Where We Lie

Over the course of the ten years of our marriage, I have perfected the art of getting out of bed without waking my husband, who has been and still is the reigning champion of light sleepers. Sometimes I wonder why anyone who can hear a phone vibrate three stories down from our bedroom would ever decide to move to a city where noise is the first thing that comes to mind when you say its name — New York City. I love my husband and all that he is, but he can work from anywhere in the world only wearing his Mets boxers, and to choose constant noise and chaos is maybe just a bit odd. 

There are a lot odd things you must deal with in married life, and to anyone who is in one, there are two courses of action — adapt or move on. I, always choosing to adapt, have learned many techniques to make my way through the house, unheard. Unlike my husband, who, if left to his own instincts would sleep into the afternoon with no hesitation, I must deal with the daily troubles of escaping the bed without making a sound as the constant early riser in the relationship. And, because we have just recently moved into a one-bedroom apartment in Harlem, I have to relearn the layout of the bedroom trapping once again in order for me to make it through this daily gauntlet. 

My morning begins by lifting up the comforter, ever so lightly, picking up the sheet and rolling out of bed with absolutely no shake, pull, or bounce. I then touch down on the floor on my tippy toes, slowly easing onto it with my heels. Rising then to my full body weight making sure my feet are positioned perfectly onto the ninety-year-old wood flooring, as to not make that first error of creeeeeek. Which is there waiting for me. Always there, waiting.

I study the floor creek map that I’ve analyzed for over a month now, stepping toe first, then heel, slowly to one side then the other, which takes all about 6 minutes 28 seconds, but at any other time of the day only takes about 5 seconds. As anyone living in New York can attest, this is what it takes to make a marriage work in the city where a one-bedroom apartment in a prewar building is really living with not only your husband, but your cranky great uncle Mel who you see once a year at Thanksgiving just wanting to complain, it doesn’t matter about what, he just wants to complain.

But I’ve learned how to make uncle Mel keep quiet during these early mornings, bypassing those groans with every footstep forward. I turn around every 30 seconds just to make sure that my husband is still asleep, and isn’t just staring at me, as I must certainly look like I’m completely insane. I, standing there, tiptoeing through the dark in my Hello Kitty sweatpants, looking as if I was in an intense alien dance that I once saw in some B sci-fi movie that he knows I love, but still to this day has not stomached finishing with me. Yet here I am, doing this alien dance of death for him every damn morning.

Anyway, even though this has taken a few weeks to perfect there is always one moment this dance leaves up to fate. Just as I see the street lights emanating through the kitchen window onto the slightly ajar bedroom door, I know I am about to cross the “life or death lava river.” Well, this is what I call the two feet from where I stand to the door. On some days it’s just an easy path through, but there are days when no matter where I step there will be a creeeeeeeek. And therefore, death — my husband’s grunts notifying me of my epic failure. 

I take this chance of life or death every morning. Some days, I make out alive, others not so much. But this is — and what I have accepted as — my fate.

It was after two months of playing this game of chance that I decided to do something about it. I wanted to perfect my art and never leave any moment to chance.  

I thought, “In order to achieve this perfection, I must take down the only obstacle holding me back — the lava river of death.” 

I never really looked at the floor below the door until I decided to fix its noisy creeks. But on this day of enlightenment, I took a good look at the floor and really saw it. The wood was old, of course, but nothing out of the ordinary. Except for one thing: one side of a plank slightly rose above the others. Not enough to cause anyone to notice it. Unless you inspected it closely, intimately.

I pushed the plank down and it moved, making that creeeek sound I have known for what feels like my whole life. As the plank came up, my cheeks pressed up against it, eyes peaking through a small crack, I saw something. Something was moving underneath.

I fell back, scooting away on my hands. “There must be mice under the flooring,” I thought. We had mice in our old apartment before and this was clearly something that we had again. I never would think that rodents could live underneath the flooring, but if there’s something I’ve learned about living in New York City is that you can expect anything and that nothing should be a surprise.

I moved forward toward the plank on my hands and knees as slow and quiet as possible. There as I came upon the crack I saw the movement again, but it didn’t look like any rodent. It was constant and emanated a slow warm pulsation.

I ran to the kitchen drawer and pulled out an old flathead screwdriver that we never bought, but somehow made it into our pile of random tools. I made my way back to the plank.  

Sinking it into the crack I realized this would surely result in never getting our deposit back, but I had to see. I had to know. 

