This House is Ours - 3 (Patreon)

-Sunday-

Simon shook me gently awake. He pulled me with him, past her wide open door, where her bed was neatly made, and down the stairs. Through the empty dining room, out into the kitchen. But there was no one there.

The front door was closed, but unlocked. When we opened it, there was nothing. Just the front driveway, looping around the island of grass and the giant tree with its tire swing. We stepped out into the cool night salt of the ocean, and stood there listening. Nothing. She wasn't down the long gravel drive. She wasn't on the old wooden chair. It was Simon who finally found her. He pulled on my elbow and pointed.

She was out in the middle of the field, in the long grass, just standing there, staring into the woods. She was naked in the moonlight. I don't know if she heard us. The screen door had creaked as we came outside. Either way, she didn't turn. She didn't look. Not at us, anyway. She only stared into the woods. Like she was waiting for something in the dark.

So we sat down, and we waited, too. She didn't move. She didn't make a sound. And the more time passed the sleepier we got. My little brother with his head on my lap. My own eyes starting to close. They would droop, and I would fight them. Open them as wide as I could. I looked out in the field to make sure she was still there. The tire swing was moving slowly. Creaking. Quiet, and then a slow creak.

I tapped Simon's shoulder, and he tapped my knee in return. Still awake.

Out in the field, my mother started to sing. If any of it was real, I mean. If any of it was real, she started to sing. She sang slowly, letting the words take their time. My eyes closed themselves again, and I curled up around my little brother, hugging him like a pillow, listening to her far off voice.

One morning as I rambled all down the seashore

The wind it did whistle and the waters did roar

I heard a fair damsel make a pitiful sound

It sounded so lonesome in the waters around

And then a slow creak from the tire swing.

I never will marry or be no man's wife

I expect to live single all the days of my life

The shells in the ocean shall be my deathbed

The fish in deep water swim over my head

And then a slow creak.

She plunged her fair body in the ocean so deep

She closed her blue eyes in the waters to sleep

My love's gone and left me, the one I adore

She's gone where I never will see her any more

Perfectly in time with the tire swing. Creak.

I never will marry or be no man's wife

I expect to live single all the days of my life

The shells in the ocean shall be my deathbed

The fish in deep water swim over my head

If there was more to that song, I never heard it. Half asleep it was a chorus of voices. They were all so familiar. Singing all around us. In the field, and in the driveway. In my arms, and up on the barn roof. And then a slow creak. Everywhere.

I woke up and Simon was lying curled up, completely naked, his arm hugging my leg and his neatly folded clothes as his pillow. My first instinct was to cover him up. To drape my sweater over him. But he didn't look cold, he looked content.

Out in the field, our mother was still there. I had expected her to be gone. She was still standing naked, and still singing, though now I couldn't hear the words over the wind. I couldn't hear the tune. Simon looked so content in his sleep. He'd found another way to be close to her, even if it was just for tonight. He looked happy.

He looked happier than I had seen him in a long time. Our mother looked beautiful, standing out in that field.

So I took my clothes off, and I arranged them neatly into a pile of my own. I hugged my brother and kissed the back of his head. I couldn't hear what our mother was singing, but I remembered some of our father's songs. He sang so often. He loved to sing.

I shook Simon gently awake. And we held hands as we walked slowly and as quietly as we could, out into the field. The wind was louder now, and the far off creaking echoes were on our side this time. She didn't hear us until we were very close. I was so scared she would startle like a deer and vanish.

But then she turned and we could see her smile. Our mother! Did I say she was like a ghost already? Did I say she was like a miracle? I choked on a sob. She held out her hand, and hugged us both.

"There's nobody in there," she whispered, pointing at the woods, "but it helps. When the noise gets too loud it helps."

She held our hands and started to sing another one of our father's favourite songs. He had so many. He was always singing. Off-key, or out of tune, but never badly. It always sounded right to me. It made me so happy to hear my mother's voice. To see her smiling. Simon and I were dreaming together. He had a look of awe on his face, clinging to her. My mother sang.

My girl, my girl, don't lie to me

Tell me where did you sleep last night.

In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine

I shivered the whole night through

She squeezed my hand and winked. Winked! In the moonlight!

My girl, my girl, where will you go

I'm going where the cold wind blows

In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever shine

Simon's quiet voice startled me.

"I would shiver the whole night through," he sang.

We fell asleep out there, tangled up naked at her feet. Simon woke me, wiping tears off my cheek with his thumb. It was almost morning, and our mother was gone. His face was still glowing, but it had begun to fade. He nodded toward the house. Time to go back. Darkness and nudity had made us fish, quicksilver in our dreams. But the sun was coming up, now. Time to get dressed.

-

-Letter-

Dear Simon,

Dear Sunday,

Can I tell you a secret?

I think I'm happy.

I know what to do now. I'm not conflicted. I'm not worried. I feel… fine? I've even started listening again, when you sit outside my door and play me the recordings of your father's voice. The jokes and conversations from his hospital bed. It doesn't feel so painful. It doesn't seem so cruel.

I know you didn't mean for it to be cruel. Cruelty requires intent. It was bad though. It cut me up to shreds. But now? Now it is one last goodbye. One last "rough chuckle," I'll get to go with his voice ringing in my ears.

And so I am wearing my earplugs less. I don't bury my head in the pillows.

