by M.M. Kelley
I’m busy—too busy for my body. My body says, time for a truck stop, trucker, though I’m not a trucker—never have been, never will be. These joints have been jostling around long enough.
I would agree.
When Rob gets home, I tell him about this. He tells me to get in the bath, then I’ll feel better. I do, but I don’t. Feel better, that is. In fact, I feel worse. Now I’m hot and puckery and my joints still feel like they want to pop right out of their sockets. Pop!
I go to bed.
When I wake up, Rob is already gone, like he always is. He’s a driver—has been since back when people still used to hail cabs and bike lanes were the faded white lines on the asphalt that bike messengers would thread like tightropes.
That means the house is for me—all of it. The laundry, the dishes, the vacuuming, the vast crevices and three-sided corners where silvery spiderwebs turn musty and gray with dust. I should be used to it, but I’m not. There’s never a break. One day I pick up one thing, and the next day I pick it up again from the exact same spot. The crevices grow deeper and narrower. It’s enough to make my bones ache, and I guess that’s why they do.
I call my daughter Marjorie to tell her about it. She’s a pharmacist up in the suburbs. She has a baby of her own now. While she’s at work, she leaves the baby with a neighbor who runs a daycare out of her living room. The father’s not in the picture. He never was. She just announced she was pregnant one day, like it was the Immaculate Conception. Rob and I are happy to have a grandbaby, but sometimes I do think that baby looks nothing like her. I really do.
“I feel like my arms are falling off,” I tell her over the phone.
“Your arms aren’t falling off.” she says.
“They feel like it.” I say.
“You’re probably just sore from gardening.” she says.
She could be right. I was in the garden on Saturday pruning the lilacs along the side of the house. But I’m in the garden most Saturdays, weather permitting of course. Besides, my back didn’t hurt, just my elbows. My elbows and my shoulders and my wrists and my knuckles—the knuckles in my hands. That’s why I felt like my arms were falling off.
She says she’s busy, but I should take a Tylenol if I’m really that uncomfortable.
I let her go, but I don’t take the Tylenol. I don’t believe in pills, though I keep a bottle in the medicine cabinet for Rob.
I get back in bed but leave the curtains open so I can watch the birds hop about the maple just outside the window.
They’re busy too—all that hopping about. I bet their joints don’t want to pop out. Otherwise they’d never be able to fly anywhere.
When Rob gets home I’m asleep, but I see him, which is strange because I’m asleep. I tell him that I think my arms fell out. That’s weird, too, because I don’t usually talk when I’m asleep. He tells me I’m dreaming and that everything is okay.
When I wake up, Rob is still there. It’s not Sunday, so this is not usual. I know it’s not Sunday because yesterday wasn’t Saturday. I know this because I wasn’t in the garden.
Rob is just sitting there, on the edge of the bed. He’s not getting dressed for church. He’s just sitting, like he does sometimes when I’m sick. But I’m not sick—my arms are just sore. I try to sit up, but I can’t.
Rob tells me to take it easy and relax. He says he’ll be right back. He closes the door as he leaves, which is odd because that’s something we never do. We always say an open door means an open heart. The closed door makes it difficult to relax.
I hear him in the kitchen. I hear him pick up the phone and dial. He’s talking to someone. I can tell it’s Marjorie.
He hangs up and comes back into the room. He comes right up to the bedside, right next to me. He’s looking at me, but he’s moving like he’s trying not to disturb me, which is weird because I’m looking right back at him. He breathes out a big sigh the way men do and leaves the room again. This time he leaves the door a few inches ajar.
I wish he had opened the curtains before he left, but he didn’t. I want to watch the birds outside in the maple, but I can’t. The curtains are drawn, and the room is a dull, dark hue. I close my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep. Instead, I think of a trip we took years ago to Thailand. I remember the golden-plated rooftops of the temples and the sun gleaming down onto the streets. When I think of Thailand, I notice that my arms no longer hurt. I remember a small elephant we saw just walking along, and then I remember the zoo.
The zoo was not like the zoos I was used to. The animal compartments were unadorned concrete areas sealed off by fences and deep, wide ditches. The pedestrian walkways were mostly empty. It was strange to see the tufts of red ginger fanned by the splayed fronds of the traveler’s palms, planted, as it turned out, to impress nothing more than an occasional zoo guest. I remember an orangutan we saw there, orange and furry, sitting with his back leaning against the concrete wall. He sat like a man sitting on a sofa the way men do. Rob and I laughed at that. When we got right up against the railing and could see all the way in, we saw his enclosure was strewn with leaves and twigs. He was in there alone, and he had an empty plastic water bottle in his hand. He smacked the ground with it, not even looking down. Not looking at anything really. His eyes were dead.
I told Rob right then that we had to leave. I couldn’t take that we paid our money to a zoo that kept animals like that. We went back to the hotel, and I cried and cried and cried. Rob drew a warm bath for me. He came and sat on the edge of the bed while the tub filled with water.
I’m not asleep, but I notice my eyes feel heavy. Closing them feels good, like when I’m tired, but I’m not tired now. It’s morning, and my arms no longer feel like they’re falling off. They feel calm, settled. Now it’s my hips. My hips, my ankles, my knees, and the knuckles in my toes.
I open my eyes just as Rob comes back into the room. I see he has Marjorie with him. I want to tell them my arms are okay now. The orangutan—that poor, sweet orangutan—he took my arms away. Now it’s just my legs.
