A Brief Lunacy Read Online Free
Author: Cynthia Thayer
sure it wasnât replaced off kilter. That happens sometimes.
The kitchen is as we left it this morning, which seems strange to me because now life has changed. Wouldnât you think the kitchen would appear darker or lighter or disturbedin some way? I know this has happened with Sylvie before but that doesnât make it any easier. The table creaks when I lift one end and swing it toward me, away from the wall, just to shift the focus when we sit to have lunch. A change of scenery. Look at things from a new angle. You have to do that sometimes.
Just last night we sat here sipping too-hot fish chowder and eating fresh biscuits, chattering about Sylvie, saying we hadnât heard from her in a while and how that seemed like a good sign. The chowder is thicker today as it falls from the bowl into the saucepan, chunks of potato and haddock plopping into the bottom, splashing milk onto my sweater. Some splatters the lenses of my glasses and I canât see the chowder in the pot.
Carl is right. We always find her. She gets picked up on the street or she calls us from a strangerâs house a few minutes away from Douglas House. They canât really keep her locked up, because she isnât a danger, they say. Just crazy. Just out of touch with reality.
When I put the pot of chowder on the top of the gas stove and turn the heat on very low, I take off my glasses and sit at the table to wait. My fingers close around my glasses tight enough to break them but I donât hear any cracks or snaps except in my own brain. Why donât they break? I pound the glasses down on the table and a lens falls out in my hand. Now theyâre broken. Thatâs reality,
nâest-ce pas?
as Carl would say.
âYou all right over there?â
âRight as rain,â I say. âWaiting for the chowder.â
When I was in labor with Sylvie, I wanted chowder and all the hospital had was cheese sandwiches. The doctor said not to eat anything because it would make me sick. Sylvie was big. I remember that. They knocked me out with ether and wouldnât let Carl in the delivery room even though he was a doctor. While I lay there on the table, my arms tied to keep them out of the way, legs tied to keep them open, invaded with forceps and strangersâ fingers, Carl went out to the Norfolk Restaurant and bought a triple takeout of fish chowder.
I think my own mother bled to death. Because we were too big. Why couldnât they stop the bleeding? I think my father was with her. Were we there or did they take us away? As a child I imagined my mother cradling us, one in each arm, as my father wiped her cheeks with a damp towel and she whispered that she loved us with her last dying breath. Iâve gotten over that but I still picture her touching us, placing her fingers in our small fists. Iâve never asked my father if she saw us. I donât want to know that she didnât.
Sylvie was pretty: dark like Carl, and elfin, her face framed with black hair, which the nurses had to trim because they were afraid it would hurt her eyes. Her fingers waved in the air like dancing ferns. And I couldnât even eat the chowder Carl brought. He ate it all himself except for one spoonful that he fed to me. I couldnât seem to eat anything but toast.
Carl doesnât ask why the table is askew or why my glasses have a lens missing. Sometimes I wonder if he notices things like that or whether he just doesnât mention thembecause heâs grown accustomed to my odd habits. We chat about Sam and whether the girlfriend can pay for her own medical school and about Charlieâs new appointment as partner at McGinty, Trainor, and Hoyt. Carl gets up once to check the receiver. We donât speak of the telephone until we finish eating.
âIâm going to go outside,â I say. âWill you listen for the phone?â
âWhere are you going? Sheâs not out there. How would she get here?â He
The kitchen is as we left it this morning, which seems strange to me because now life has changed. Wouldnât you think the kitchen would appear darker or lighter or disturbedin some way? I know this has happened with Sylvie before but that doesnât make it any easier. The table creaks when I lift one end and swing it toward me, away from the wall, just to shift the focus when we sit to have lunch. A change of scenery. Look at things from a new angle. You have to do that sometimes.
Just last night we sat here sipping too-hot fish chowder and eating fresh biscuits, chattering about Sylvie, saying we hadnât heard from her in a while and how that seemed like a good sign. The chowder is thicker today as it falls from the bowl into the saucepan, chunks of potato and haddock plopping into the bottom, splashing milk onto my sweater. Some splatters the lenses of my glasses and I canât see the chowder in the pot.
Carl is right. We always find her. She gets picked up on the street or she calls us from a strangerâs house a few minutes away from Douglas House. They canât really keep her locked up, because she isnât a danger, they say. Just crazy. Just out of touch with reality.
When I put the pot of chowder on the top of the gas stove and turn the heat on very low, I take off my glasses and sit at the table to wait. My fingers close around my glasses tight enough to break them but I donât hear any cracks or snaps except in my own brain. Why donât they break? I pound the glasses down on the table and a lens falls out in my hand. Now theyâre broken. Thatâs reality,
nâest-ce pas?
as Carl would say.
âYou all right over there?â
âRight as rain,â I say. âWaiting for the chowder.â
When I was in labor with Sylvie, I wanted chowder and all the hospital had was cheese sandwiches. The doctor said not to eat anything because it would make me sick. Sylvie was big. I remember that. They knocked me out with ether and wouldnât let Carl in the delivery room even though he was a doctor. While I lay there on the table, my arms tied to keep them out of the way, legs tied to keep them open, invaded with forceps and strangersâ fingers, Carl went out to the Norfolk Restaurant and bought a triple takeout of fish chowder.
I think my own mother bled to death. Because we were too big. Why couldnât they stop the bleeding? I think my father was with her. Were we there or did they take us away? As a child I imagined my mother cradling us, one in each arm, as my father wiped her cheeks with a damp towel and she whispered that she loved us with her last dying breath. Iâve gotten over that but I still picture her touching us, placing her fingers in our small fists. Iâve never asked my father if she saw us. I donât want to know that she didnât.
Sylvie was pretty: dark like Carl, and elfin, her face framed with black hair, which the nurses had to trim because they were afraid it would hurt her eyes. Her fingers waved in the air like dancing ferns. And I couldnât even eat the chowder Carl brought. He ate it all himself except for one spoonful that he fed to me. I couldnât seem to eat anything but toast.
Carl doesnât ask why the table is askew or why my glasses have a lens missing. Sometimes I wonder if he notices things like that or whether he just doesnât mention thembecause heâs grown accustomed to my odd habits. We chat about Sam and whether the girlfriend can pay for her own medical school and about Charlieâs new appointment as partner at McGinty, Trainor, and Hoyt. Carl gets up once to check the receiver. We donât speak of the telephone until we finish eating.
âIâm going to go outside,â I say. âWill you listen for the phone?â
âWhere are you going? Sheâs not out there. How would she get here?â He
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