Erlebnisse

The

              

  How to reply; what does one say? What did I say? Still I cannot remember, but I do know there were stinging voices and stinging eyes and a choice: do I go home, weep over my loss?

  Or ought I to continue, finish the day I have begun, collect the money we need now more than ever?

  The sunlight returns to the room, and so do I, stiff-backed and purposeful. The counter starts to gleam the harder I scrub it, but I leave the rest of the cleaning to the new assistant who arrives wearing pity like a shawl. Following my lead, the backeré's growing amount of customers eventually turn back to their nondescript lives. Several whisk themselves out the door, either for the next plantation shift or the latest gossip committee; I do not pretend to know or care. As I sort through orders, I circle back across all my favorite novels, grasping for advice on how to handle my situation. Not a sentence comes to mind.

  In the most infuriatingly normal way, the work day draws to a close, and I step onto my porch at six o'clock. The booths have retreated into themselves, the vivacity from that morning a mere memory. The dirt road shakes slightly with the momentum of the last returning plantation workers. If not for what arrives with the setting sun, I might consider staying: sitting down on that rickety porch, watching our few thin trees capitulate to the evening breeze, and imagining what, on any other day, awaits me in the small cottage on the cliffs of the sea. But after, I suppose, nineteen years, I know much better.

  Too much better.

  And so I descend the steps after locking the door, then pelt down the road that takes me home. I do not pass the two women this time, and for that I thank whatever divine being hopefully watches over my path. I choke on the sob bubbling up into my throat, ignoring the thought of my father graciously whispering a few strange words and laughing at his own joke. How he would absolutely refuse to utter a serious word while I clearly "wore enough seriousness for the both of us." That chill spring breeze flutters around my ankles now, carrying his voice, equal parts soft and gruff, a hint of the ancient tune he could be humming this very instant.

  As I approach the minuscule house atop the steep incline, I recognize the hint as the here and now voice of my mother, taking down dry clothes from the line. Her hair, a continuation of the sunset, flickers against the wind in the dying light. I float past her without causing so much as an intake of breath, and rush up the stairs into my room. My clothes fly off my back in a manic burst of motion, and I do not bother dressing into my nightclothes. I brace my pillow against my chest and focus on anything beautiful: the small bookshelf downstairs; the sound of the backeré door in the morning; the sea when it traps the light. The last rays of sun mock me from the south-facing window. A maritiman twitters somewhere outside, a blur of cornflower-blue wings amidst the deeper hues of the evening. Willing myself to sleep, I sink lower into my bed and train every sense on the gentle notes of my mother's humming.

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  Some needle-sharp object probes into my foot and for the longest second I fear the worst: nightmare become reality, the light swallowed whole, the cloaked murderer at last here to take me too. But I hear her voice and all is well.

  My mother hums the song still, and I wonder if she has slept at all. With a glance at my foot, I realize it rested pushed against the corner of the bedpost. Of course, awaking to such a weird sleeping position hardly surprises me anymore. One morning in particular, I jumped to a start and found myself curled underneath the window, clutching the curtain as I recovered from an imaginary stab wound.

  Strangely, the sun has perked up this morning, and a warmer, more inviting light saturates the carpet next to my bed. With a sigh, I swing my legs over the sheets and walk to my wardrobe. Halfway across the six feet, my knees give out and I must crawl to my destination. My arms themselves offer barely any strength. But at last I reach the tall furniture and choose a plain green dress: my absolute favorite. This time I halt the thoughts that whisper of the day when my father brought home the dress, joking that "Her Royal Highness must forgive the simplicity." And when I attempt to walk downstairs, I squeeze my fingernails into the skin of my palm, and force my legs to work properly.