beside you. You smiled politely in his direction and bent down to pick up your pen.
“Sure would be nice to be able to sit up on that rock, just looking out at everything. Not a care in the world. No one to worry about but yourself.” Professor McKinley sighed and plunged his wrinkled hands into his pockets.
“I worry about my kids all the time. Oh, they’re grown now,” he said, pulling his right hand out of his pocket and waving it in the air as if to dismiss any confusion about his age. “But they’re still making mistakes. My girl’s in a rehab facility. Can’t seem to protect her anymore.”
“She’s still around, though, isn’t she?” you said, staring blankly at the canvas.
“Very true.” He nodded his head and then gestured toward the canvas with an arthritic finger. “You know, you have to step back if you really want to see the full picture in all its beauty.”
“I know that.”
“I’m just saying, one point doesn’t really add up to much on its own.
“I know.”
“You’d just appreciate it more if you stepped back a bit. You’d see it so much more clearly.” He took a step backward and nodded at the painting, the same nod he reserved for the most insightful answers in lecture.
You pinched your lips together and closed your eyes for just a moment, then turned and strode out of the room.
Chelsea appeared from the archway to the left.
“Hey! I got all the notes I needed,” she said, disrupting the still air with a wave of her notebook. “You wanna stay and work some more?”
“No, that’s okay. I think I’ll focus better back in the room.”
Early the next morning after making the final tweaks to your poem, you nudged the door shut so as not to wake Chelsea and slid underneath the sheets, your nightmares tucking you in for bed – bloody hospital beds, tear-soaked pillows, and sweat-soaked gowns. You couldn’t decide if they were torture or therapy, these images that swam through your mind every night. Only five hours until your 9 a.m. You’d be okay.
“BRING HER BACK!” you heard your mouth say, but you opened your eyes to find yourself lying on top of a bare white mattress, the navy sheets rippling over the edge of the bed.
“Jesus, Faith! What the hell!” Chelsea’s head jolted up from her pillow.
“Sorry, bad dream I guess.”
“Again? This talking in your sleep shit is getting ridiculous. We both need sleep,” Chelsea said. Her green eyes softened in the streams of city light piercing through the blinds.
“Sorry.”
You saw her eyebrows furrow. Her face was etched in thought, as if she was about to say something particularly insightful. And then her face relaxed.
“It’s fine, I just have an exam tomorrow.” She rolled over toward the wall. “Night.”
“Night, Chelsea.”
You awoke at 8:40 and went through the ritual of your day: Psych, Poetry, a turkey sandwich with an organic apple at the Feng Shui Café, British Lit, Art History, nap, feed the ducks at Kayak Park, a burger and fries at Mary’s Pub, study, shower, write, bed. You awaited your nocturnal haunting; only sleep didn’t come. The hours passed, and you stared out the window, watching the sun creep over the geometric Portland skyline. You imagined taking a pair of scissors, cutting out the entire city, and then gluing it back in its place against the sky again. Your alarm chimed on schedule at 8:40, but you hit snooze. You could watch the sun curve from east to west all day. And that’s what you did, admiring the way the sun grazed the tops of the buildings in its predictable arc. You didn’t care that you were missing the lecture on Freud or the works of Sylvia Plath, or the bland turkey sandwich, or the biography of Jane Austen, or the brushstrokes of Monet. You didn’t care that the ducks would waddle around the shore missing your predictable breadcrumbs. You just didn’t care. You could watch the sun curve from east to west till you died. When Chelsea returned from class, you told her it was just a bad cold. She raised an eyebrow. She knew.
You managed to get out of bed and go to class the next day, though still in an oneiric haze. It was Friday, and by the time you walked into your Art History class that afternoon, you could hear exchanged whispers throughout campus of the parties happening that night. But you – you were satisfied just sitting in your usual spot in the second row by the window where the beams of sunlight half blinded you as you listened to Professor McKinley’s soft voice drown out your thoughts.
You watched as Professor McKinley drew and labeled two intersecting circles on the chalkboard.
“Art,” he said, pointing with the chalk to the word he wrote above the first circle, “and mental illness.” The chalk echoed against the board as he tapped the spot between the words and the second circle.
“Van Gogh created some grand masterpieces, even through his struggle with depression. Some pretty remarkable stuff,” Professor McKinley said. “My question for you all is, what purpose might his art have served, if any? Was it just for him? For politics? Or for others, as well?”
