Dora

 

Dora Smart was a beautiful woman but not in the traditional sense. She was tall, nearly six feet with abnormally large feet and hands. Her hands were elegant though, long fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Her feet she hid in sneakers; she never wore high heels. She wore her hair up in a pony tail with the loose strands of hair sprayed into place. She awoke every morning at 6am to make Sam’s lunch and breakfast before he got on the commuter train. She was diligent and disciplined, sitting down after Sam left to pen her next great novel. She had a least 5 stories saved on her laptop but they were hers, like little fetuses, infused with all her life and love but not meant for the outside world. Dora was a perfectionist and as such nothing was ever quite ready for the outside world. She loved all her work just the same.

It was quiet at home. No reason not to write and yet Dora couldn’t seem to get a word onto the page. Sam, all she could think about was Sam. Dora wasn’t a quitter either, when she said ‘til death do us part’ she meant it. She was going to see this house through, she could fix it. She would love on these walls, whisper sweet nothings into the door knobs and put the roof on her back. Sam was sick and he needed her. There was no way this house was crumbling, not if Dora had anything to do with it.

***

The snow was thick.  So thick I thought it might have been toothpaste.  It didn’t make any sense.  I walked out into the night not knowing if I wanted to return.  I prayed to God that night.  I told him that I wanted the snow to swallow me.  I wanted to be buried under white.  I could think of nothing more beautiful than to be buried under the snow.

            What then of the spring?  When children galloped about in the yard and stumbled upon my half-existent toes.  What then?  I would be unearthed.  I would be taken away.  They would strap me in white and stick me in a white room.  Nothing.  I would be nothing.  And it would be so cold inside that room.

            I keep having these hallucinations.  I sit at my computer to write and all I can think about is dying like all the little ones Sam and I tried to bring into this world. I feel I failed, failed myself, failed Sam. We can’t seem to save this house. It’s falling apart. I was sure little feet scampering about would shore up the foundation. What can be done about what cannot be done?

I worry that I don’t exist. Sam says I should talk with someone about the babies, but it seems too personal. What business is my uterus to a stranger?

The snow feels like toothpaste and smells like fresh cut apples. I lay myself down until I can see nothing but white; the snow blotting out the perfect blue sky above.  The ground shakes and I’m torn out of bed.  Men without faces and legs put me into a straight jacket.  There is a fire in the middle of the white room and suddenly I have an apple lodged in my mouth.

            Maybe Sam wasn’t the problem, I am the problem. If I could just do what I’m supposed to do, if I could just make sure this house carried on, maybe then Sam and I could remain, live out our simple lives knowing we made a difference in this world. But I can give him nothing and in turn I receive nothing. I should see the psychologist, Meghann Vardern. Maybe this woman could help sort out these demons.

***

“I keep having the same recurring nightmare. We had dog and she had a bunch of puppies.  I wanted to bring them inside the house cause we were in the middle of a storm.  I told Sam that it was too cold for them out there.  They were just babies!  It was raining so hard I thought our roof would collapse in on us, and the lightning it was so wild” Dora took a sip of coffee and continued, “I also didn’t trust our neighbors.  They would steal them, I knew it.  Steal them from me!  They were my babies.  I wanted them inside the house with us”.   

Greg, a new therapist, was shadowing Meghann for the day. Meghann would have rather conducted the session alone but her superior insisted that Greg sit in on a session. He was young and lacked the seriousness that Meghann felt this position required. Greg slid over his legal pad with its scribblings to Meghann but she paid no mind to him.  

“Our house is a light blue, almost gray." Dora continued.  "It’s kind of difficult to explain.  Like the color of frozen flesh, but not that purple. Honestly though, I never saw another’s frozen body" her large hands wrapped around the warmth of her Starbucks coffee mug. Dora paused to look down at her numerous purple splintered veins on her thighs that made hairline cracks in the smooth pane of her white skin. 

Greg urged her, “Ms. Harper could we come back to your dream about the puppies?” 

“Our house, my small little house was blue gray, like the way the sea looks when a storm is forming.  How it turns everything gray.  How you feel so small and insignificant in front of it." Dora seemed wrapped up in her own speech. Then without warning she lifts her eyes from her coffee mug. 