I want to tell them, but I can’t. Rob is looking at me with orangutan eyes and Marjorie just screams and screams and screams.
I would agree.
When Rob gets home, I tell him about this. He tells me to get in the bath, then I’ll feel better. I do, but I don’t. Feel better, that is. In fact, I feel worse. Now I’m hot and puckery and my joints still feel like they want to pop right out of their sockets. Pop!
I go to bed.
When I wake up, Rob is already gone, like he always is. He’s a driver—has been since back when people still used to hail cabs and bike lanes were the faded white lines on the asphalt that bike messengers would thread like tightropes.
That means the house is for me—all of it. The laundry, the dishes, the vacuuming, the vast crevices and three-sided corners where silvery spiderwebs turn musty and gray with dust. I should be used to it, but I’m not. There’s never a break. One day I pick up one thing, and the next day I pick it up again from the exact same spot. The crevices grow deeper and narrower. It’s enough to make my bones ache, and I guess that’s why they do.
I call my daughter Marjorie to tell her about it. She’s a pharmacist up in the suburbs. She has a baby of her own now. While she’s at work, she leaves the baby with a neighbor who runs a daycare out of her living room. The father’s not in the picture. He never was. She just announced she was pregnant one day, like it was the Immaculate Conception. Rob and I are happy to have a grandbaby, but sometimes I do think that baby looks nothing like her. I really do.
“I feel like my arms are falling off,” I tell her over the phone.
“Your arms aren’t falling off.” she says.
“They feel like it.” I say.
“You’re probably just sore from gardening.” she says.
She could be right. I was in the garden on Saturday pruning the lilacs along the side of the house. But I’m in the garden most Saturdays, weather permitting of course. Besides, my back didn’t hurt, just my elbows. My elbows and my shoulders and my wrists and my knuckles—the knuckles in my hands. That’s why I felt like my arms were falling off.
She says she’s busy, but I should take a Tylenol if I’m really that uncomfortable.
I let her go, but I don’t take the Tylenol. I don’t believe in pills, though I keep a bottle in the medicine cabinet for Rob.
I get back in bed but leave the curtains open so I can watch the birds hop about the maple just outside the window.
They’re busy too—all that hopping about. I bet their joints don’t want to pop out. Otherwise they’d never be able to fly anywhere.
When Rob gets home I’m asleep, but I see him, which is strange because I’m asleep. I tell him that I think my arms fell out. That’s weird, too, because I don’t usually talk when I’m asleep. He tells me I’m dreaming and that everything is okay.
When I wake up, Rob is still there. It’s not Sunday, so this is not usual. I know it’s not Sunday because yesterday wasn’t Saturday. I know this because I wasn’t in the garden.
Rob is just sitting there, on the edge of the bed. He’s not getting dressed for church. He’s just sitting, like he does sometimes when I’m sick. But I’m not sick—my arms are just sore. I try to sit up, but I can’t.
Rob tells me to take it easy and relax. He says he’ll be right back. He closes the door as he leaves, which is odd because that’s something we never do. We always say an open door means an open heart. The closed door makes it difficult to relax.
I hear him in the kitchen. I hear him pick up the phone and dial. He’s talking to someone. I can tell it’s Marjorie.
He hangs up and comes back into the room. He comes right up to the bedside, right next to me. He’s looking at me, but he’s moving like he’s trying not to disturb me, which is weird because I’m looking right back at him. He breathes out a big sigh the way men do and leaves the room again. This time he leaves the door a few inches ajar.
I wish he had opened the curtains before he left, but he didn’t. I want to watch the birds outside in the maple, but I can’t. The curtains are drawn, and the room is a dull, dark hue. I close my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep. Instead, I think of a trip we took years ago to Thailand. I remember the golden-plated rooftops of the temples and the sun gleaming down onto the streets. When I think of Thailand, I notice that my arms no longer hurt. I remember a small elephant we saw just walking along, and then I remember the zoo.
The zoo was not like the zoos I was used to. The animal compartments were unadorned concrete areas sealed off by fences and deep, wide ditches. The pedestrian walkways were mostly empty. It was strange to see the tufts of red ginger fanned by the splayed fronds of the traveler’s palms, planted, as it turned out, to impress nothing more than an occasional zoo guest. I remember an orangutan we saw there, orange and furry, sitting with his back leaning against the concrete wall. He sat like a man sitting on a sofa the way men do. Rob and I laughed at that. When we got right up against the railing and could see all the way in, we saw his enclosure was strewn with leaves and twigs. He was in there alone, and he had an empty plastic water bottle in his hand. He smacked the ground with it, not even looking down. Not looking at anything really. His eyes were dead.
I told Rob right then that we had to leave. I couldn’t take that we paid our money to a zoo that kept animals like that. We went back to the hotel, and I cried and cried and cried. Rob drew a warm bath for me. He came and sat on the edge of the bed while the tub filled with water.
I’m not asleep, but I notice my eyes feel heavy. Closing them feels good, like when I’m tired, but I’m not tired now. It’s morning, and my arms no longer feel like they’re falling off. They feel calm, settled. Now it’s my hips. My hips, my ankles, my knees, and the knuckles in my toes.
I open my eyes just as Rob comes back into the room. I see he has Marjorie with him. I want to tell them my arms are okay now. The orangutan—that poor, sweet orangutan—he took my arms away. Now it’s just my legs.
I want to tell them, but I can’t. Rob is looking at me with orangutan eyes and Marjorie just screams and screams and screams.