Not one person in the room of fifty spoke. You looked around the room and then tilted your arm upward. Professor McKinley smiled widely and nodded in your direction.
“Yes, Ms. Alexander, what do you think?”
“Well, doesn’t it make sense? I mean, obviously he’s searching for some meaning. His work gives him a way to escape reality, or maybe even to dwell on it sometimes. It’s a kind of coping mechanism.”
“Very good.” He plunged his left hand into his pocket and rocked back on his heels. “That could very well be a possibility. And what might this say about van Gogh as an artist?”
“I mean, some of the best poets, authors, and painters struggled with illness and addiction. They were outcasts of their time, and their art was where they belonged. For them, it was a way of keeping order and exerting control over their lives.”
“Exactly. Wonderful insight, Ms. Alexander. Thank you,” he said, nodded and flashing a crooked smile your way. He pulled out a pair of bifocals from his chest pocket and looked down at his watch. “Well on that note, we will continue with van Gogh on Monday. Don’t forget – your synthesis papers are due promptly at the beginning of class on Monday. Have a great weekend everyone.” You could’ve sworn he looked in your direction, his face etched with the same lines as Chelsea’s when you awoke from your nightmare earlier that week.
You slung your leather bag over one shoulder before the rest of class had packed away their notebooks and pens, and headed west away from campus. You approached the corner of 5th and Jackson and pushed open the rotting, creaky door of Mullin’s Café, where you and Chelsea met weekly for coffee.
“The usual, Faith?”
“Yeah, thanks,” you said to the barista as you walked toward the fireplace where Chelsea was sitting, already sipping her latte.
“Feeling better?” she asked as you sat down.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said with a half-hearted smile.
“Made it before you even walked in. White caramel mocha with soy, extra foam. Or maybe I should rename it the ‘Faith Special,’” said the barista. She winked and slid the mug between you and Chelsea, her pale tattooed arm creating a barricade between Chelsea’s eyes and yours.
You took a sip from the nearly overflowing mug, concentrating on the white foam inching toward the tip of your nose. You felt the intensity of Chelsea’s green-eyed gaze. You made that sip last as long as possible.
“I’ve seen you like this before,” Chelsea said as you looked up from the mug. “I’m sure you remember that time. Honestly, Faith, I’m worried.”
“You don’t have to worry, I’m doing fine. Really.” You slowly took a gulp.
“Dammit, Faith – you’re not doing fine!” Chelsea said, slamming her mug down so that drops flew out onto the table. Her voice dropped as she said, “You weren’t the only one who lost something that day, you know.”
You stared past Chelsea’s shoulder toward the door. The sun made a halo just above the trees now.
Chelsea leaned in closer toward you across the table, her split ends absorbing the drops of coffee on the table. “I think you need to go back to Dr. Morris. You were doing so much better and then after Grayson and you . . . well, you just stopped going.” She reached across the table and squeezed your hand. You’d be okay.
“Can we talk about this later? I completely forgot I have an online assignment for lit due at 7.” You retracted your hand from beneath hers, stood up, swung your bag over your shoulder, and pushed through the door before she could answer, leaving your half empty mug on the table still exhaling wisps of steam.
You wandered around the side streets of campus, hands tucked into your sweatshirt pouch, protected from the autumn breeze. You decided to visit the ducks before the sun’s final light was lost. All of them were huddled against the wind in pairs. You would see them floating down the river together, side by side, every time you came to the park. This time you noticed one duck, a female, nestled near the bridge. Beside her were five ducklings no more than the size of a man’s palm. Your thoughts ebbed and flowed with the river as you watched the baby ducks bob up and down.
“What about . . . Frida!” Chelsea’s eyes had glowed in the way they always did when she got excited.
“Frida? If we’re going for painters, at least go with Georgia,” you had said, laughing.
“Frida was such a badass! A little crazy, but a badass,” said Chelsea, swiveling back and forth in the 1950s-style red barstool next to you.
“I like Silvia,” you had said.
“Pshh! Speaking of crazy!”
You had rolled your eyes. “Ok, then. How about Virginia? That’s one of my favorites.”
“I like Maya better.”
“Chelsea, this is important. I only have a few weeks left, and I’m not even close to making a decision.”
“I know! That’s why we need to think of some powerful, influential women here! Now come on, think.”