"You know what I’m talking about don’t you doctor?” 

Greg nodded compliantly while Meghann sat stiff time seemed to expand into the grainy wisps of green in the woman’s grey eyes. 

 “You know how it feels living on the inside trying to fill yourself.  Thinking you’re complete but knowing you’re not.  What do you do when you have nothing in your house, when you can’t keep what you want and you keep getting what you don’t want?  I know you know what I mean Doctor Vardern?” 

Meghann shifted in her chair and leaned in close to the woman.  Meghann’s heart throwing itself against the wall of her chest, bruising itself as she struggled to keep her composure.  “Ms. Harper, tell me more about the puppies" said Meghann not looking up from her legal pad. 2339  

Dora sat upright in her chair and continued,  “I went out to where the puppies were.  The rain had become so heavy it was as if oceans were falling onto me.  Suddenly I was in the yard, up to my neck in water.  Sea swirling, slipping into my parted lips, then surging in, sloshing about, finally stuffing me until I’ve become so bloated, a rigid cell ready to explode with the all the moving atoms of other bodies.”

She paused, “It didn’t hurt though.  Dying.  I thought it would.”  She lit a cigarette and watched the bilious poison escape from her mouth.  “Dora, I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here”. She looked at the lit cigarette, “I’m sorry, nervous habit” she stubbed out the cigarette on the bottom of her extra large sneaker.

“My house was blue like that I guess.  Blue and gray.  Gray with an ‘a’ not an ‘e’ cause gray with an ‘e’ is reserved for eyes only.  Those puppies they had a lot of eyes.  There was six of them.  That’s twelve eyes all tracking, all following”.

“The puppies” she paused “were beautiful and thus they were perfect but because of that, they were only parts.  The puppy legs and paws and ears and heads without eyes were trapped in the blue-gray walls.  Like someone cut them up and tried to fill the holes in the dilapidated wall by shoving in the pieces.  The puppy bits were coming out and I should have been afraid but I wasn’t”.

Meghann couldn’t help but think that this woman was no more crazy than the rest of the world.  She had just made the fatal mistake of opening her mouth.  The reason Meghann had taken this job, she was convinced, was to help those less fortunate than herself.  She was fascinated with the abnormal.  She wanted to understand the incomprehensible.  She wanted to be consoled, convinced that she was sane by becoming the one who labels the “crazies”.  But a mere four years later at twenty nine, she realized that she could not be cajoled anymore. 

“Didn’t I tell she was nuts?”  Greg leaned, more to push his breath against Meghann’s neck than to keep his voice lowered. 

“How often do you have this nightmare?”  Meghann asked Dora.

“It happens pretty regularly, maybe twice a month." Dora looked down at her hands. "I get lost sometimes in it.  It picks me up so I don’t know where I left off” the woman’s eyes swooped in ripping away Meghann’s composure.  Meghann drew back and tucked her head behind Greg’s shoulder, an act he mistook for affection as he put his hand on Meghann’s knee.  She quickly crossed her legs pushing off his unwanted hand. 

“I’m  not crazy” the woman said very matter of fact. 

“No but this dream is definitely important.”  Meghann said. “Do you often dream of houses?”

“All the time. Houses are just physical representations of people. We are all little constructions built by our parents then shaped by our environment. My marriage is a house…” she stopped suddenly. “Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely” said Meghann with an encouraging smile. “What do you think this dream meant?”

“That’s easy” said Dora, her eyes welling with tears, “My house is incomplete” Meghann waited for her to say more, but she didn’t.

“And the puppies?” Meghann asked.

Dora gave her a hateful look then in mock innocence, “They’re just puppies. Sometimes things are just what they are. Nothing more nothing less.”

***

SAM

            The day I met Dora, I was sure she was the one.  It was chemistry class and I sat in the back bending the pages in my book into strange little designs.  I had failed the class once already and if it wasn’t for my talent with the violin, the school would have disposed of me quite a while ago.  She came in late on the first day and got a smart yelling for it too.  Never one to be wrong, Dora spent the rest of class showing off her sizable knowledge of chemistry and by the end of the day she and the professor where practically best friends.  I loved how this girl could just change the entire situation.  What power, what wild ambition.  On our way out of class, I stopped her to ask for her name.  I got her answering machine, “Hi I’m Dora, I’m not really here right now, but say something witty and I may call you back”.  Truth be told this intrigued me even more, so that night I locked myself in my dorm room and wrote her a poem. 