I don't need half-measures of oblivion when the real thing is so close. I think I'm happy.

Today I remembered being in elementary school. One day, out of nowhere, they told us about suicide. About the warning signs. If one of your sad friends suddenly seems cheerful, that's a warning sign. Happiness is a warning sign! If they started giving away a lot of their stuff as presents. That was a warning sign. I have no idea why they were telling elementary school kids this. Why wasn't it a warning sign that they were your sad friend?

Love,

Your cheerful sad mom friend.

-

-Frank and Jonah-

In the dark and the quiet, Jonah could tell that Frank was awake. His whole body was rigid with thought. But Jonah didn't push. It was better with Frank to let him start. He didn't respond well to being coaxed. So Jonah waited until his husband finally spoke.

"I lost my brother. I should be able to grieve."

"You are. You do."

"When? When I'm not raising her children for her, while she locks herself in her room doing god knows what? When I have a rare moment to myself? She said she's going to kill herself. What are we supposed to do with that? Take her to the hospital?"

"Tomorrow we will talk about that. Tonight it is quiet."

"Unless she-"

"This is a moment to yourself," Jonah said. "It is just you and me, in the dark. Warm and safe." Jonah turned to face him. "She is her own woman. You can't fix her. Not right now. There are no sandwiches to be made for the children. There's no cribbage to cheer up your mother. It is you and me. This is when you grieve."

And then there was more silence. More rigid thinking in the bed beside Jonah. But he was used to this. To waiting. He liked it, actually. He loved that Frank thought before he spoke. That he would lie there and think and think, and only then speak. During the day he was different. In front of other people it sometimes seemed that Frank needed to be jolly, to have a quick answer, a reassurance. To smooth it all over. But here with Jonah, he was a thoughtful and open heart.

"I said sorry, Jonah. I was angry for so long, and I saw him dying and I told him I was sorry, like it had all been my fault. And he accepted my apology. And that was it. The whole ride home I felt so ashamed. Ashamed and furious. And then he was dead."

"I know."

"And I should. I should forgive him. I know he didn't believe it, when he said what he said. It was years ago. He was just - He didn't understand."

"It's done."

"I know. I know." Frank looked at his husband. "He said he liked you very much, back when he first met you. He said you were handsome. He was happy for me. Did I tell you that?"

"You told me."

All I heard was, "A handsome faggot."

There was a long pause.

"Sorry," Frank said. "Anger. I hate being angry. And I know. Anger is poisoning yourself and hoping the other person will die, right?" He sighed. "I mean, he did die. But I'm still poisoning myself."

A pause.

"He didn't say that. Handsome faggot. Obviously he didn't say that."

It was a different kind of silence now, and all Jonah wanted was to make things better, even just for a moment. To make things normal.

"A handsome faggot?" Jonah said, reaching out his hands in the dark to pull Frank close. To pull gently at his boxers. "Come here and call me that again."

-

-Old Letter-

To my unborn daughter,

You’re quiet tonight. I love the quiet. I hate the noise. The noise and the people, a blanket of harsh light that strangers try to throw over your head.

But the quiet. The quiet is water slowly filling up a room. You don’t know you’re drowned until you’re drowned. The quiet is the certainty in my mind. Will you ever read this? Do you have a certainty? I used to hate mine. I spent years terrified, seeing doctor after doctor. But now I know it is just me. And that’s ok. You can't cure someone of their self.

I don’t want to live. You aren’t born yet, so you don’t know what it is like yet. Everyone around me wants to live. They have their troubles, and disasters, and they keep on living. Meanwhile, my life is quiet. I have no scars. All I have is this certainty in me, that I am going to kill myself.

So I think of things to do instead of killing myself. I'm going to be a mother, so that is my job now. Not killing myself. Clean the whole house. Drive to visit friends for an afternoon. Take a walk. Sit alone in a coffee shop for two hours. Buy a book, so that tomorrow I can return the book. Take a long walk. Buy a dress so that tomorrow I can return the dress. Go and watch the waves crash on the beach. Imagine sitting on the ocean floor.

Write my unborn daughter a letter.

Your mother

-

-Elizabeth-

The police car pulled into the driveway, and around the tree, till it faced back to the road. Elizabeth sat at the table, her hand wrapped around the warm teacup. She wasn't twenty anymore, but police cars still made her nervous. Old habits.

She watched as the policeman, Carl, got out and opened the back door. He helped someone out, naked and muddy, but then stood back respectfully. Elizabeth watched her daughter in law come to the door, let herself in, and wipe her bare feet on the mat.

She was naked, with mud up to her knees, and on one arm. There was a fresh and deep cut on her face, and dried blood all the way down to her neck. It was not the first slash across her face. Every day it seemed there was another one. Carved up and emotionless, still. Blank eyes.

"Your children are still asleep," Elizabeth told her. "You have time to clean up in the shower, if you want. But don't you dare let them see you like this."

And that was that. The bathroom door clicked closed, and Elizabeth went to the front door. In the driveway Carl was leaning against his car.

"Elizabeth," he said.

"Carl."

"Getting to be a routine."

"We're doing what we can," she said.

"I can ask around. At the hospital and all. See what kind of help there is."

Elizabeth thought about it.

"Yeah," she said. "It might be getting there."

-
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