“Alright, how about Chelsea then?”
Chelsea collapsed onto the bar cackling as you struggled to swallow your chocolate milkshake between bursts of laughter.
You wiped your hand under your eye to catch a tear, but it slipped from your eyelash and plopped into the black water below. You’d be okay. You dropped a few pieces of stale bread over the bridge near the mother duck and then turned back toward campus. You returned to your room only when you were certain Chelsea was already in bed and slipped into a restless sleep.
When you awoke at noon the next day, Chelsea was nowhere to be found. You noticed a pink Post-It on your desk:
Faith –
At lunch and a movie with my mom. Keep your head up & call me if you need to talk. Bought you this yesterday at a bookstore downtown.
Love,
C
You stuck the note on the edge of the bookshelf above your desk and picked up the book: The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens. You opened the scuffed cover gingerly and scanned the index, smiling as your finger reached the words you were searching for. There it was, your favorite: “The Idea of Order at Key West.” Sitting down at your desk, you flipped through the yellowing pages.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
You dog eared the page, slid the book onto your top shelf between Sexton and Wheeler Wilcox, and turned toward the window, peering between the blinds. The sun seemed unreachable today, wrapped up in wisps of fog like the bandaged arm you had “accidentally” sliced with the slip of a paring knife several months earlier. You opened your closet door to pick out something to wear, weighing the chances of being caught in the rain on your way to get lunch. Looking for your green rain jacket, you rifled through your hangers one by one. You dragged out your dad’s old beat-up footlocker from the back of the closet and started digging through scarves and old sweatshirts – and then you froze. Beneath the jacket folded neatly in quarters rested the tiny pink blanket Grayson’s mom had knitted.
You felt the tremor starting from your ears and tumbling down to your toes. You snatched the blanket, heavy in your hands. Stared at it. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. You forced the jammed window open. Punched out the bottom of the screen. Flung the blanket out the hole. Tumbling down into the parking lot. Down. Down. Down. The fog concealed it now. But you knew it was still there, below your window. Your chest heaved. The room faded around you. As if the fog had seeped through the window, invading. You allowed your body to be dragged down on the bed. Down. You sheltered yourself from the world. A cocoon of Egyptian cotton. You’d be okay.
The shallow light soon dimmed to blackness. You heard the clink of the lock opening outside the cocoon. You pretended you were sleeping. You heard the puckering of Chelsea’s lips as she put on her signature red lipstick. Heard the zip of her signature leather boots. Heard her keys scrape across the surface of the dresser as she swiped her wallet. Click. The door closed. You emerged and watched the moon cast a spotlight on the train of giggling girls from your window. They hung onto the arm of some guy they had just met. Stumbled from party to party. An empty feeling flooded your chest. You crawled down off your bed. Down. Down. Down. You walked toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. One two three four five six seven. Next flight of stairs. Up. Up. Up. You walked up to the 9th floor. Turned left. You knew you’d find the emergency stairs. You wouldn’t set off an alarm as you opened the door. You walked up the stairs and out a second door. The chilly wind blew your hair behind you. The tremor started from your ears and tumbled down to your toes. A gust of wind pushed you backward. It said, “Stop!” But you couldn’t. Chelsea wasn’t here to hold you back this time. You paused at the west edge of the building and gazed down at the parking lot. A pink square wrestled with the wind. It snagged on the branch of a young ash. Beneath the glow of the orange streetlight. These were the only things you saw.
You traveled to that moment once again. The sterile white room. Your own animalistic sobs. The way his grey eyes drooped beneath the weight of his brows. 1 year. 2 months. 14 days. You were there again. Pushing through tears as you clenched Grayson’s shaking hand. Watching as the doctor held the small, fragile body. Blue fingers and toes hanging limply over his arms. He carried it out of sight. Seeing Grayson turn away so you wouldn’t see his face. Seeing your sweat soaked hand let go of his. Clutching your chest as you attempted to breathe. Seeing Chelsea’s panicked expression as the door swung open. And now. Now directly below the toes of your slippers you saw the pink blanket. You saw the dog-eared corner of “The Idea of Order at Key West.” The torn, yellowing page crumpled in your right fist. You saw your feet leave the brick. You saw a beam of moonlight reach down. Tried and failed to lift you back up as your eyes shut. Up. No, down. Down. Down. You saw a stillbirth. And then a still life. And now, a still death.