            I walked in a smidge late the next day and was expecting a bit of a fuss as well, but the professor only remarked, “Mr. Dehlite, could you please turn out the lights, I have an overhead.”  What?  No big commotion, hell not even a little tisk tisk tisk?  I scanned the room embarrassed at how unimportant I felt, then I saw a seat by Dora.  I sat next to her and began to whisper, “So remember me?  How is this guy pretty boring huh?  Blah blah blah makes me want to rip off my ears so I don’t have to listen to him anymore”.  I laughed and she replied, “Could you please be quiet, I can’t hear a word he’s saying.”  Disappointed I took out my notebook which was brand new even though it was the middle of the year. 

            At the end of class I walked with her to the door.  “So, I wrote this for you.”  “What is it?” she asked curiously.  “It’s a poem, I’ve been known to write a few good poems.”  I bragged remembering how all my previous girlfriends loved my poems.  “Are you an English major?”  “No actually I’m a Music major cause I’m majorly into music.”  I laughed hesitantly.  I couldn’t believe I made that joke, God what an idiot!  She gave me a pity laugh and said, “I look forward to reading it uh…what was your name again?”  “Sam” I beamed.  “Well thank you very much, Sam.”  As she walked away I shouted out, “What are you majoring in?”  She turned her head giving me a cocky smile and replied, “English”. 

 

*

 

“You did what?”  “I gave her my poem.”  “You gave Dora Smart your poem?  Are you an idiot or something?”  “Ah Jon you knew I was an idiot a long time ago, why rub it in?”  I joked.  “You have no idea, do you man?”  “What do you mean?”  “I mean Dora Smart, do you know just how good she is?”  “Pretty good?” I ventured nervously.  “Pretty good?  Pretty good?  Faulkner was pretty good, Hemingway was pretty good, but this girl she’s amazing!”  “But is poetry her thing?  I mean maybe she’s all prose and no poetry.”  I suggested.  “She’s all English man.  You’re so dead.”  “Not true man, she knows I’m no Poe.”  “You don’t need to be no Poe to impress her, hell all you need to be is decent.”  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”  “Man your poetry sucks!”  “What?  How do you know huh?  Did you read that one I sent to Jennifer?”  “Yeah ‘Our love is like a bottle of boose, the more I drink the more stellar I feel, until the morning when most of my food I do loose, but fuck the morning I’ll drink you with every meal’ dude it was like a crappy version of the beans, beans, the magical fruit song.”  “Man you’re right I need to get that letter back.”  “Probably too late, she probably already read it and is laughing herself to death right now, maybe even showing all the girls in the dorm.”  “Real supportive man, real supportive.”  I said sarcastically.  “You need to help me get it back.”  “How?”

***

“Don’t do that!” she put her hand on my knee, pushing it down until my heel was forced to the floor.

“You know I can’t stand when you do that.”  I looked out my window and let out a loud sigh.  The green hills flowed away from us like people swimming, green backs arching and then disappearing into the metal frame of the window, sealing forever our distance. 

“Why do you do it?”  She looked at me, her eyes fierce as to say, “Nothing else matters so long as you answer this question correctly we can go on living together.”  Living.  Were we living?  Together?  I shook away the thought.  I looked at her hand on my knee.  I knew the answer, I was supposed to smile, take her hand into mine and tell her I didn’t know and that I would quit right then just for her.  I should have.  What could one more lie have done?  Our whole relationship was built on a foundation of lies.

“Because it bugs you.”  She looked at me shocked.  That wasn’t supposed to happen.  I saw her eyes strain against mine, “What?”  She couldn’t get it, couldn’t see why I won’t just say I didn’t know, why I won’t lie anymore. 

“Hills, they turn their backs.  They’re riding away.  Our turn is over”  I say. 

“Hills?  What the hell do hills have to do with this?”

“We’re losing…”  I drop off because it wasn’t worth trying to explain something she could no longer understand.  There was a time when we belonged to each other, when we were joined, breath to breath, running up, our bodies flush.  Fresh fragrance of flesh on flesh.  Flush.  There was a time when we weren’t losing…

“What I’m missing” I turn my face from the window and back into her eyes, metal lids closing me off.

