We Stand in the Middle 12
Picking Up the Pieces
Walking into the cabin felt like opening the door of a preheated oven. Waves of hot air, smelling faintly of wood smoke and overripe apples washed over me as I stepped through the tiny kitchen and into the main room. Sunlight was pouring through the floor to ceiling glass walls on two sides, dappling the cedar wood floor with the shadows of leaves and refracting through artfully placed sun catchers that sent shards of rainbows dancing around the room. The third glass wall at the front of the cabin was divided by two sets of double doors that opened onto a deck extending over the pond. Everywhere I looked, the edges of everything solid - the wood stove, potted plants, record player, and cluttered desk - seemed to be dissolving in waves of superheated air. “Whew, it’s like a sauna in here,” I said. I set the Walkman down on the counter by the door so I wouldn’t forget it and walked into the main room.
Hoping to lower the temperature, I crossed to the front of the cabin and opened one set of double doors allowing the cooler outside air to rush in. The strength of the breeze rattled door-jambs and wreaked havoc with the papers on D’s desk. Dozens of neatly piled pages swirled up towards the ceiling in a tornado-like funnel then began drifting lazily down carpeting the floor in white. “Oh no!” I exclaimed, shutting the door and rushing to collect and sort the papers. The largest number belonged to the latest draft of the book D and I were working on together, AIDS - Living stories from the front lines of the epidemic, and contained many bright red edits. The rest could best be described as miscellaneous clutter - a do list, receipts, assorted bills and medical forms, and a letter from a colleague asking if D would review his latest paper.
I restored order to the book manuscript, using one of D’s geodes to prevent pages from escaping, and shoved all the other paper into the bottom drawer of the desk. A part of me wanted nothing more than to sit down and immerse myself in the tedious but familiar task of editing, but I resisted. I still had the rest of the cabin to explore.
The back wall of the cabin was divided into three parts - the doorway to the kitchen on the left, a stone-lined panel and hearth for the wood burning stove in the center, and a second doorway on the right leading to a bathroom and a steep set of narrow stairs. At the top of the stairs, I found a tiny loft but there air up there beneath the rafters was so stifling, I immediately turned around and hurried back downstairs. Exploration of the space would have to wait for a cooler day.
A quick glance outside and the rumble of thunder in the distance told me it was time to head back to the main house. The last thing I wanted was to be caught in a thunderstorm. I closed and made sure all the windows to the balcony were latched, grabbed the Walkman from the counter in the kitchen, and hurried out the back door. There I found Bentley anxiously waiting. Clearly he didn’t like the idea of being out in a storm either.
The afternoon was heavy with heat, humidity, and a variety of annoying bugs. Even Bentley, who would normally be rushing in and out of the underbrush chasing squirrels was subdued and stuck close to my side. “It’s not far now, Bentley,” I said as we hurried back along the path we’d taken earlier.
We were almost to the back porch when I heard a phone start to ring inside the house. “Shoot, that’s probably Nigel!” I exclaimed, breaking into a trot. I’d just slid the back door open when the ringing stopped. “Dammit,” I swore. I closed the door, said hello to the Meeny Moes, and got Bentley some water. I was about to start digging in my fanny pack for my address book when the phone began ringing again. “Yes!” I exclaimed.
I took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, arriving in the bedroom on the fourth ring. The phone - a sage green rotary affair - was perched precariously on a stack of books beside a faded green armchair.
“Hello?” I said grabbing the receiver and sitting down in the chair.
“Hey Maddy, it’s me,” said Nigel. His voice sounded tinny and far away.
“Boy am I glad to hear your voice,” I said. “Did you make it back okay?”
“Yeah, the boat ride was a bit of a schlep, but the drive back was nice. Evan said to tell you he’d be a little late. He’s going to a meeting.”
“Smart man,” I replied, wishing I could do the same. “Have you seen Zelda?”
“That was my first stop after I dropped Casey off.”
“How’s she doing? Did she seem okay?”
“More than okay,” Nigel said. “I found her curled up on the couch watching Gilmore Girls and eating pizza with Anna.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“I believe the pizza had anchovies on it,” Nigel laughed. “So listen, I have something serious to talk to you about. I called Manuel and he said something’s come up about the will. He really needs to talk to you.”
“Okaaaay,” I said. “Do you think I need to head back?”
“I wouldn’t,” Nigel said. “Not until you talk to him. I made sure he knows how to reach you.”
“Okay, well now I’m concerned,” I said. “Manuel is the executor, so if he says something’s come up it must be important.”
“Agreed,” Nigel said. “Why don’t you try calling him when we get off? And maybe talk to Evan when he gets back. He might know something.”
“Will do.”
“Sooooo not to change the subject or anything,” Nigel said, “but what do you think of Evan?”
“Think of him?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know, do you think he’s a nice person? Is he good looking?”
“Where is this coming from, Nigel? I thought you weren’t going to change the subject.”
“I lied. So humor me,” Nigel said, sounding amused. “Personally, I think the guy is hot. You should see the tattoo of the seven Cherokee clans on his back, and the…”
“Nigel!” I protested. I didn’t know whether to laugh or groan. “What are you suggesting?”
“Oh come on, don’t say you haven’t noticed,” Nigel teased.
“I noticed,” I admitted reluctantly, remembering the tattoo of the bear rippling over Evan’s sweaty chest that morning.
“And he’s not gay,” Nigel continued. “I asked.”
“Nigel, you’re shameless!” I laughed.
“What?! It never hurts to ask. And just so you know, he wasn’t upset by the question. All he said was, ‘Sorry dude, but Maddy’s more my type.’”
“Oh god,” I said, feeling my face get hot.
“So I thought, ‘what the hell. I might as well plant some seeds.’”