I pulled back the screwdriver and the wood plank began to move upward, making a noise that I had never heard before. A sound I can only describe as if someone ran their nail down an out-of-tune violin string.

With every micron the plank moved, the eeeeeek sound intensified, so loud that I knew Luke would surely wake from his afternoon nap in his office just a room away.

The plank finally gave enough that I could see inside. I could see a bundle of wires wrapped around an electronic box that seemed to pulsate rhythmically, as if it had a heart beat of its own.   

I didn’t know what to think at this moment. Was this something that was left from the previous tenants? Is this a bomb? Are we being watched over by Big Brother? Are there aliens amongst us?

I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. A darkness began to surround me. I felt hot and like I needed to puke. 

I don’t remember how long I was out for, I just remember the cool wood floor against my face, hearing a thump thump thump and a blur of pulsation as I couldn’t see clearly. The wood began to vibrate against my cheek and the thumping seemed to be getting louder. I could only see white in front of me. I thought this is it, the toxic gas was released from the alien transmitter and now Luke will find me here and subject himself to the toxin and soon the rest of the world would be infected.   

The white began to move around me as my eyes came back into focus, I could see it was Luke’s socks now facing into the crack of the floor. 

I could see Luke’s feet moving closer to where I was. I felt his hands wrap around me, shaking me and trying to raise me up. He covered my mouth with one hand and raised his finger to his lips with the other. 

I tried to pull his hand down and with all my heart wanted to scream, “What the fuck is going on?” but he just held tighter with his giant hand against my mouth.

I had known Luke for over 15 years. I knew that he was born in Canada and that both his parents had died in a tragic car accident in Ontario when he was only 10 years old. I knew that he was a straight A student throughout college even though he barely graduated high school. I knew that he came to the US after a lucrative startup snatched him up because he’s one of the best developers in his industry. I don’t know what his industry is, or how it works, but he’s on his computer 80% of the time and the rent gets paid and the lights stay on and that had been enough for me, until today. 

In this moment I came to realize I didn’t know the person that had been living with me in this creeky apartment for the past two months. That person I had accidentally bumped into during my morning jog in Washington Park fifteen years ago, was a stranger.

It felt like several minutes, but I finally started to breathe slower and he released his grasp from my mouth. He pulled the pen he wore constantly from over his ear and began to write on his forearm.

I pulled his arm toward me and I read, “Don’t say anything, they can hear us.”

I wanted to shout, “Who the fuck are you? Who can hear everything?” but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Then it hit me. All those late nights on the computer, the constant calls we would get when no one seemed to be on the other end, the week-long trips and conferences Luke would hurry off to. I really didn’t know anything about what he did or who he was outside of our relationship. All these years I thought it was good that we never talked about work, that we had so many interests outside of our careers that we could just separate from that world and live in our own little bubble.  

I could see him scribbling onto his sweaty palm, “Pack your bag.”

I shook my head and pulled away. I didn’t know this person and I felt I had to go as far away from him as I possibly could. 

“Trust me,” he mouthed, while reaching out his hand to me. 

I remembered that time we met in the park fifteen years ago. I was just busy with my own thoughts, finishing my morning jog and I accidentally bumped him. He pulled me over to a bench to make sure I was okay and he made me feel safe.

He talked to me until I reassured me I didn’t have a concussion and I could remember my name. We laughed and talked about everything that seemed to matter then. I didn’t want to go back to my boring morning routine, but I did eventually end up leaving because that who I’ve always been, an adapter.

He let me go and said, “You don’t know me yet, but we have a lot of things to do together in this world.” I smiled as I started to walk back to my place. “Trust me!” he yelled as I looked back at him.

I woke from this daze and looked down at his hand and then back at him. He smiled at me. I remember thinking “adapt or just move on” over and over in my head. This is the way I have always seen things. In my job, I adapted to a career I absolutely hated. In my family, I adapted to pleasing everyone with my choices.

I thought how everything that I had built around my life to seemingly keep me safe would be gone. If I could just trust him. But then I thought maybe life shouldn’t just be, maybe life isn’t about just accepting and adapting. Maybe life is really about taking in all that there is. 

In that moment I looked up at Luke and I felt calm. A calmness that I never felt before overcame me. Luke whispered, “We have a lot of things to do in this world and I need you.” 

“Ma’am?” 

My eyes were tired and I squinted. I felt someone approaching me. She looked over and said, “She’s awake.”

Holding my head she asked, “Ma’am, can you hear me? Do you know where you’re at?”