“Life.”  She couldn’t understand that.  She couldn’t understand the hills or my shaking leg.  She forgot what our lives were like before. We had gotten so caught up in routine, in the house, in renovations that we hardly even spoke to one another these days. The saddest part was that Dora knew it too. She always knew we were mismatched and to this day I don’t understand why she chose me. She could have had any man she wanted, she could have run off with a publisher and been a best selling novelist by now. But she was with me, in our small little home outside the city. She was a house wife and she was really, really good at it. Everything at home was immaculate, dinner always made, bed with fresh sheets. I had no reason to complain at yet, I did. I felt like I was living with a stranger or worse, we were living in different houses within ourselves. We were no longer building together, we were simply trying to stay out of each other’s way.

 It’s a horrid thing to see someone die.  I’ve seen so many of us walking around pretending to care, pretending that we’re happy, pretending that we’re people.  Beyond the skin cells, the layers of muscle, the veins and arteries, far deeper than the nerves or the neurotransmitters, there resides the person.  Deep in the core, some place near the solar plexus I live, huddled in my shell afraid to be seen.  So my body walks, my feet kick out and arms, tawny and white swing like weighted cords from my shoulders.  I’ve watched so many somebodies die and become bodies, walking down the street eyes fixed on the soul that floats just in front of them.  It’s happened to me, I’ve seen myself die a thousand deaths only to gasp and gulp down Me before I get too far in front.

***

 

“His tie is crooked.”  She rushed over to fix it.

“It doesn’t matter, lets just take the picture.”  I pulled her back.  Always having to fix everything.  Dora I can’t stand you sometimes, I can’t stand you, I can’t stand you!  I yelled in my head.

“Wouldn’t you want me to fix your tie Dad?”  She asked in that sweet obedient yet crafty voice.  He smiled, what did he care?  Crooked, straight, picture or no picture so long as things kept moving.  Moving.

She went over to him and I sighed, put my camera down and waited.

“Now that’s better.”  He gave her a peck on the check and touched her shoulder with his trembling hand.  They were hard hands, knowing hands, beautiful hands.  They didn’t hide feelings behind a tired smile or age behind false teeth.  They were true.  Hands, I wanted to keep his hands.

“Ok hon,”  she instructed, “Now make sure you just get the top part” drawing the edge of her palm just below her breast.  “Hands, what about his hands?”  She looked at me puzzled.

“Hands?” she whispered.  Then aloud, “Pop don’t you think it would look nice if Sam took the picture from the chest up?”  He smiled, he loved his daughter.

“See” she said almost taunting.  I took the picture, hands too.  Because I couldn’t stand her and I loved his hands. 

 ***

 

            I’ve fell into another episode.  I’m not sure how long it will last.  I wonder when you’ll leave me.  Nothing has gone the way I expected it too.  I was sure that they would pick up this last story.  Marlene assures me that this past publishing company couldn’t tell a good story if it smacked them in their gluttonous round faces.  But I’m sorry.  I know this means that you will take that job in Chicago.  We haven’t spoken about moving yet.  I know what that means.  I never wanted things to get like this between us.  Day in and day out all I can think about is how much farther I’m falling.  Away from you.  I think about all the things that could have happened and how I haven’t accomplished any of that. 

            Remember the time at the county fair?  We waited our turn for a ride on the speed train.  All I could think about was being able to hold you close to me as the world whipped by.  Watching the anxious faces tainted red, green, blue by neon lights as we screamed at the top of our lungs, holding on for dear life.  The smell of damp gravel and cool of wet handholds.  Then everything was perfect.  But even then I thought if only it wasn’t raining, if only I had more money to spend, if only we didn’t park so far away, if only you were my wife.

            But now I think about how far I’ve gone without you.  This morning you reached for your coffee as I went to retrieve my toast.  You drew back your hand quickly, uncomfortable, not knowing.  We have become strangers, the lovers we have lost. 

            As I sit in my den looking at all the pictures I’ve saved of us, I can’t help but regret. Dora, I miss you.      