“Nigel, you didn’t,” I protested.
“Oh, but I did,” Nigel said sounding positively gleeful. “I asked if he was seeing anyone, and when he said no, I said, ‘neither is Maddy. Not since Mr. Full of Himself broke up with her three years ago.’”
“Nigel will you stop?!” I said. “How many times have I asked you not to call Brandon that? The break up was as much my fault as his.”
“Bull,” Nigel replied. “He treated you like shit. Remember how he said you needed to look more ladylike and insisted you wear a formal to that party? Then when you got there everyone else was in jeans and t-shirts?”
“Yeah, that was pretty awful,” I conceded.
“And the letter he sent saying he was breaking up because he didn’t think your socio economic goals were aligned?”
“Also awful,” I said. “But he was right about that. No amount of money would ever turn me into an entitled snob.”
“That’s my girl!” Nigel laughed. “I told you we agreed.”
“I suppose,” I said. Talking about Brandon brought up a lot of unhappy memories I’d rather forget. I was still drinking when I started dating him, and my decision to start going to AA meetings had been a major point of contention. I was embarrassed to admit how much Brandon’s good looks and attention had fed my ego.
“I’m sorry, Maddy,” Nigel said, sensing my mood shift. “I was only kidding about jumping Evan’s bones.”
“You are incorrigible!” I laughed. “How about we drop the subject for now. I barely know the guy.”
“Okay, okay, but mark my words, you’ll thank me someday,” Nigel said. “I’m gonna get off now. My shift starts in 45 minutes and I still need to change. Let me know what Manuel says.”
“Will do,” I said. “Take care of yourself, Nigel. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Reluctantly, I replaced the receiver in the cradle and forced myself to take my first good look at the room I’d been avoiding since I arrived. A double platform bed dressed in clean white linen was set against the back wall and took up most of the room. But there was a lovely antique secretary desk to its right and a small console table covered with bottles of medication, pill organizers, and a medical chart on the left. I walked over to look at the bottles. Though I already knew more than I wanted to know about the virus that causes AIDS, this felt different. These were medications D took - medications that helped keep my friend alive. One by one I picked up the bottles. Zidovudine (AZT), the first NRT (nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor) released in 1987 that was found to have an impact on HIV. The side effects were brutal and AZT only worked until the the virus mutated and became resistant. Additional NRTs became available in the early 1990s, followed by PIs (protease inhibitors) like Saquinavir in 1995 and NNRTs (non-nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitors) in 1996. By then, of course, D’s body had taken all it could take. I set the last of the bottles down and turned my attention to the desk.
There I found a journal, a half finished letter to Faith, and another cassette tape. The letter to Faith was predictable. D always felt he hadn’t done enough to protect his baby sister and was apologizing for leaving her. I set it aside and went downstairs to retrieve the Walkman where I’d left it on the kitchen counter. When I got back, I replaced the tape of the walk to the cabin with this new one, sat down on the desk chair, and hit play.
Journal Entry 1 Saturday, 6:20 am
Well, here I am. I confess to being more than a little amused by my desire to write. At 63 I’ve read enough good writing to know that my own is nothing remarkable. I’m a functional writer at best. On the other hand, what better time to commit one’s thoughts to paper than at the end of your life?
It’s a little after 6:00 am here at the Light House and the sun is slanting through the trees, infusing the little pond at the front of the cabin with flecks of gold and blue. It never ceases to amaze me how the water changes with the light - muddled and gray one moment and silver slick like polished metal the next. I love it best just before sunset when you’d swear the water had swallowed the sun.
I can just hear the wind teasing through the pines. Now that’s a sound I love. That and the lapping of the water at the foundations of the house.
Journal Entry 2 Friday 7:00 pm
Let’s try this again. I lost a few days to a bout of vomiting and diarrhea that left me feeling so weak I wondered if I was on my way out. I mean I know I’m dying, don’t get me wrong. My doctors have been very clear about that. Once the antiviral drugs stop working (the virus becomes resistant), it’s only a matter of time. But then I’ve already had more time than I bargained for. I was one of the so-called, “miracles” who lived long enough for the PIs and NRTIs to become available. It was a shock. No, if I’m honest, it was more than that. Everyone thought I should be thrilled, ecstatic, hopeful. I’d been given a new lease on life! But the truth was, I’d spent the two years since my diagnosis learning to die.
Does that sound strange? I imagine it does, given how our culture sees death. As if it is abnormal. As if we should fight it even when we know it is time. As if it is somehow shameful.
Journal Entry 3 Saturday, 8:45 am
Feeling stronger today.
So there I was with my new lease on life. The trouble was, I was ready to die. I’d done my homework you see --- gotten my paperwork in order, made sure that all my friends and family knew how much I loved them, made amends where I could. Not that I was sitting around waiting to be struck by some opportunistic virus or looking to jump out a window or anything. But still, there is something about accepting death that turns your focus inward, away from all the hustle and bustle of the outside world - all the things that keep us so preoccupied most of our lives - and makes you realize that maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong direction all along. In my case, I found I suddenly couldn’t care less about lesson plans, assignments, and grades, not to mention all the dramas going on between the faculty and on the world stage.
All I really want to do...the only thing that matters to me are people - those special few from whom I have nothing to hide and to whom I can bare my soul. I didn’t even realize I had a soul. Now, if you ask me, I would tell you there is nothing BUT the soul. The amazing poet Rumi would say, “This place is a dream. Only the sleeper considers it real.” I would say it’s an elaborate scam to distract us from remembering who and what we really are. Enough for today.
Note to Self: Write poem for Casey and letters to Faith and Hamilton.
Copyright 2024 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
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The last thing D said is captivating. So wise and profound. It resonates deeply.
Amazing. Truly!