Cackle(15)

Mistletoe?

It looks like mistletoe. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. Maybe the previous tenant had it up and left it there?

It’s too hot to linger on the stairs, staring up at this weird mystery plant. I let myself into my apartment and set my groceries down on the kitchen counter. I open the cabinet to get myself a glass. I’m about to fill it when I notice a dark spot haunting the bottom.

A spider.

I give an exaggerated sigh and ask, “What am I going to do about you?”

I know I must imagine it, but I swear, it really looks like he shrugs.





CHARMING NEW FRIEND


The sun greets me, sweet and yellow. A gentle breeze swims through the open window. I pop out my retainers and set them on the nightstand, a thread of saliva glistening in the morning light.

The weekend looms ahead of me like this. Sunny and pleasant and utterly blank. So many empty, lonely hours. I imagine the time taking human form, standing there at the foot of my bed, a cute but malevolent child, ringlets and overalls, and a knife behind its back. Something that should be good but isn’t.

There’s nothing for me to do. No one for me to see. I’m relieved not to be at school, but I don’t want to be alone.

I think about my last conversation with Sam, about how he couldn’t tell me that he missed me. I hear echoes of chirps and cawing. I drop these things on the conveyor belt of embarrassing moments that’s consistently cycling inside my head. I wonder if everyone has this, experiences this constant loop of past shame and humiliation, both large and small, replaying over and over again or sometimes popping up randomly when least expected, like in the middle of spin class or while caramelizing onions.

It must be exhausting to be in your head, Sam told me once.

I think what he must have meant was, it was exhausting for him to hear about it. I exhausted him.

When we broke up, he said that our spark had fizzled. I must not be sparkly enough. I must be pretty dull.

I get the idea that doing my hair and makeup will make me feel better about myself. I stand in front of the mirror braiding my hair. If I can get it to grow long enough, I can toss it out the window and whistle for a prince.

I put on some mascara and a berry-colored lipstick. I look marginally more alive. I put music on shuffle, but “Eleanor Rigby” is the first song to come on and I decide silence is best. I start to clean my apartment. Take out the trash and the recycling. When I do, I notice the empty wine bottle and am reminded.

I do have plans this weekend. I have plans today!

I’m going to the farmers market to meet Sophie for coffee.

I dig through my closet for an outfit that might trick Sophie into thinking I’m cool. I pick out a sage eyelet dress with cap sleeves and opalescent buttons. I pair it with black Chelsea boots and a gray knit shawl.

I shove my credit cards and some cash into my small envelope bag and throw the fraying strap over my shoulder.

As I leave, I notice the strange plant hanging from the ceiling in the stairway. A spray of green leaves tied with twine. I really don’t remember seeing it before yesterday.

Maybe Lynn put it up? Is she back? I haven’t seen another car in the driveway or heard anyone downstairs.

She’s the only other person who would have keys, who would be able to get in.

Unless . . .

I remember the other night, when I left the door unlocked, when I thought I heard footsteps, movement. But who would sneak into my stairway in the middle of the night to hang a plant?

No one, that’s who.

I shrug it off, like a damp animal shaking the wet from its fur.

I walk out to a perfect day. Early September weather is pure magic.

I resist the urge to take out my phone. I want to drink in this morning. I want to enjoy a leisurely stroll in this charming town. I want to reprogram myself. In the city, everyone is rushing toward the past, trying to get to where they needed to be ten minutes ago.

Things are so different here. The sidewalk is wide and the grass on either side is beautifully green. The trees provide generous shade; the leaves hum above me. I’m able to take a good look at the houses. They’re set back from the road so they’re hard to see while driving. They’re all the same style, Victorian farmhouses. They have porches and shutters and identical landscaping.

There’s a man on one of the porches reading and drinking coffee.

“Morning!” he says. He’s older, his white hair down to his shoulders. He’s got a deep, dusty grandpa voice.

“Morning!” I reply.

It feels nice to be acknowledged. To walk down the street and not be completely invisible.

There are more people on the stretch of Main Street with all of the shops. It’s much busier now than on weekdays. There are people out and about holding coffee cups and pastries and loaves of bread and bouquets of flowers and multiple dog leashes attached to multiple dogs trotting ahead or lagging behind. Some people have grocery bags overflowing with greens. As I walk by, they turn to me, smile and say, “Good morning,” or “Hello.” Every single person.

And every time it happens, it’s like a sip of hot tea. It’s macaroni and cheese; it’s cozy slippers; it’s cashmere. It’s comfort.

I come across a sign stuck into the grass that reads Farmers Market, with an arrow pointing down a narrow path.

I follow the path, a stream of pale dirt between two rows of tall trees. If I were young, I’d want to climb them. They have those low, sturdy branches. I spot some particularly adorable squirrels scurrying around, all furry and fat cheeked. Eyes big and black and glassy.