 

***

 

            “How was your day?” asked Dora.  She was dressed in a jogging pants and a plain blue t shirt, her hair still stiff with hairspray, make-up only visible in patches on her smooth perspiring face.  Her eyes were deep, Sam sometimes feared he would fall in and be engulfed. 

            “It was another day” he replied not looking up from his spaghetti. “This is good sauce.  What brand is it?” I said not wanting to go any deeper in conversation than what’s for dinner.

            “I don’t know” she said, shaking off my question.

            “Well I called Judy Nestahm you know to inquire a little about the Chicago thing” I said not looking up from my plate.  “anyway, she offered me the position.  I’ll be making triple what I was making at the Community College and facilities are infinitely better” 

            Dora took a sip of wine, swirled the glass and replied, “I got ten pages today.  I don’t know how I’ll like them tomorrow, but it looks promising”

I said nothing. Dora clenched her jaw and her right hand found its familiar place at her temple, “Sam, are you even listening to me?”.

            “Of course, I’m answering you aren’t I?”

            “I talked with Cynthia about getting some copy together”

I stirred the spaghetti on my plate. Dora was an extremely talented writer and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was holding her back. I said nothing. She paused, then her face turned sour.

            “You know I’m getting really sick and tired of your depressive episodes.  We took you to a doctor, got you medication, you go to work, come home and don’t even talk to me. I stay home all day writing stories that no one sees and the one person I thought I could count on to share my dreams with cannot even spit out one word!” she started to cry, “You don’t talk to me anymore, don’t touch me anymore.  The only thing you’re committed to is being depressed” she threw her fork down and screamed “I demand you get out of this stupid self-absorbed malaise!”

            Sam looked up for the first time.  His face placid and devoid of all expression he replied, “I’m dying.  Life doesn’t exist”

            Dora threw out her chair and got up quickly taking her dish to the sink.  “Here’s some news for you Sam.  We are all dying and life will never exist if you only think about it’s end.  You spend all your time outside of your own life.  Playing in the past and frolicking in the future.  I feel for you Greg” her voice grew soft as tears rolled slowly down her face cutting through the paste-like foundation.  “You want everything you can’t have and what you do have you throw away.  One of these days you’ll be left with nothing but your dream of death.  You can’t be afraid of losing because if that’s all you see then you’re missing all that you’re gaining.  Where did he go?”  She walked over to Sam and lifted his face to her.  His skin felt cold and his petite and gaunt body looked as if it would turn to dust in her very hands.  His eyes looked through her and every once and while a flicker of recognition would pass over his face and he would smile.

            “I’m sorry Dora.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry” he began to cry pressing his head into her stomach.

 

***

 

           When is sex love?  Does love exist?  Or is it something we devised to overpower the greatest power?  Death.  I thought that maybe I could love, maybe I could exist in perfect, blissful, tranquility, in blaring silence, in one single never-ending moment with her.  I thought love with awaken me, thought sex would reaffirm my fading believability in my own reality.  I had made love to her twice, no I had sex with her twice.  I smelt her sweat on my palms and in my hair.  I could feel her pulse tapping against my hips.  I felt her soft, sensuous body gliding against my taught thighs.  I crept inside her, an intruder.  I always felt so outside even when I was in her.  She would scream in delight or frustration I was never sure.  It wasn’t until we had sex that I realized I was going to die.  I was trying to exist with her but I could never keep the same time.  The reverberations of our hearts always a little out of time, just missing that wholeness, perfectness, the moment when everything was going right.  Try as I may to create life, I was expelling degenerating sperm to meet an ovum whose clock had been ticking the moment my lover was born.  I looked back and realized perhaps that there isn’t life.  That we live in a continual and forever impending death.  What we see now as life is that small moment before the rest of history catches up with us.  Life is the breeze before the sonic boom.  I was dying as I started to unzip my jeans, I was dying before I came, I was dying as I emptied myself into a latex condom, I was dying as I lie beside her.  I finally understood.  There was no sense in ruminating on the past or trying to prepare for the future.  I was losing. 

Did she feel any of this? Did she know that as I was coming I was actually going. I was spinning out far into nothingness, unanchored, like a space man that lost the tether to his ship. I was with you but without you.

We tried. We thought if we could smush our bodies together our hearts would align. I feel forfeiture in slack of your jaw when I kiss you, feel you walking down the hall to another room when I look into your eyes. Where did you go Dora? And why won’t you take me with you?

DORA 

***

Each day feels the same because it is. Dora looks around their small apartment and sees lies everywhere. Lies in the teal sofa they bought on Memorial Day sale, lies in the area rug Sam insisted on buying but she secretly hates, and lies in the eyes staring back at her from her living room. Sam was lying through his eyes and all Dora could do was blur her vision with tears. How did they get here? Had she not held his head when he cried out for help? Had she not cradled his dreams like they were hers? Had she not been a good wife? But she hadn’t. She couldn’t bear his light to the world with her loins. She couldn’t make this house a home. Now he was leaving her and he couldn’t even spare her the lie. Her mind goes back to the day they met, chemistry gone right, then oh so wrong. His light brown hair long near his ears and wavy at the ends framed a face full of so much promise. So many promises. Everything seemed to explode in that moment, the beaker burst and the whole house was on fire.

 

***

            My neighbor is a reclusive author that I imagine I’ll become in my solitary old age but a lot less famous. She lives alone from what I’ve gathered from the few times I’ve seen her leave her apartment. She is of no particular interest to me other than she’s a writer and I fancy myself a writer too. She writes cryptic pieces on the human condition. It’s really not my cup of tea. But who cares about my opinion, I’m a soon to be divorced housewife that hasn’t held down a job since college. Which brings me to job applications. Why is everything online? They look at you crazy if you walk into a place asking about an opening. Before that used to be called initiative, now it’s not doing your homework. I feel inept and I haven’t even really started. I hate Sam. I shove everything off my bookcase in anger only to immediately regret it. I could just…and I let out a howling scream. The sound roared out from deep within me, the breaking of a life lived, the swelling then exploding of every dream we ever shared together, the sorrow of a home destroyed, bellowed out of me. The next sound I heard was a knock at my door.

            I looked through the peephole to see Gail standing on the other side.

“Dora! Dora are you alright?” she sounded frantic, then silence, then footsteps retreating. I opened the door just as she was opening hers to go back inside.

“Sorry Gail. Just letting off a little steam” I said breathlessly. I had exhaled the last traces of oxygen in my scream, it was difficult to recover.

“That’s one hell of a tea kettle you got” said Gail with a nervous chuckle. Clever, I thought.

“It was a lot of steam” I joked back.

“As long as you’re ok” she said earnestly.

“I am, thank you” I said, “And nice piece on the destruction of man”

“Oh, well thank you. I wrote it in about an hour when I was at the beach. Men in speedos, inspiration, am I right?” Gail joked.

I was jealous of her ability to write anything in an hour let alone something publishable. Her arrogance grated on me and I looked for a way to excuse myself.

“Well, I better get going” I said.

“You know, we’ve lived across from each other for three years now and we’ve barely even spoke. I’m truly sorry about that”. The way she said ‘that’ indicated a false pity and I wondered if anything out of this woman’s mouth was true. “Would you like to come over for some tea? Sam told me you also write. I’d love to hear what about” she said her voice getting silky like the snake in the cartoon The Jungle Book.

Why was she luring me to her apartment? What did she want? A woman like that always wants and wants and wants. I know, I’d seen it before. I’d seen it too many times before. The insatiable want and want, like all their blood on your hands, like all their names wasted on your lips, like all the dreams you had for futures they could never have. Yes I’ve seen a wanting woman, a mad woman, in every single one I lost. Maybe it was for them, for the ones I couldn’t have that I wanted to fill her want. I wanted to be wanted.

“Sure, a cup of tea sounds nice”  

           

***

Inside Gail’s apartment:

 

The apartment felt cramped and tiny compared to Dora’s even though the two had the same footprint. Gail’s walls were lined with books and magazines of all sizes, colors and categories. There seemed to be no interest unaccounted for in the tons of text Gail had surrounding her. A large metal desk, probably circa world war II squatted on the floor in front of her only open window. The other source of natural light, a small kitchen window, was drawn shut with blackout curtains. The place felt dark but cozy, maybe how the womb feels. On the desk sat a slim black laptop and three cups, each with a teabag tag draped from it’s lip. Piles of paper surrounded the laptop with no discernible order. She motioned for me to sit at the small dining room table. She cleared a stack of magazines and a few paperback books and unceremoniously plopped it on a pile of papers near the front doorway.

“Sorry about the mess” she said unconvincingly. To Dora it was more than a mess, it was chaos. How could anyone even think with all this clutter?

“Oh don’t be silly” she replied politely.

Gail put a cup of hot water in front of Dora and proceeded to ramble off at least 15 different tea choices.

“The first one you said” replied Dora, not remembering any of the titles and more fascinated that someone with such a cramped apartment had so much tea.

“Good choice. That’s my favorite. Can’t go wrong with an Earl Grey I always say” she plopped the tea bag into Dora’s cup.

“So tell me Dora, what do you write about?”

The question felt so forward and it was. No foreplay, just directly to the point. What do you want Gail and why do you want to know?

“Mostly fiction”

“Well that’s specific” Gail laughed.

“I like to tell stories about people and their daily lives. It’s nothing special really, I’m surprised Sam told you” Dora blushed.

“Yes, he said you’re writing was quite good but you’ve never published”

“No, I haven’t”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t really know if there’s an audience for it besides myself. You know? Besides there are so many good writers out there, writers like yourself that my work just doesn’t compare”

“You’re right, it doesn’t compare” she said bringing the tea to her lips and then putting it down again, leaned in and said, “but it’s not supposed to compare.” She smiled to herself mostly, like she was taken by something she said. Like she was realizing something true for the first time.

“I write about the things I live. Those things cannot be compared to anyone else’s living. That’s the beauty. That’s your voice. Write about you. Write about what moves you, what haunts you, what makes you ache. Write about living so you know you’re dying and then write about that. Scour your house and look for the cracks, dig inside them and see where they go. Go deep, dig behind your walls and under your floor, lift the roof and see what’s inside. Blow it all up with your writing then hope you can build something better next time. And so we die and are reborn if we dare”

I was confused. What house? My house? Who wants to hear about my house? House with a hundred puppies’ eyes.

***

We sat drinking tea like we were in some party. The outside world felt so alien when looking from the inside of Gail's apartment. Gail's company was surprisingly pleasant. I feel a little guilty for having judged her these past three years. She is a woman of great interest and influence. We spoke mostly about writing and she shared with me a project she was working on called House Metaphor. 

"Each person is a house and collectively we are an even bigger structure. We rely on others and our selves to stay upright" Gail explained.

It makes sense and I can't help but cry when I think of Sam and the house we built together. Why do things end? Especially the things and people you don't want to end. 

Tea on Tuesday is what she called it. Every Tuesday at 10am I would go over to Gail's apartment for tea. I got so used to things, I mostly had her tea selection memorized. The mint medley was my favorite. I would do most of the talking and Gail would listen fascinated. I don't know what made my mundane life so interesting to her, but it felt good to tell things to a real person and not my therapist. Nothing wrong with my therapist. Dr. Vardern seemed very smart and caring. But she was young and couldn't know the verity of life like the older woman sitting in front of me. 

"How's the writing coming?" asked Gail.

"Oh you know, nothing good. I'm just rambling. That's all I seem to do is ramble on and on about nothing" I said depressed.

"The nothing is usually the best parts" said Gail smiling.

I sipped my mint medley. "What about you? Tell me about how you're doing. We always talk about me" I said with a smile. 

"Well" she said, dragging out the word. "Lets see, the book is coming along slowly. But I'm excited about a new character I'm developing so I've been dragging myself kicking and screaming to the computer to develop her" she said smiling and lost in her own world.

"What's the character like?"

"She's..." she paused, "sweet." she smiled knowing at me. I waited for her to say more but she didn't instead she quickly changed subjects.

"Do you watch ballet Dora?"

"No not really. Not because I don't like it, I just never make time to go out and see a show but I wouldn't mind watching a performance"

"My daughter is a dancer" she said, ignoring my response as if her question was rhetorical. "We met briefly for coffee in the city" Gail seems bothered and I can't help but pry.

"I didn't know you had a daughter. What's her name?"

"Audrey" she said smiling a smile only a mother gives her baby. I should know, I've practiced that very smile too many times before. "Yes, my baby girl. She was all set to get married, but you know how things go, sometimes it just breaks down"

"I'm sorry. I hope she's alright"

"Audrey? Of course, she's like a cat always landing on her feet" she shook her head, "So tell me, you and Sam ever talk about having kids?" Her question seemed flung out of left field and it hit me hard. I gulped a sip of my tea hoping to loosen the words lodged in my throat.
"We did. But that's over now. I don't really want to talk about it" I said defensively.

Her eyes gleamed with excitement like a wild cat stalking prey. "I understand" she said.

"How old is your daughter" I volleyed the conversation back to her.

"31 this year. I can hardly believe that many years has gone by. I still think of her as my little girl dressed in the black leotard practicing for The Jungle Book" Gail's eyes looked far away. I breathed lightly in the pause not wanting to disturb her. "But she's all grown up now, complete with contempt for her mother" she said her lips growing tight. "Anyway, that's dull conversation. Tell me what are you going to write about today?"

I was probably going to write about Sam and how heart broken I was, the usual. Instead I said, "Oh I don't know. Whatever strikes me in the moment I guess" I didn't want to tell her that all my writings these past few weeks have been about Sam.

"You have to dig and don't be afraid" her icy blue eyes bored into me. "Find the things that move you, to joy, to pain and write that" she paused as if wondering if she should continue, "Write about your children"

I stared shocked. How did she know? How dare she mention! Rage swelled inside of me, or maybe it was sorrow. I pushed myself from the table.

"It's getting late. I should get going"

Gail smiled like she won a prize. "Of course" then adding as a gesture of good intentions, "I'm sorry if I upset you"

"You didn't" I said steely. And with that I exited her apartment.

***

I knew I wanted children since I was a teenager. I was anxious to become a mom, to undo all the things I thought my parents did wrong. I was eager to have someone love me unconditionally, to make something beautiful in this world. The first time I got pregnant, Sam and I were still dating. We were excited and nervous, just a couple of kids ourselves. We were both 21 with the world at our feet. Doing the math the baby should have been born right around Sam’s birthday in November. However, summer came and left and took my beautiful baby with it. It’s a shock to the system, losing your child, even if you’ve never seen it’s face. To feel a life, die inside you changes you, makes you susceptible to sorrow.  

We got married in January, not exactly the best month weather wise but both of us were desperate to try again and do things the “right” way as if us not being married cause the miscarriage. But you’ll believe anything if it gives you some hope.

It was a simple ceremony with our two families and several friends. I wore white and Sam had a nice tux. I ducked in all our photos. Sam would never admit it but he hated when I towered over him in photos. It was easy enough to duck. I’m used to it, been doing it my whole life.

The reception was too much fun. Both Sam and I went straight to bed on our wedding night, no romance, just sound snoring. I got pregnant again three months after our wedding. We were elated. Again, something went wrong and three months later my body aborted the pregnancy. We had gotten ahead of ourselves, started picking out names and putting together a nursery. I didn’t recover as quickly from this one, perhaps because part of me thought that maybe this was reality: I couldn’t have children.

My final pregnancy, I almost lost my life. This baby was in the wrong place. Nestled in my fallopian tube, the fetus began to grow. There was no way to save it; if left to grow my fallopian tube would burst and I would bleed out from the inside. The surgery severed my right fallopian tube and my dreams of becoming a mother. After this pregnancy, I talked with Sam about trying again. But he was too worried about my safety.

“I can’t lose you and another baby” he said, tearing up. “We could always adopt.”

I cried. Not because I think adoption isn’t a good solution, but because my body had failed me.

Gail told me to write what I know, and I know this. Losing babies would make any woman unsteady on her feet. A house but not a home. I tried to get back to the way things were but I can’t say I’m over the loss. Sam wouldn’t admit that he hurt too. In fact, we hurt each other over and over again. Every time we tried and failed, I felt him grow farther away from me. I used to think it was all my fault, but I know it’s not. I guess if I blamed it all on me then I would only need to fix me to fix us.

Sam fell into deep depression, he retreated within himself, and he wouldn’t let me near him. All I wanted to do was curl up with him and have him stroke my hair telling me it was all going to be alright. I’d like to think we grew a part naturally and that’s why he left. But I know it’s because of the babies.